Category: Articles

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra, known for his wit and wisdom, is a prolific writer, renowned satirist, children’s literature author, and poet. He has undertaken the monumental task of writing, editing, and coordinating a total of 55 books for the Telangana government at the primary school, college, and university levels. His editorial endeavors also include online editions of works by Acharya Ramchandra Shukla.

As a celebrated satirist, Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra has carved a niche for himself, with over eight million viewers, readers, and listeners tuning in to his literary musings on the demise of a teacher on the Sahitya AajTak channel. His contributions have earned him prestigious accolades such as the Telangana Hindi Academy’s Shreshtha Navyuva Rachnakaar Samman in 2021, presented by the honorable Chief Minister of Telangana, Mr. Chandrashekhar Rao. He has also been honored with the Vyangya Yatra Ravindranath Tyagi Stairway Award and the Sahitya Srijan Samman, alongside recognition from Prime Minister Narendra Modi and various other esteemed institutions.

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra’s journey is not merely one of literary accomplishments but also a testament to his unwavering dedication, creativity, and profound impact on society. His story inspires us to strive for excellence, to use our talents for the betterment of others, and to leave an indelible mark on the world. Today we present his satire A Journey through the Literary Fair…. 

☆ Witful Warmth# 33 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Elections and Evasions: A Comedy of Unkept Promises… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

In the vibrant land of India, where every election season unfolds like a theatrical performance, the latest chapter of our grand democratic saga has begun. The air buzzes with anticipation, a peculiar mix of hope and disbelief, as citizens prepare for yet another rollercoaster ride through the amusement park of unfulfilled promises. Welcome to the spectacle of “Promises Galore,” where the main act is always the same: the politicians, draped in their finest rhetoric, dazzling the audience with dreams they have no intention of fulfilling.

The Prelude: An Invitation to Hope

As dawn breaks over the bustling streets of New Delhi, the city is adorned with colorful banners and flags, each one more ostentatious than the last. These political advertisements proclaim a glorious future, a utopia where poverty will be eradicated, roads will be paved with gold, and every citizen will have a dream home—if only they vote for the right party, of course. The citizens, gullible as ever, gather around their television sets, eyes glued to the charismatic leaders who promise them the moon while their feet remain firmly planted in the muck of reality.

 Act I: The Campaign Circus

The campaign trail kicks off with the fervor of a carnival. Politicians clad in pristine white kurta-pajamas, their faces smeared with the magic of camera filters, hop aboard their gleaming SUVs, parading through slums that they have only ever glimpsed from the safety of their tinted windows. The candidates throw out promises like confetti—better schools, better healthcare, and, of course, better governance. The crowd, armed with placards and a keen sense of irony, cheers wildly as if they truly believe these assurances. Each rally is a grand spectacle, with fireworks and music that would put any Bollywood blockbuster to shame.

Act II: The Results Extravaganza

Fast forward to the day of reckoning: election results. The moment is laden with excitement as votes are tallied and the winners emerge from their fortified bunkers, adorned in garlands of flowers and claims of a resounding victory. In a bizarre twist, the same people who only weeks ago were promised a brighter tomorrow now find themselves listening to the victors declare that they are “the voice of the people.” Meanwhile, the vanquished wear their defeat like a badge of honor, vowing to return stronger, as if the political arena is some kind of eternal wrestling match.

Act III: The Government Formation Fiasco

With the dust barely settled, the new government is hastily formed, and the ministers take their oaths, puffed up with pride and lofty ideals. Behind closed doors, however, the reality is far less noble. Deals are brokered like shady backroom trades at a market, with portfolios changing hands like candy. The cabinet resembles a ragtag ensemble cast, where loyalty often outweighs competence, and the whispers of scandal already loom over the horizon.

Act IV: The First 100 Days of Glory

In the first 100 days, the new administration is all about theatrics. Press conferences become a stage for dazzling PowerPoint presentations filled with pie charts and promises that would make even the most seasoned con artist proud. The media, ever the dutiful watchdogs, gobbles up the sound bites, conveniently ignoring the yawning chasm between policy and practice. Meanwhile, the opposition is poised, ready to pounce on any slip-up, their enthusiasm equal only to their hypocrisy.

