Poetry Can Cure Anything. Even Chicken Pox

When my cousins came down with a case of the chicken pox, I was full of sympathy. Without delay, I dispatched my springiest verses to aid my ailing kin. The first two syllables of both their names are Hari, and so I shall refer to them herewith in the manner reminiscent of Pliny.

I.To Hari the Elder, who was supposed to write the CLAT shortly thereafter

In the cousin, a sadness has taken root.
He’s ill and covered in spots to boot.
We can do nothing, but hope and pray.
And it isn’t that big a deal, anyway.
The pox is fairly mild,
there’s no need to go wild.
You see, these things just happen sometimes,
and it’s best to make lemonade from the limes.

Ah, the healing power of rhyme!
It’s nearly as good as thyme!
Take one a day,
instead of a fruit tray,
and bid your doc a hearty farewell.
He can make his fortune selling hair gel.

Oh, our little cousin,
how I’d like to pin
a smile on his face;
forcibly, with a mace.
He groans, he grimaces, he’s a great gargoyle.
He grumbles instead of taking his castor oil.

Severely incapacitated by the pox and its associated afflictions,
Hari the Elder struggles to make progress in his studies.
My dear, wise old cousin,
it’s a familiar place that you’re stuck in.
The days are interminably long,
and it makes no difference to sip oolong.
The hours are grey and dreary,
and it makes one so joyless and weary.
But grit your teeth and plod on,
through the plateau, towards the horizon.
Things will pick up if you just keep at it,
it’s by you that your face is writ.
The sacrifice and struggle of nearly any age,
cannot be thrown away in a temporary rage.
You will persevere and emerge on the other side.
My faith in you I firmly confide.

II.For Hari the Younger, who is a mystery to us all

Swinging makes him want to puke,
but his sass isn’t any fluke.
He who waved gaily,
at they who conspired against him daily
is now down with a malady so frightful,
it would reign in even an indomitable bull.
Yet on our pint-sized hero, it has hardly any influence.
He’s far too hardy and full of common sense.
He’s much like Asterix, a French man among men,
except that he doesn’t need any magic potion.
But even warriors need the occasional pick-me-up.
This one’s for the baby, I hope that cheered you up.

Malavika Selvaraj is an eighteen-year-old writer and poet who lives in Mumbai.

Featured Image credit: Flickr/Freddy Olsson