Self-praise is no recommendation but how do others then know about my great sense of humour. Doctors are supposed to be serious, not have a funny bone; but my wit comes from my late father, and now more often than not, my inheritance puts me into trouble.
I am a compulsive humorist, misunderstood though, but I can’t help it. Ever ready to crack a joke or key it in on cell phone, I am appalled by the lack of humour (dare I say it) in the largest democracy. Yes, I don’t look at the situation, and my humour scares even me sometimes, but why do you not see the funny side of it, world?
The invention of the SMS, WhatsApp and WeChat hasn’t helped my disorder; and if there was a cure, I’d be moved the intensive care unit. I write jokes and they go viral. Imagine the money I could have made by protecting my copyright. Even in the medical profession, these are times of recession, and a little side income won’t hurt.
Last Dussehra, I texted these greetings with the effigy shot of a laughing demon Ravan: “Ha, ha, ha, ha, I am the biggest humorist in this world, funnier than even the Indian politician.” I didn’t know my crime until people on the medium (they could be leaders) warned me I was almost in breach of privilege.
One learns from mistakes, but only two people refuse to: Rakhi Sawant and yours truly. Because, only the previous Dussehera, I had texted to my contacts: “Hope this day reminds you of not fooling around with somebody’s wife.”
Part of my upbringing was to take things in my stride, so while I am used to this dangerous-ness, I also don’t want to be Rohit Shetty’s “khatron ka khiladi”. Whom do I complain to about the morose world when even my son, whom I put in elite St John’s School for good money, doesn’t have the sense of humour. Recently, the kid clicked me in my new hairdo, bandana, and makeover: an Indo-Emirates look.
I suggested he posted the pictures on Facebook and WhatsApp and updated his status to: “Sometimes in life, it becomes hard to recognise even your father. Koi kare to kya kare aise baap ka (what do you do with a father like that)”. Repulsed, he turned down my proposal. “What will my (girl)friends think?” he said. He meant it. Then I changed my Facebook status to: “Trying my best so that she (wife) doesn’t recognise me and lets me go.” She read it.
Usually, I am apolitical, but once for a medical body’s cause, I filed my nomination. In the canvassing message to fellow doctors, I pleaded my case: “I am your own man next door, we share good wives, sorry vibes, from the medical college.” It was just a joke but the fellows took it seriously and I lost the election.
Last week, a bride visited my clinic with her new family and complained of watery eyes. I couldn’t hold myself again, and shot: “Pehle yeh batao aapko rulata kaun hai (First tell me who makes you cry).” I could sense the sudden discomfort of her husband and in-laws. Did I try to be funny?