Act V: The Descent into Mediocrity

As the months roll on, the initial euphoria morphs into a mundane routine of unfulfilled aspirations. Bureaucratic red tape ensnares every initiative, and the wheels of progress grind to a halt. Citizens watch helplessly as the promises made during the campaigns fade into distant memories, much like their hopes for a better future. The only thing that flourishes is the cycle of disappointment, and the public’s collective sigh echoes through the streets.

Epilogue: The Endless Cycle of Discontent

And so, we find ourselves back at the beginning of this grand circus, where the citizens, ever hopeful, cling to the belief that change is just around the corner. The politicians, ever the performers, play their roles to perfection, knowing that the show must go on. As the curtains close on this act, the audience—exhausted yet hopeful—continues to applaud, caught in the illusion that perhaps, just perhaps, next time will be different.

In this tragicomedy of Indian democracy, one undeniable truth remains: the more things change, the more they stay the same. The curtain falls, the lights dim, and as the applause fades, the sobering reality sets in. The dreams of a nation hang in the balance, and the laughter gives way to tears—a poignant reminder that in the great play of life, hope and disillusionment are merely two sides of the same coin

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra, known for his wit and wisdom, is a prolific writer, renowned satirist, children’s literature author, and poet. He has undertaken the monumental task of writing, editing, and coordinating a total of 55 books for the Telangana government at the primary school, college, and university levels. His editorial endeavors also include online editions of works by Acharya Ramchandra Shukla.

As a celebrated satirist, Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra has carved a niche for himself, with over eight million viewers, readers, and listeners tuning in to his literary musings on the demise of a teacher on the Sahitya AajTak channel. His contributions have earned him prestigious accolades such as the Telangana Hindi Academy’s Shreshtha Navyuva Rachnakaar Samman in 2021, presented by the honorable Chief Minister of Telangana, Mr. Chandrashekhar Rao. He has also been honored with the Vyangya Yatra Ravindranath Tyagi Stairway Award and the Sahitya Srijan Samman, alongside recognition from Prime Minister Narendra Modi and various other esteemed institutions.

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra’s journey is not merely one of literary accomplishments but also a testament to his unwavering dedication, creativity, and profound impact on society. His story inspires us to strive for excellence, to use our talents for the betterment of others, and to leave an indelible mark on the world. Today we present his satire A Journey through the Literary Fair…. 

☆ Witful Warmth# 33 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ A Journey through the Literary Fair…  ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

In the realm of modern literature, one might be tempted to compare it to an ancient epic—if one could stomach such a thought without bursting into laughter. Each year, a grand spectacle unfolds, drawing in literary aficionados as if they were moths to a flickering flame. Writers, like hapless actors in a farcical play, assemble to showcase their wordsmithing wizardry. Yet, amidst this theatricality, the only glimmer that captures one’s attention is the dazzling light of awards, overshadowing any semblance of genuine literary merit.

Enter our protagonist, Mr. Raghubir Shukla, a rather ordinary author with ambitions as lofty as a hot air balloon, though without the necessary buoyancy to lift him off the ground. His trusty typewriter—a relic from a bygone era—had seen better days, often spitting out words with all the reliability of a drunken sailor. Despite this mechanical misfortune, Shukla was deeply committed to the serious business of literature, harboring a desire to win an award. This notion had burrowed into his mind like a goat munching on grass, refusing to budge.

Shukla had heard tales from fellow writers who basked in the glory of awards, spinning tales of their triumphs like poets celebrating their muses. They sang the praises of recognition, and here was Shukla, yearning for a slice of that sweet literary pie. Inspired by his peers, he gathered his friends in their quaint little village, embarking on a mission to concoct a master plan for securing awards.

But lo and behold, let us turn our gaze to the editors—the true puppeteers of this literary circus. They weave intricate webs, ensnaring unsuspecting authors in their traps, making it seem as though publishing is a privilege reserved for the chosen few. One such editor, the illustrious Raunak Chaubey, was a master of this art, editing countless anthologies with the efficiency of a factory assembly line. Chaubey had perfected the craft of extracting money from writers with the finesse of a magician pulling rabbits from hats.

“Your manuscript lacks depth,” Raunak casually informed a beleaguered writer, who looked as dejected as a child denied candy. “However, if you’d be willing to part with a modest sum, I could see my way clear to publishing it.” The writer’s face crumpled, resembling a deflated balloon, as the editor’s offer hung in the air, heavy with irony.

