We are a country that never runs short of advice. From cricket scores to election results to your waistline, someone always knows better. But the sharpest comment of all is usually, “You look tired.” No lab, no doctor—just a verdict that sticks harder than Fevicol.
One woman once rushed into my clinic in a state of full panic. “Doctor, my aunt says I’ve become weak,” I asked, If her aunt checked her blood pressure, sugar, or haemoglobin?” She shook her head. “Then how did she know?” I asked. “She saw me at the wedding buffet.” One spoon of biryani, and Aunty generated a full medical report. Psychologists call it projection. In India, we call it ‘aunty behaviour’—a condition more contagious than the flu.
Another man in his forties, who looked fit enough to chase buses, arrived convinced he had cancer. Why? His neighbour told him, “You look smaller now.” His reports were spotless, but the neighbour’s tongue had already become a biopsy needle. This is the negativity bias at work: the human brain deletes fifty compliments but saves one criticism on the desktop. You may be praised for your smile, your intelligence, your kindness—but all you remember is, “You look tired.” Human memory is not fair; it’s cruel comedy.
And then there are colleagues. Every office has an unofficial dermatologist. They can’t fix the printer, but they can diagnose your face. “You look dull.” “Your eyes are puffy.” “Didn’t sleep well, no?” This is not a concern—it’s small talk disguised as a skin check. Psychologists call it phatic communication. I call it phatic torture.
Weddings, offices, neighbourhoods, and families all run their own parallel clinics. At weddings, aunties size you up between gulab jamuns and whisper, “You’ve lost weight,” or “Why are you looking dull?”—their way of saying hello. In offices, colleagues may miss project deadlines but never miss pointing out, “You look tired,” mistaking gossip for empathy. Neighbours too join in, announcing, “Arrey, you’ve become thin,” as casually as reporting the weather. And relatives? They bring affection with sharp elbows—an aunt fussing, “Beta, are you eating enough?” or a cousin blurting, “You look older!” Psychologists call it social comparison; I call it family love with side effects.
These comments don’t just bounce off. They stick like haldi stains. One woman told me her aunt’s casual “you look exhausted” pushed her into late-night Googling. Within days, she developed acidity and palpitations. That’s the placebo’s evil twin—the nocebo effect. If enough people tell you you’re weak, your body will cooperate and become weak. Ayurveda warned us centuries ago: mind and body are inseparable. A single careless sentence can disrupt digestion, raise stress hormones, and create the very illness it predicts.
Ayurveda even has a word for glow: varchas. Not the fake shine of fairness creams or Instagram filters, but the quiet brightness that comes from digestion, deep sleep, and peace of mind. But in modern Bengaluru, digestion is outsourced to Food Apps, sleep to Netflix, and peace of mind to Instagram reels. Naturally, Glow resigns like an overworked IT employee—no notice period required.
Humour is the best vaccine. A schoolteacher told me her colleague said, “Madam, you look weak.” She replied, “Weak in body, strong in mind. Come correct 120 exam papers in one night.” Another man, told by his mother-in-law that he looked dull, said, “Yes, because your daughter makes me wash dishes.” That reply raised his testosterone faster than ashwagandha. Psychologists call it reframing. I call it pure survival.
And let’s not forget the role of lighting. Under white tube lights, everyone looks like they’ve just returned from a funeral. Step into the sun, and suddenly you’re a shampoo ad. Yet no one blames the light—they blame your face. This is the fundamental attribution error: we tend to blame people rather than situations. Sometimes your glow is fine; it’s the ceiling bulb that needs therapy.
Then what’s the cure? Not expensive facials, not extra lab tests, but perspective. Ask simpler, truer questions. Do I feel hungry at the right time? Do I sleep without pills? Do I laugh at least once a day? If yes, congratulations—you’re healthier than half the city, no matter what your aunt, neighbour, or colleague thinks.
Still, if you want comebacks, I prescribe a few. If someone says you look weak, ask them to sponsor your medical tests. If they say you’ve lost charm, reply, “Yes, I donated it to you.” If they say you look dull, hand them a mirror and say, “Maybe it’s the lighting.” These replies may not raise your haemoglobin, but they’ll raise your serotonin.
And here’s the patient who still makes me smile. A frail-looking old man came, his grin wide enough to shame toothpaste ads. “Doctor, everyone says I look weak,” he said. I asked, “Do you feel weak?” He chuckled, “Not at all. I climb three flights of stairs every day and beat my grandson at carrom every evening.” Then he added, eyes twinkling, “People see wrinkles, but they don’t see stamina. People see age, but they don’t see joy.” That line was worth a hundred textbooks. He left still grinning, and I swear he left me stronger, too.
So when someone says, “You look weak,” smile and reply, “Weak outside maybe, but strong inside. Like WiFi.”
Health was never meant to be judged by relatives or neighbours. It is not a public referendum. It is a private festival, and no aunty, colleague, or passerby has the right to cancel it.
