
They’re spontaneous
There’re original
They’re hilarious
But it’s that moment
And then they’re gone
Out of my memory
The other day
While studying
Name two solids
I said
Hindi book
Maths book
I didn’t mind
Because
I knew
He knew
The right answer
We moved on
To liquids
Lizol
Soothol
I didn’t ask
About the gases
Science
Is his favourite subject
It’s easy to be funny
What does a pigeon give birth to
I ask
I want to hear
Young ones
He says eggs
There’s a picture
Of a caterpillar
And leaves
in a container
With a mesh
The question is
What will happen
After a few days
There’s no water
His anwer
The leaves
They will die
Because they’ll be
Eaten up
Then there’s English
What is the plural of sky?
Sky
That’s wrong
It’s skies
No he says
It’s sky
There is only one sky
Atleast in his world
Social studies
There are two sets
Of clay pots
The picture from
His textbook
The answer
The pots are made
Different
For storing
Different types of things
His answer
The potter
He made some
Large
And some small
I ask him why
He wrote this way
Mamma
He says
If you were a potter
Wouldn’t you be bored
Of making the same pot
All over and over
Again?
I guess we too
Are meant to be different
We were meant
Not to be the same
Why would our potter
Make all children
The same
Over and Over
Again?
Some think he’s rude
Unashamed
Not knowing how
To speak to elders
I do try
To tell him
But I know
In his own way
He’s trying to be funny
In him mind
All are equal
His parents
His grandparents
His classmates
His teachers
His friends
His cousins
The beggar
Be it the laundryman
Or the garbage collector
They ring the doorbell
And ask for him
He speaks to them
He makes them laugh
If not anything
With his piggy snort
His anger
Sometimes
Outbursts
He cries
To get his way
Or for sympathy
When hurt
To get his way
Or for sympathy
When hurt
But
He’s getting there
A joker
He wants to be
A fine one he will make
I think
His jokes are all forgotten
But now I’ll preserve them
In this blog
So he can laugh
At his own
When he grows
If he still
Wants to be
A standup comedian