Now, let us not forget the audience—the unsuspecting readers who stand at the back, waiting with bated breath for a truly remarkable piece of writing. They often resemble children lost in a candy store, eyes wide with anticipation. Yet, when faced with the reality of mediocrity, their dreams shatter like glass underfoot. They yearn for literary brilliance, only to find themselves grappling with the sour taste of disappointment.

Authors crave accolades, but these coveted awards seem to play hide and seek. As soon as the winners are announced, writers adjust their spectacles and wonder, “Is this really the same author who couldn’t string together a coherent sentence?” The irony is as thick as molasses, coating the literary scene in a sticky sweetness that leaves a bitter aftertaste.

And then, amidst this cacophony of absurdity, a peculiar twist emerges. The award ceremonies are graced by illustrious figures, grandstanding on stage while extolling the virtues of literature. When the name of an award winner is called, a hazy figure takes the spotlight, flashing a self-satisfied grin as if they’ve just discovered the secret to immortality.

Yet, here lies a truth that cannot be ignored: these awards often elude the true writers, landing instead in the hands of those ensnared in the editor’s trap. “Why did I award them?” Raunak muses, his mind swirling with self-serving calculations. “Because they’re beneficial to me, and I possess an uncanny knack for securing their accolades.”

Shukla, in his fervor, decided to submit his work to a shared anthology, aided by a friend who shared his ambition. “I’ve penned a magnificent poem, dear Raunak!” he declared, puffing out his chest. “I wish for it to be included in the anthology.” Raunak, the ever-astute businessman, smiled knowingly. “Certainly, but a little contribution would be required.”

Upon rifling through his pockets, Shukla discovered the unfortunate reality: a worn-out pen and a few chocolate wrappers were all he had to offer. However, undeterred, he rallied his family for a few coins, casting his gaze toward the glimmering prize that danced tantalizingly in his imagination. He envisioned a literary rebirth, his life taking a turn as splendid as a dandelion blossoming in spring. As he submitted his name for the award, he found himself pondering, “Will I one day grace the stage to accept my rightful place among the luminaries?”

Finally, the day of the award ceremony arrived, the entire town adorned as if for a royal wedding. Shukla donned his finest tattered clothes, preparing himself to ascend the stage. As his name was called, he stepped forward, feeling as though he stood before the divine. The bright lights of the award seemed to flicker mockingly in his eyes.

Yet, a voice rang out from the stage, announcing, “We award based on status!” Shukla’s heart sank as dreams crumbled before his eyes. “Is this what awards truly signify—a mere piece of paper?” he lamented, grappling with the absurdity of it all.

After the ceremony, Shukla turned to his friends, sharing his newfound wisdom. “This literary fair is nothing more than a charade! We are mere priests of words, gazing upon the glories of paper while the essence of true writing slips through our fingers. In the dazzling allure of awards, the true authors fade into obscurity.”

And so, amidst the laughter of the crowd and the clinking of glasses, the curtain falls on this satirical spectacle—a tale woven with the threads of irony and hypocrisy. In the end, it is not the awards that define the writer, but rather the passion for the craft, the sincerity of expression, and the unwavering belief in the power of words. After all, as we navigate the grand literary fair, let us not forget the true essence of storytelling—the heart that beats behind the facade of fame and recognition.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra, known for his wit and wisdom, is a prolific writer, renowned satirist, children’s literature author, and poet. He has undertaken the monumental task of writing, editing, and coordinating a total of 55 books for the Telangana government at the primary school, college, and university levels. His editorial endeavors also include online editions of works by Acharya Ramchandra Shukla.

As a celebrated satirist, Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra has carved a niche for himself, with over eight million viewers, readers, and listeners tuning in to his literary musings on the demise of a teacher on the Sahitya AajTak channel. His contributions have earned him prestigious accolades such as the Telangana Hindi Academy’s Shreshtha Navyuva Rachnakaar Samman in 2021, presented by the honorable Chief Minister of Telangana, Mr. Chandrashekhar Rao. He has also been honored with the Vyangya Yatra Ravindranath Tyagi Stairway Award and the Sahitya Srijan Samman, alongside recognition from Prime Minister Narendra Modi and various other esteemed institutions.

