Laugh a lot, my friends,
Do laugh,
At your shaky attempts
On your waning staff
(In your old age, that is,
If you happen to be younger,
And your legs are still big and strong,
Then laugh at the way your feet go numb,
If you’ve sat on them bit too long.)

Laugh dear friends, do laugh,
At the general riff a raff ,
That your brain produces
When fresh are yet its juices
And time you’ve got to pass!

Laugh a moment, at the hullabaloo,
That you create when you miss a shoe
That you find that the absent minded you
Had placed behind your calf!

You see, we are born to laugh, naturally,
But we sometimes forget our hilarity,
And it benefits from the charity
You bestow it, with a silly little laugh.

So laugh, dear friends, do laugh.


Poem to me

Hurting, bruised,

Slightly broken.

Wounds afresh,

And grief unspoken,

Carrying pain,

Naught else as token,

Payment for efforts,

That left heartbroken.

Trudging, drudging

Wild and shaking,

Burning with rage

And hope nearly breaking,

Losing, losing,

Hurting and trying,

Standing up, falling down,

Sinking and crying.

On the brink of loss,

But slight.

You get up, you get out,

You stand up and fight.

You drain all you’ve got

Though you hurt and you seethe,

But you fight as you would

Fight hard so to breathe.

The Devil’s Advocate

I am The Devil’s Advocate,

And many souls I’ve stirred,

And lines between what’s right or wrong

Within my mind have blurred.

An irresistible, devilish glee

Grips me from outside in,

When I take stance that does oppose

The one that ought to win.

To spearhead an argument

That one does know should fail,

And ultimately reason so

That it does prevail,

How many master this paradoxical,

Highly logical art?

And why is it that all of me

Does want in it a part?

But I suppose when one is born

At contradiction’s fate,

One does enjoy and loathe being

The Devil’s Advocate.

Me, the greatest chef on the planet! (Part 1)

My first time baking was in response to emergency sugar craving.

The house, bereft of any sweet goods whatsoever, due to it having been holiday season, seemed such a sad and gloomy place. (They say longing for someone often makes one see things as such, but I just think sad people ought to be introduced to a healthy dose of chocolate.)

So, I decided, it was time to take charge of my life, take matters in my hands, and learn to bake.

I’d seen mother do it, it seemed easy enough, mixing a couple of things and tossing it into the oven, and, being the good natured human I am, I decided to give our parents a surprise (holiday for me, working day for them) when they returned.

My sister heartily agreed with the plan, and we decided to make chocolate muffins.

Here, I must state that it is really my sister who is better suited to cooking, for, people like me, who eat to live (and make an exception for a sweet a day) just rely on Google and our general indifference.

We Googled (surprise!) the ingredients, and I being oblivious to what the difference between baking soda, baking powder and cornstarch is, or for that matter, being oblivious to the fact that flour in fact meant refined wheat, not wheat, despite my younger sister (young enough to be ignored) warning me against my tomfoolery, proceeded to cook the way I thought the world ought to, and baked some nice, crusty, mmm-not-too-bad-&-plus-it’s-sweet-&-that’s-what-matters muffins.

The house, unaware of the unorthodox methods I had employed in my endeavor, heartily praised my cooking prowess for a first timer.

I polished off more of it than anyone else (chef’s privilege) and heartily praise my ability to be able to produce something tantalising to the taste buds, if not anyone else’s, then mine, with the aid of nonchalance and a touch of Google.

The blue shirt in the white van

The blue shirt would step off after a journey of precisely 45 minutes in the white van. I say blue shirt because it was the shirts favourite colour.

A bundle of shirts would accompany the blue thing on its journey home. Some red, some yellow, some green.

One day, a human stepped into the van, a new entrant in the private, lifeless, shirt-world.

That day, out from the van, some 45 minutes of a journey later, stepped another human in blue.


<a href=””>Circle</a&gt;

A child on the bus home painted me a circle. 

It came as a pleasant surprise. 

My day had been long and tiring, and I had, remorsefully, contemplated the meandering path of my life, my awkward relations with the world in general, the upcoming rent, and my lack of fitness, my had-been pride in months gone by. They seemed so far away, the good old days and the sparkling future.

Then, the child came and surprised me with his beautifully painted circle.

He had filled it up with all the colours he could find, and, looking closely, I saw he had painted a sheet first, and cut it out in a lovely circle later. The back had no paint smudge marks. Heh, detective me.

I beamed at the beautiful young child with all the positivity I could muster within me, and thanked him, genuinely, from the bottom of my heart. It was a beautiful gift, no doubt, to be laminated and hung somewhere on my bare walls.

As I contemplated the gift’s purpose a minute, thoughts of the simplicity and innocence of children whirled in my head. Trying to simplify my own complicated thinking, I realised maybe he chose me to give it because, perhaps, with his child’s inner eye, he saw me as a colourful being. Maybe, I too, was someone beautiful on the inside.

“Thank you, Mr. Timothy.” Being a child lover, I had had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of the shy 7 year old just yesterday. 

“And why do I get this special painting?”

“Oh,” he said, “I thought it suits you.” I smiled graciously at the child. 

“It suits you,” he continued, “because you’re just like it, round and always with coloury clothes on.”

I’d forgotten how cruel children could be.


<a href=””>Leaf</a&gt;


Years and years ago, when the air was crisp and a chill around, when within my own body, I felt a curious comfort, when the days were drowsy and the nights were long, when undisturbed, on my bed I lay, I noticed a slanted ray of the Sun illumine a lone tendril of a creeper that grew, and a leaf settle next to it.

It was an old, withering leaf, and deliciously crunchy, and no doubt it must have commented to the fresh, tender plant what a bright, cheerful day it was.

The pale, vain leaf on the fresh, tender plant in the new, painted pot must have no doubt replied it couldn’t have cared less, for what use was a cheerful day to a not so strong leaf?

It must have no doubt begun to list the various ailments that plagued it and the flutterings it felt about it and the general discomfort it had to face.

A sudden breeze blew and picked up the old, puckered leaf, that, dancing about for a second, and wisely, sagely nodding, no doubt forgave the leaf with life, for being so foolish she couldn’t help it, and embarked upon its downward journey to be crushed underfoot a child such as me, a foolish tendril in it’s own right.