An evening with influenza may not be the most poetic way to spend a sunset. Alongwith the nagging headache are the rising temperatures and the burning eyes. Usual respite lies in a double shot of paracetamol. It used to be different 3 decades ago. Fever meant lounging in bed all day. Drinking warm horlicks in diluted milk while Grandpa held me up from the shoulders. A visit from good old Kamakshya-Babu (Late Dr. Kamakshya Mukherjee) would pep up the spirits for his first question would needless be; "Heck! Isn't a young, heathy boy like you ashamed of what you have done to yourself?", followed by a presciption of pungent reddish mixtures that had to be custom made at the apothecary. Usually, the fever rose after sunset. With my head sticking out of the bed and a bucket placed underneath, Grandpa would repeatedly pour cold water to wet the hair, while Grandma would be caressing my forehead. The old lady would scold me for playing in the sun and for eating too many oranges. While the coolness of the water on the scalp felt heavenly, a drop on the face made me look up to see Grandma move her face away to wipe her tears. With that picture in mind, I would slip into the throes of most satisfying slumber. Life was all about "being flued in happiness".