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra’s journey is not merely one of literary accomplishments but also a testament to his unwavering dedication, creativity, and profound impact on society. His story inspires us to strive for excellence, to use our talents for the betterment of others, and to leave an indelible mark on the world. Today we present his सतिरे The Last Respect: A Tale of Timeless Wisdom…. 

☆ Witful Warmth# 33 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Last Respect: A Tale of Timeless Wisdom…  ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

Old age, in the great Indian context, is nothing short of sainthood—a peculiar sainthood bestowed without ceremony, robes, or the courtesy of silence. Instead, it comes with a gift box of expectations and ironic reverence. Our protagonist, Jagannath Sharma, an 82-year-old patriarch from Kanpur, found himself the unwilling recipient of this divine status.

Jagannath, with knees creaking louder than his conscience and a back bent like society’s moral compass, spent his days on a hand-me-down wooden chair—his throne of wisdom. His kingdom? A chaotic two-bedroom flat shared with three generations who respected him enough to ignore him. After all, nothing says “I care” like pretending your grandfather is part of the furniture.

“The greatest gift you can give your elders is your absence,” his grandson Keshav often declared, texting furiously on a phone that cost more than Jagannath’s lifetime savings. Keshav’s moral compass was an app, and it hadn’t been updated since his last semester break. “Old age is sacred,” Keshav added, “but so is Netflix, and I only have time for one.”

Jagannath’s plight wasn’t unique; it was a collective national treasure. In a land where the Vedas preach respect for elders, modern families practice it like yoga: occasionally and only for Instagram likes. His son, Prakash, nodded solemnly whenever someone mentioned “family values” but kept his father on a strict diet of leftover chapatis and indifference. “Papa, respect isn’t about actions. It’s about intentions, and mine are great,” Prakash explained, offering Jagannath the day-old tea he couldn’t finish. The tea was symbolic—a metaphor for life, steeped too long and utterly flavorless. “Bitter tea builds character,” Prakash said, ignoring the fact that his father’s character was already built and crumbling.

Indian culture, of course, takes pride in its multigenerational households. This pride is mostly expressed in speeches at weddings, while the elderly are left babysitting toddlers who mistake them for statues. “Grandpa is like the Taj Mahal,” Keshav’s younger sister Riya said. “Beautiful but best admired from a distance.” The irony wasn’t lost on Jagannath, who, like the Taj Mahal, felt abandoned, overpriced, and surrounded by clueless tourists. “If I’m a monument,” he muttered, “why do I have to pay rent?”

One fine Sunday, the family decided to organize a “Respect Your Elders” Day. The plan was simple: ignore Jagannath’s suggestions, serve him spicy food his stomach couldn’t handle, and post photos with heartfelt captions. “Hashtag gratitude,” Riya wrote, uploading a picture of Jagannath staring at a plate of chhole he hadn’t asked for. The food was a metaphor too: rich, colorful, and entirely unsuitable for the occasion. “Old people love spice,” Riya claimed, mistaking her grandfather for a Bollywood plotline.

As the day unfolded, Jagannath found himself the star of a circus he hadn’t signed up for. Prakash delivered a speech about the sacrifices of elders, conveniently omitting the part where he sold Jagannath’s ancestral land to buy an SUV. “Sacrifices must be honored,” Prakash declared, as his father silently sacrificed his appetite for the burnt dal served with extra smugness. “Family is everything,” Prakash continued, ignoring the WhatsApp notification from his lawyer about contesting his father’s pension rights.

The neighbors arrived to pay their respects, bringing sweets too sugary for Jagannath’s diabetes. “Elders are a treasure,” said Mrs. Gupta, who had previously complained about Jagannath sitting on the building’s shared bench. “Their wisdom is priceless,” she added, while Googling retirement homes for her own father. “It’s all about balance,” said Mr. Gupta, whose idea of balance involved keeping his father-in-law and the TV remote in separate rooms.

As the evening wore on, the family unveiled a gift: a Bluetooth hearing aid Jagannath couldn’t figure out how to use. “It’s cutting-edge technology,” Keshav explained, as his grandfather struggled to turn it on. “You’re just not trying hard enough,” Keshav added, ignoring his own struggles with basic empathy. “Technology bridges gaps,” Riya chimed in, widening the emotional chasm with every word.

