Extreme Laughter: Author Manjula Padmanabhan tells a story about the deadly power of humour

I was just wondering what to do next, when a sharp, mosquito voice said, “Put me DOWN, ya’!” It had a strong Delhi University accent. “Bring nectar!”

“N-nectar?” I stammered, placing the little thing down on my desk.

“HURRY UP!” squeaked the imperious imp. “I’m fading!”

“But I don’t have—” I cried, panicked.

“HONEY!” it whined, as its edges began to fade.

Grabbing a jar from my kitchen shelf, I scooped out a miniature portion, using a plastic spoon saved from an ice cream cup.

The fairy clutched the sides of the spoon and lapped at the honey like a very small cat. It kept lapping until it began to look solid once more. A delicate glow enveloped it. Its wings came back into view.

Finally it sat up. Looked around. Did neck-stretches. Then it retied the bamboo leaf, looked up at me with its slanting, lemon yellow eyes and said, “Your lucky day, human,” it said. “Saved my life.”

Manjula Padmanabhan writes: Extreme Laughter (Illustrations by Manjula Padmanabhan)

***

If you save a fairy’s life, you get a wish. That is the Law. Until the wish is made, the fairy cannot leave.

“Come on, come on,” it said. “Ask for gold! Beauty! Just be quick.” It refused to tell me its name or share any details of gender. “Yuck!” it had said when I asked. “We fairy-folk don’t bother with that stuff!”

I wanted to wish for something that I could DO something with. Something good. Something worthwhile.

“Fairy,” I said, “is it possible to—”

“Nuh-uh!” it cut in.

“Can’t ask for advice. Or multiple wishes.”

“Okay, then,” I sighed. “I wish to have a super power.”

The fairy paused in mid-air, its wings whirring. It favoured me with a sharp look. “Be specific. What super power?”

I smiled. It had not denied my request. “Okay,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I want the power to make people laugh,” I said. “At my command, and for however long or hard as I desire.”

“Hmm,” said the fairy. It was still suspended in mid-air, its head cocked. Then it made up its mind. “But okay. It doesn’t violate Fairy Law. I can grant it.”

It began whirling around and around in the air, in front of my nose. “You’ve made your wish. I’ve granted it to you.” It became a blur of twinkling light. “Which means I’m …”

Gone. Poof. Vanished.

I smiled uncertainly. The fairy had given me no instructions whatsoever! But it turned out that my experience working with small children was all I really needed. Empathy and mental focus are ideal training for magical skills.

I gave myself a few days to experiment before setting off towards the school from which I had been so unfairly kicked out.

The friendly watchmen waved me in with a welcoming smile. I walked into the principal’s room. There she sat, a dragon in her lair, wearing a blood red sari, eating her usual lunch of chicken hearts and fried rats’ tails. (Haha, no! Only kidding).

“OUT!” she hollered, jumping to her feet while reaching for her mobile. “I’m calling the police!”

“Wait,” I said, holding the palms of both my hands towards her. The magic energy surged through me. “Let me tell you a joke.”

Instantly, the corners of Madam’s painted red mouth turned up. She made a hissing, croaking sound. “Grr-rr-ssshh… hee-heehee…” she began, trying to resist. But the phone dropped from her hand. Her mouth opened wide. She began to guffaw helplessly.

“Last week,” I said to her, “when I tried to protect little Benji from that hateful bully in Class X, you stopped me, Madam Principal.”

“HAHA-heehee-HOHO!” roared Madam in response. Her eyes bulged in fury, but there was nothing she could do. “Wha-ha-haha-ha!!” she rattled like a machine gun. “Ah-HOOHEE!”

“You protected the bully,” I continued, “because his father’s a rich donor. You sacked me. And poor Benji is still in hospital from his injuries.”

“WA-ho-HO!” whinnied the principal, tears fountaining from her eyes. “A-HOO-hah!!” Her secretary came in running. I said, as I left, “Call the ambulance! Madam’s having a fit!”

There won’t be any physical damage from the laughter. Madam can’t accuse me of anything. But she’ll never forget my words.

All this happened some weeks ago. Since then, I’ve discovered many uses for my super power. I’m unafraid to walk through Delhi’s streets, for instance. If anyone tries to mess with me, I just zap ’em and move along, grinning like a hyena.

The other day, I struck three idiots at once. They fell over, cackling and hooting helplessly. Hearty laughter takes a lot of energy, so my victims are thoroughly weakened. On the Metro, a man was harassing a young woman. When I threw a bolt of laughter at him, he bellowed so hard that he fell over and peed his pants. All the other passengers laughed at him. No one helped him up.

I can send out soft bolts, too. Giggles towards nervous schoolgirls, tired smiles towards exhausted rickshaw drivers. Happy chuckles through hospital wards and old-age homes.

One of these days, you might see a group of ugly politicians on TV, rolling about, clutching themselves, laughing helplessly. Unable to sign their horrible treaties or start their cruel wars.

Think of me then. And smile.

Manjula Padmanabhan is a writer and cartoonist