This column is dedicated to Erin Conroy.

It started with a scratchy feeling at the back of my throat. Then came the coughing. Before I knew it, in the middle of my favorite extracurricular activity of the year, the South Asian Association's annual cultural show Ghungroo, I was sick.

This was serious. I wasn't just tired with a headache. Rather, I felt like I would be able to breathe more easily if there were immense wads of cotton up my nose and water in my lungs. I was so tired that I slept through all my classes for three days.

But what does all this have to do with Social Analysis? If I was sleeping through all my classes, I probably wasn't seeing anyone, right? Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

Everyone I met seemed to have a different reaction to my sickness. From people at the drugstore who could clearly see I was sick (the Robitussin, cough drops, and Cold-Eeze in my basket probably clued them in), to my roommate and friends to everyone involved with Ghungroo, their opinions fell into three distinct categories.

The first person to register her comment was, of course, my mom. I'm going to stereotype my family right now and say that South Asian parents--and particularly mothers--are health fanatics. After waiting four days to call my mother (I knew she was going to flip out) I was totally expecting the barrage of questions. Our frantic conversation went like this:

Mom: "Putti," she said, using my family nickname, "Are you feeling all right? You sound tired. Are you sleeping enough? What did you eat today? Are you taking Vitamin C?"

Me: "I'm fine, Mom. I kind of have to go. Can we talk about this later?"

Mom: "Are you sure? You sound kind of sick. Are you losing your voice?"

Me: "Yeah, Mom, I'm kind of sick. I have a cold and stuff. (At this point, I thought it wise to refrain from mentioning the fever and the constant fatigue.) I really have to go."

Mom: "Okay, sweetie. I love you. Get some rest."

Me: "Bye, Mom."

That falls in the category of the psychotic parent approach. Some of my friends are even prone to this approach, and I love them for it. For some reason, the overreaction doesn't bother me as much coming from them. But from Mom, since she's always like that, whether I'm sick or well, I find it best to tell her that I'm great. Even if I'm about to keel over.

Despite my precautions, the antibiotics arrived two days later straight from California.

At this point, I was still in denial about my illness--the "maybe if I ignore the suffering, it will go away" phase. I went to the theater to prepare for Ghungroo and had one of those typical Harvard conversations. A friend had the opposite reaction from my mother.