Jagannath finally snapped when they brought out a cake shaped like a walking stick. “Cut it, Grandpa!” Riya cheered, as if the knife symbolized empowerment and not passive-aggressive mockery. “What a lovely gesture,” Mrs. Gupta remarked, taking a selfie with the cake and cropping Jagannath out.

Jagannath stood up, a Herculean task given his arthritis and the weight of generational hypocrisy. “Enough!” he bellowed, silencing the room like a power cut during IPL season. “You respect me as much as you respect traffic rules—only when someone’s watching!”

The family was shocked. Jagannath rarely spoke, having learned that his opinions were treated like WhatsApp forwards: ignored unless entertaining. “You call me wise but don’t trust me with the remote,” he continued. “You celebrate me like a festival—loudly and once a year.” “Your love is like a government scheme: well-advertised but poorly implemented.”

The speech went viral in the neighborhood WhatsApp group, earning Jagannath the nickname “Rebel Grandpa.” “He’s so brave,” Mrs. Gupta texted, before muting the group to watch her soap opera. “A true inspiration,” Prakash told the press, as he updated his LinkedIn bio to “Son of a Legend.”

Jagannath’s rebellion ended the charade but not the hypocrisy. The family hired a nurse to “care” for him, outsourcing their guilt with the efficiency of a corporate merger. “We’re doing our best,” Prakash said, patting himself on the back harder than anyone else ever did. “This is modern respect,” Keshav explained, scrolling past memes about self-love.

In the end, Jagannath found solace in solitude, realizing that true respect isn’t earned but demanded. “Old age is a gift,” he mused, “but in this family, it’s more like re-gifting.” “Wisdom isn’t appreciated until it’s quoted on a WhatsApp status,” he added, laughing for the first time in years.

The irony of Jagannath’s situation was as thick as the dust on his old photo albums. His family celebrated his legacy while erasing his presence. They admired his wisdom but avoided his words. And in their quest to honor him, they forgot to see him.

As the story of Jagannath Sharma circulates through middle-class drawing rooms and internet memes, one thing becomes clear: respect, like tea, is best served warm and without pretense. And old age, in the great Indian tradition, remains both a blessing and a cosmic joke.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra, known for his wit and wisdom, is a prolific writer, renowned satirist, children’s literature author, and poet. He has undertaken the monumental task of writing, editing, and coordinating a total of 55 books for the Telangana government at the primary school, college, and university levels. His editorial endeavors also include online editions of works by Acharya Ramchandra Shukla.

As a celebrated satirist, Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra has carved a niche for himself, with over eight million viewers, readers, and listeners tuning in to his literary musings on the demise of a teacher on the Sahitya AajTak channel. His contributions have earned him prestigious accolades such as the Telangana Hindi Academy’s Shreshtha Navyuva Rachnakaar Samman in 2021, presented by the honorable Chief Minister of Telangana, Mr. Chandrashekhar Rao. He has also been honored with the Vyangya Yatra Ravindranath Tyagi Stairway Award and the Sahitya Srijan Samman, alongside recognition from Prime Minister Narendra Modi and various other esteemed institutions.

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra’s journey is not merely one of literary accomplishments but also a testament to his unwavering dedication, creativity, and profound impact on society. His story inspires us to strive for excellence, to use our talents for the betterment of others, and to leave an indelible mark on the world. Today we present his Satire The Cookie Chronicles: A Health Revolution... . 

☆ Witful Warmth# 32 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Cookie Chronicles: A Health Revolution…  ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

The world had been wrong for centuries—nay, millennia. Nutritionists, doctors, mothers clutching kale smoothies—all of them had perpetuated a grand lie. Vegetables, they said, were good for you. Fruits were heralded as nature’s candy. But I, Harold T. Whittleman, had discovered the truth: health lies in sugar and grease, washed down with a caramel-colored river of fizz.

It started as all great revolutions do—with a stroke of inspiration. Mine came at a discount store, where the fluorescent lighting shone down upon the holy trinity of human survival: cookies, chips, and cola. Each product was adorned with bright, cheerful labels that promised joy, satisfaction, and the possibility of collecting reward points. “Why toil with salads,” I thought, “when the universe has already perfected flavor in powdered cheese and high-fructose corn syrup?”

Thus began my dietary odyssey.

