I’m not too sure how it happened. It hit our family like a bolt of lightning—the procurement and use of the blood pressure monitor.
My parents obsessively check their blood pressure, even though they have no idea what it means. If you ask them for the reading, they just shout out random numbers. They treat getting it out of the box like a ceremony. The person in question sits at the table while the rest of the family gathers around—like a concert, with everyone pushing to the front for a better view.
None of us would have a clue what the reading meant. We would hear the machine fire up, inflating the armband. We all wait with bated breath, too scared to breathe in case we’re accused of inadvertently affecting the results. One Christmas, it became part of a competitive after-dinner game.
At the local temple, they carry out health checks every three months on a Tuesday at 3 pm. My mum and dad set off on their quarterly date night. They sat and waited. They were asked to fill out a form they couldn’t read, so they just sat there, pen in hand, pretending. Then my dad went in while my mum sat and waited, eating jalebi and kheer after her check.
Next thing she knows, paramedics are running in with a trolley. Date night had levelled up—they were going to the hospital too.
Four hours later, he was allowed home on the bus—God bless the NHS! To add to the family fun, this year, we are getting an oxygen saturation monitor.
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