<p class="bodytext">It is not that I do not get my monthly quota of medicines online, thanks to my tech-savvy family! But then, from where would I find that personal touch from the medical shop owner (whom I know from decades and who has grown up parallelly with my list of medicines getting longer as I aged), his inquiries about my ailments, the inputs he gives, bits of information on the best places to consult for my health issues, warnings on the excess use of certain medicines, etc.?</p>.<p class="bodytext">My walks were put on hold by pandemic-induced isolation, apprehension, and diffidence. The combination of bad Bengaluru roads and erratic traffic turned them into multi-purpose ventures. Besides asserting my independence, accomplishing small personal errands during walks was a fascination I enjoyed. Picking up a box of Tirunelveli <span class="italic">halwa</span> I relish—from the hot chips joint (which I hesitate to request my motorised children with their parking woes to get), those sips of tender coconut that I trust to replenish the micro-nutrients in me (the freshness of which is definitely a few notches above the packaged bottles), getting my medicines myself, and my pleasure of patronising small time traders on the way—were small but significant misses that dulled my life.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Hence, a slight let-up in the Bengaluru rains recently saw me at the medical shop, my first stop-over. Better weather has gathered a bigger-than-usual crowd at the shop. With his long prescription and unending doubts, a burly elderly man with a walker before me was taking a lot of time at the counter, much to the discomfiture of my knees and those behind me. Looking at the dozen-odd medicines he bought, I noted with relief how insignificant my prescription of a couple of medicines was!</p>.<p class="bodytext">The young boy before me, making way for me, basked me in the thought, “Ah! Grey still holds respect!”</p>.<p class="bodytext">Soon, it started to drizzle. Autos scurried home, unmindful of prospective customers; the juice vendor, who had set up shop an hour ago, was winding up business not before cleaning and readying the spiral-shaped pestle to take on tomorrow; the vegetable vendor was running for shelter even while trying to salvage his ware with a sheet...</p>.<p class="bodytext">These sights brought a flood of questions to my mind: of the auto driver whose earnings for the evening were literally washed away; of the elderly parents the juice vendor might have back at home waiting for him to meet their dire needs; of rotten vegetables and losses staring at the vegetable vendor the next day; while for me, it would be a relaxed evening back home, with a cup of coffee and a hot water bottle for my sore knees!</p>.<p class="bodytext">I realised that “count your blessings” is not just a saying, after all!</p>
<p class="bodytext">It is not that I do not get my monthly quota of medicines online, thanks to my tech-savvy family! But then, from where would I find that personal touch from the medical shop owner (whom I know from decades and who has grown up parallelly with my list of medicines getting longer as I aged), his inquiries about my ailments, the inputs he gives, bits of information on the best places to consult for my health issues, warnings on the excess use of certain medicines, etc.?</p>.<p class="bodytext">My walks were put on hold by pandemic-induced isolation, apprehension, and diffidence. The combination of bad Bengaluru roads and erratic traffic turned them into multi-purpose ventures. Besides asserting my independence, accomplishing small personal errands during walks was a fascination I enjoyed. Picking up a box of Tirunelveli <span class="italic">halwa</span> I relish—from the hot chips joint (which I hesitate to request my motorised children with their parking woes to get), those sips of tender coconut that I trust to replenish the micro-nutrients in me (the freshness of which is definitely a few notches above the packaged bottles), getting my medicines myself, and my pleasure of patronising small time traders on the way—were small but significant misses that dulled my life.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Hence, a slight let-up in the Bengaluru rains recently saw me at the medical shop, my first stop-over. Better weather has gathered a bigger-than-usual crowd at the shop. With his long prescription and unending doubts, a burly elderly man with a walker before me was taking a lot of time at the counter, much to the discomfiture of my knees and those behind me. Looking at the dozen-odd medicines he bought, I noted with relief how insignificant my prescription of a couple of medicines was!</p>.<p class="bodytext">The young boy before me, making way for me, basked me in the thought, “Ah! Grey still holds respect!”</p>.<p class="bodytext">Soon, it started to drizzle. Autos scurried home, unmindful of prospective customers; the juice vendor, who had set up shop an hour ago, was winding up business not before cleaning and readying the spiral-shaped pestle to take on tomorrow; the vegetable vendor was running for shelter even while trying to salvage his ware with a sheet...</p>.<p class="bodytext">These sights brought a flood of questions to my mind: of the auto driver whose earnings for the evening were literally washed away; of the elderly parents the juice vendor might have back at home waiting for him to meet their dire needs; of rotten vegetables and losses staring at the vegetable vendor the next day; while for me, it would be a relaxed evening back home, with a cup of coffee and a hot water bottle for my sore knees!</p>.<p class="bodytext">I realised that “count your blessings” is not just a saying, after all!</p>