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




Crumbled underneath shattered dreams,
that fell before they could span their wings.
Struggling for a quick last gasp of breath,
He bore the brunt of horrid sufferings.

He knew by intuition, that all was lost,
and the crucifying pain stung like hell.
He had gambled and stumbled in succession,
And before he could rise, again he fell.

Maybe ambition had driven him mad,
or maybe greed had stabbed him in the back.
Penalized for wishing and barred from hoping,
He was imperiously thrust into a ravine so black.

He had shrieked for aid as he bled,
But a shameless silence answered his yelp.
Success had made him many friends,
But in misery, he had only his shadow for help.

Convinced of his apparent invincibility,
he had jeered at predictions of his fall.
But when the fatal fist struck and strangled him,
he shivered and stood cornered against the wall.

His life got embroiled in the worst of controversies,
with luck dealing all the dreaded cards.
The public juggernaut steamrollered over him,
And his destiny broke into a thousand shards.

People stood shocked as his fortunes dipped,
and readily chronicled the tragedy of his tale.
His spectacular doom had fluttered many minds,
and his life was enveloped in a stormy gale.

Stripped of all his glory, he stood naked
at the altar of the Great Court of Deeds.
Prosecution was sharp and the judgement brisk,
and he was gheraoed by a ghetto of Satan’s steeds.

He could smell the stench of felony in the air,
as once-familiar voices called for his head.
The wretched flimsiness of human loyalties
filled his torn heart with a fierce hatred.

Even as they pitilessly led him to the gallows,
the resolution of all illusions made him blind.
And even before the darned noose had tightened,
Hopelessness had triumphed over his mind.

So, he died – a pathetic predetermined death,
punished for living rightly by the wrong rules.
Lost amidst the cruel ironies of his world,
crushed under the combined weight of fools.


NISHANK MEHTA  |  07.03.2008