‘Don’t take this lightly beta, you could have died,’ says the gentlemen checking my blood pressure. ‘Khudd Khushi kyaa dukhon ka Hal Banti Maut Ke Khudd So Jhamele The!’, murmurs SB to herself. This line always pops up in her head when someone talks about death.

On Monday, I drove myself to the hospital, with Mr B, the help by my side, who had serious doubts on my driving abilities, at the time. In the twenty minutes I was there, the BP came down from 200 to 160 so quickly, they said the cause was extreme stress. So of course I went out with my buddies the next day to avoid the cause of that stress. But a few days later, one was still flushed and breathless.

The sphygmomanometer shows 160/110 on both the arms. Then begins the coaxing. Both SB and SC hate medication. SB is convinced her body can heal itself, SC on the other hand is absolutely terrified, haunted by memories of a time when her Mother was addicted to cough syrups. After a few minutes of being told of horrible cases of people dying on treadmills and cars, kidney failure, blindness, heart failure and what not, I give in.

Pop a pill, rest as I have been advised to and go to the one place that can calm me down- Zorba the Buddha. Though, one has been asked to do Yoga, one just wants to return to a familiar space. The lady in white, greets me with such warmth, half of the stress disappears. A few minutes of Gibberish, yelling and dancing, all the shit starts to come out. I rush to the loo and I start to throw up- food, mucus and blood. Freshen up and then start to move the belly. The last time one did this was the year the brother passed, it was the same year the lady in white moved to Goa.

Psychosomatic, that’s what I think most illnesses are. Especially, in the case of someone whose mind is like a raging bull and a heart that hasn’t reached even double digits, yet. Hypersensitivity, an astrologer told my Dad once, is my bane. Bane or not, one needs to get back to the spiritual practice.