Last week I was in Thailand, and somewhere between the sun and the rain I told Sanjoli something I hadn't said in a long time. I felt like I could free my mind. I could plan things in the long term and actually look forward to life, because I didn't feel burdened by my own health. For once I didn't feel like all my plans would go awry because I'd fall sick again. I felt like I had some predictability towards my future. A grip on my life again.

Then I came back to Bangalore, and within 48 hours I was sick again.

So here I am, writing an unfortunate and sad essay.

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I made an intentional choice to come back to this city. I quit my job and gave up my visa to be home, be what may. Closer to my family, back in a city I love, among people I know how to navigate. The thing about Bangalore is that everyone is maybe two or three degrees away from each other. Everyone just knows everyone. It's a place I understand.

And for a few years it was absolutely wonderful. I built a startup, I gave people jobs, I was always on the uptick. I trained jiu-jitsu, I found my communities, I started going to gigs again and working with artists again.

Then, in December 2024, I fell really sick, really suddenly. Bad bronchitis. A month of antibiotics that didn't work, then a week in hospital, then a month of bed rest. I got admitted twice in the span of two months, a week each time. When I finally got out, I had to get my deviated nasal septum fixed, which, it turns out, opened up my nose to let in even more of the dust, pollen and pollution the city constantly carries. I was bedridden again. It took me away from jiu-jitsu for a long while (which, perseverant as I am, is part of what got me building Kakashi and doing research instead).

My bedside table filled up with medicines. It would take months before I could clear it and put some of them back into the cabinet.

And even when I thought it was behind me, a few months later, back to training, back to moving around the city, I'd fall sick again. Every few months. I found my own pulmonologist and got the diagnosis I already knew I had: chronic bronchitis. An infection builds up in my nose, goes down to my lungs, and gets bad, sometimes close to pneumonia. I've been through that wringer over and over for the last two years.

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If there's one thing I do, it's count. I can see my GitHub commits from the last two years. I can count how many days I've trained. Both have gaps in them, and the gaps line up exactly with the times I was sick. I've spent at least two quarters of each of the last two years sick. That's half of every year spent being sick and learning to recover.

I wear a mask wherever I go. I do nasal washes and gargle with salt water pretty much every day, and steam inhalation from time to time. I'm always carrying inhalers, lung steroids, paracetamol and antibiotics. The guy at my nearest medical store knows who I am. I don't know, there's something sullen about that.

We've tried so many things, Sanjoli and I. We've redone our bedrooms so I'd get more sunlight. We've even explored living in other parts of Bangalore. We've had mold inspections done. We've brought in air purifiers. I've taken breaks from the city - Dubai, Goa, Thailand - and every time I come back, I fall sick again. At some point you realise it could be none of these things and just the city outside. Or it could be all of them.

I came home to be close to the people I love, in the city I love. That hasn't changed. But I can't help feeling that my city is telling me to leave.