The Breakfast of Champions

Each morning, I feasted upon a breakfast of chocolate chip cookies. Not the sad, homemade kind baked by well-meaning grandmothers who thought raisins were a suitable substitute for joy—no, these were mass-produced miracles, engineered to crumble at the perfect angle when dunked into cola. Milk, after all, was for calves and weaklings.

My mornings were radiant. The sugar hit my bloodstream like a marching band on parade. My hands trembled, yes, but who needs steady hands when wielding a keyboard? My boss once asked why my reports were written in a font size of 72 and filled with random letters. I explained that I was too busy blazing a trail into the future of health to care about mundane details like coherence. He muttered something about “termination,” but I heard “revolutionary.” The world was already catching on.

Lunch with a Crunch

Lunchtime was a sacred ritual: bags of chips stacked like ancient tomes, each one containing the wisdom of artificial flavoring. The crunch was symphonic—a crescendo of MSG and potato fragments. The air around me shimmered with an orange dust, so divine that I stopped using napkins entirely. Why waste such a gift? I merely licked my fingers clean, an act of efficiency that would have made Henry Ford weep with pride.

By now, the doubters had begun to emerge. “Harold, you’re turning orange,” my neighbor whispered one day, concern dripping from her celery-chewing mouth. I dismissed her ignorance. The glow of health was clearly too radiant for her leafy-green brain to comprehend.

Dinner of the Gods

Dinners were a cola symphony, punctuated by cookie intermissions. Each sip was a reminder that life is better when it fizzes. The burps that followed were not crass but celebratory—a salute to human ingenuity. I began experimenting with cookie-chip pairings, striving for that perfect bite that could bring tears to even the most hardened cynic. Dorito-dusted Oreos were a triumph. Lay’s and Fig Newtons? A disaster, but every visionary has their setbacks.

The Sorrow of Society

As with all prophets, I faced persecution. The grocery store banned me after an altercation in which I declared their vegetable aisle a “crime scene of taste.” My family staged an intervention, ambushing me with broccoli and earnest PowerPoint slides about “nutrition.” I wept—not for myself, but for their delusion. How tragic that they couldn’t see the light shining from my grease-stained fingertips.

When I refused to repent, they declared me lost. My mother sobbed into her organic quinoa salad, wailing about my cholesterol. My father simply shook his head and muttered, “At least he’s happy.” That was the last time I saw them, though they still send me pamphlets with titles like Kale: Your Liver’s Best Friend and Sugar: Sweet, Sweet Death.

The Scientific Backlash

My notoriety grew. Doctors began publishing studies condemning my lifestyle, claiming that my arteries resembled “petrified wood” and that I was “a walking public health crisis.” I laughed in the face of their fear-mongering, although laughing sometimes made me wheeze. Science, after all, is a matter of interpretation. One man’s heart disease is another’s calorie-powered engine.

When a journalist asked if I worried about my long-term health, I retorted, “What’s the point of a long life if it’s spent eating kale?” That quote made headlines, and I became an overnight sensation in certain circles—mainly snack forums and cola enthusiast subreddits.

The Bitter End

Inevitably, tragedy struck. My bathroom scale began emitting smoke when I stepped on it. My dentist staged a one-man protest outside my home, holding a sign that read, “Your teeth are a war zone.” My knees developed a curious habit of collapsing under my weight, usually while I carried a full tray of chips.

The end came during my annual health check-up. My doctor—pale, sweaty, and holding what appeared to be an exorcist’s toolkit—delivered the news: my blood had the viscosity of molasses, and my liver had unionized to demand better working conditions.

I nodded solemnly and asked if cola could be considered a health tonic if consumed with a straw. He fainted.

Epilogue: A Legacy of Crumbs

I write this tale from my hospital bed, hooked up to an IV that I’m assured contains neither sugar nor cheese dust. The world outside continues its delusion, clutching their carrots and sipping their herbal teas. But I remain steadfast.

The nurses scold me when they catch me sneaking chips, but they don’t understand—they can’t. I am not just a man; I am a movement, a martyr, a crumb-coated beacon of culinary truth.

One day, they will see. One day, the world will realize that health is not about vegetables, or exercise, or moderation—it is about living boldly, crunching loudly, and fizzing gloriously. Until then, I’ll be here, awaiting the moment when humanity wakes up and smells the cookies.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]