If laughter, indeed was the best medicine –
he surely was one of the finest doctors.
Being sad, and making the world think otherwise,
also placed him in the ranks of the finest actors.

Legendary was his wit, contagious was his charm…
thousands flocked to hear every word he spoke.
A cacophony of guffaws and giggles followed,
each time he adroitly cracked a classy joke.

His countless patrons loved and adored him,
for none but him could so lighten their spirits.
He basked in glory and swam in showered silver,
as jesters from far and near failed to match his wits.

Being sharp, he knew where a man’s funny bone lay,
and was adept at brewing new brands of comedy.
He became an obelisk of cheer for the crestfallen,
and they assiduously sought him as a voodoo remedy.

All was well – till his heart was pure…
and no innuendo of insult tainted his tales.
But that sweet poison called fame made him giddy,
as flattery began tickling him with its sculpted nails.

His ego soon catapulted to worrying heights,
and rancid narcissism swiftly took over his mind.
With a critic’s eye did he now see the entire world –
no longer was his humour guileless and refined.

Insinuations and insults became the new flavour,
of this new and hideous form that his humour took.
Half the world he called imbeciles; the other half idiots,
and darted towards their failings like a hungry rook.

He began to engage in mimicry – the diet of buffoons,
and turned the high and mighty into a caricature.
He lost all respect quicker than it was earned,
as a tragic fall got superimposed over his stature.

The very people who till then were fans of his wit,
now locked him under a discerningly cold gaze.
Up in lashing flames went that celebrated charm –
a sinister wave of resentment now numbered his days.

And when he died – a man-hater and a hated man,
Oft calling the world rogue, and oft being called knave.
The very man, who had lived to make people laugh,
had not a single soul to shed tears over his grave.


NISHANK MEHTA  |  17.08.2009

Sign Out

sign out.jpg

Too long and too silently have I suffered,
from this punishment, the world calls life.
The only escape I now know and seek,
is in the glistening blade of my knife.

Why did they invite me to enjoy the world’s spoils,
when each bit of it was poisoned and cursed?
Why did they pretend to embellish my wretched destiny,
while secretly it was only their fortunes they nursed?

Why was I shown luring mirages of success,
when what was intended for me was ruin and wreckage?
Why was it that I never got to write my own story,
and the one they wrote, opened at the last page?

They answered my blind loyalty with shameless betrayal,
and dissolved my faith in a steaming cauldron of deceit.
At my slightest slip, they came swooping down upon me,
like eerie vultures descending on leftover meat.

Too long I stayed illusioned by their Machiavellian tactics,
and consorted in their brazen acts of transgression.
But, now I can play the masochistic puppet no longer –
too famished am I now to battle this depression.

The world is free to hate and despise me,
for the road I take is laid with a defeatist’s tar.
But let those chance few who loved me, know
that but for them I wouldn’t even have made it this far.

The world hasn’t been completely unkind to me,
and I do have some sweet memories to carry yonder.
There were indeed a few alleys of unscathed happiness,
and in them will my surrendered soul silently wander.

This paper will now patiently wait on the side-table,
and announce my decision to take the long journey back.
And the last line this unfortunate hand will ever write,
will be a thin crimson one across my neck…


NISHANK MEHTA  |  14.08.2009