Maybe next time I meet someone, I should hold up a board that says I'M A USELESS HUMAN BEING in bold.

And hand out reams of paper telling people that I'd never know what to say when they're low, that I'm terrible at mind games , usually just prefer being left alone and care more about myself.

The only good thing I remember doing is giving my lunch to a dog who was trying to be a model.

Sometimes I think life would be much more interesting if I was a slimy, obese, pulsating worm who left a trail of gooey mucus as I locomoted.

Or a scrunched up paper ball even.

 

Bob, the mosquito floated along peacefully, oblivious of the happenings around him. It was one of those pleasant mornings. The sky was just the right shade of blue, the sun didn’t throw it’s weight around too much and warm pullovers didn’t beckon with a martyr-like coo.He let his mind drift to his suave maneuvers to extract human blood without hurting himself and smiled smugly at the wall opposite.

 

Suddenly, a pair of hands came into view and with a clap, he was gone.

 

Attack While They’re Asleep, the daily newspaper reported another incident of a mysterious death:

“This is the work of an unscrupulous homicidal killer,” buzzed one of the elite Muskeeto Intellectuals. Mosquitoes all over are praying for a Superfly, a legend based on the human version of Superman.

Till then, attack while they’re asleep.

Kids are happy little things.

I like kids.

Sure, they’re demanding when they see the ice-cream guy. Or when they’re in a toy-shop.

Sure, they can drive you nuts and make you want to go and bang your head against the wall.

Sure, it can get a tad tiresome when they jabber on and on and on about what happened in some lame pokemon cartoon. It’s cute to some extent, but after a point, you get slightly weary of feigning delight and going, “wow, reallyyy??”

Sure, they can make you seethe and wish you could annihilate them by just glaring at them because they broke your favourite bangle.

So maybe I don’t like kids all that much, but they’re somewhere there, next to Spongebob Squarepants maybe.

But they’re still happy things. Cute happy things.

With two deep pools of chocolate that boast of innocence for eyes.

And a smile that slides in with ease without reason.

I wanted to be a little kid all over again after sitting next to an adorable kid in a spiderman jumpsuit in the theatre(movie: Happy Feet). He was sitting on his Mommy’s lap and his feet barely reached the floor.

My heart bled for him when he was furiously wiping his tears away and whimpering, looking tearfully at his mum and asking, “Did he really die, mommy?”

 

The best part about being a kid is that you don’t have to think much. You just run around happily, bang into things, start bawling, have mommy come to you and cradle you in her arms, mollycoddle you and mutter sweet-nothings that sound like incantations to conjure a cute fluffy little elephant from Happy-goo-goo land and then you’re happy again.

 

Last month I had to go to the first standard class that trained little Talibans, for two hours of baby-sitting.

Pandemonium wouldn’t even begin to describe the situation five minutes after the teacher left. Little terrorists were running about purposefully pushing eachother around, pulling at my skirt, trying to test the power of their little hands by swatting me. A few terrorists approached me with scales in their hands, egging me on to join the fight (Boy, they sure didn’t know what was in store for them. News hadn’t reached them about me being a magenta-tie in the art of scale-war.). Another few slunk out of class; giggling at the look on my face when I had to chase them down the corridor (I passed all the other classes which my other friends were assigned to and was taken-aback by the calm inside.).

A bit later the little terrorists had declared war. There were little boys sprawled on the floor, bawling. There were little girls crying their eyes out because “that boy stole my scale!!!”. A minute later, peace was restored. A minute after that, there was bedlam again.

After the two hours were up, I trudged outside, drained and spent. Before I had left, I got a truckload of grins and little sheets of paper that were coloured on, some  wishing me a happy day and  some proclaiming that they loved me.

I am aware that the above paragraph did not have much to do about kids being happy little things. Maybe it does, but I don’t have the mental strength to delve into it and find out how.

Happy New Year, all.

 

 

 

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