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.

Some precious moments of life

1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
2. Honoured with Oscar, Grammy, Jnanpith, Sahitya Akademi, Dadasaheb Phalke, Padma Bhushan and many other awards by the most revered Gulzar sahab (Sampurn Singh Kalra), the lighthouse of the world of literature and cinema, during the Sahitya Suman Samman held in Mumbai.
3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
5. Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.

Today we present his satire The Lamentable Chronicle of the Man in the Manger.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 57 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Lamentable Chronicle of the Man in the Manger… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

It was not so much a tale of yore, but of that very era when Time, a concept no longer measured by the ticking of a personal watch, had become a stagnant, heavy commodity, trapped and festering within the official clocks of government offices. Our scene is set in the Panchayat Bhavan of Ram-Rajya-Nagar, a place more a sepulchre of civic virtue than a house of governance, where the cobwebs upon its walls considered themselves to be of historical significance, and where a stubborn, stout-hearted old fellow, Mr. Gyanprakash Upadhyay, held court, deeming himself the sole guardian of history’s sacred trust. His chair was not a chair at all, but a splintered throne, upon which he sat in such a manner as a king might survey his hapless subjects. His beard, a veritable thicket of whiskers, had, over the course of decades, crept into the very folds of his belly, much like the public funds meant for the people’s welfare had been absorbed into some bottomless, unseen coffer. To him, progress was merely the act of penning the word ‘Progress’ upon a file, and then, most dutifully, taking up his position upon it, as a serpent upon a stolen hoard. “Hark, you young ruffians of today!” he would wheeze, his voice a gravelly protest against the very air he breathed, “In my time, we would fetch the files ourselves, we would carry them ourselves, and yet we were blessed with the good sense to retire only after twenty-five long years of faithful service, whilst you, in your indolent fashion, mewl and moan for but one solitary document.” There resided in his eyes a peculiar glimmer, a flicker of malevolent delight, born only when the light of a young man’s hope was extinguished. Upon his desk, beneath a thick, suffocating blanket of dust, lay a file grandly titled, ‘The Solar Energy Irrigation Scheme.’ He presided over it with the solemnity of a bygone potentate, as though it were not a public document, but a priceless, long-lost treasure. He neither understood nor needed the contents of said file; his sole purpose was the display of his authority through the mere act of sitting upon it. “The youth of this generation, with their social media crusades and their fleeting revolutions, find their tongues tied when faced with true authority,” he would proclaim, polishing a long-neglected lantern whose glass was as clouded as his own benighted mind.

Gathered about this venerated file were three such “poor horses,” though calling them mere horses would be a disservice to the noble creature; nay, they were the educated unemployed of the village. Their names, I must tell you, were Suresh, the farmer with a dream; Ramesh, the engineer with a degree; and Mahesh, the artist with a heart full of yearning. For months, they had made a pilgrimage to the Panchayat Bhavan, dedicating the vibrant energy of their youth and the fire of their every aspiration to the altar of Gyanprakash’s dusty table. Their speech, filled with the modern vernacular of the corporate world, sounded to Gyanprakash like some unholy foreign tongue. “Blimey, this file holds the entire scripture of our future,” Suresh would lament, a look of profound despair upon his face, “but the script, alas, is of a terrible, terrible horror film, with a most tragic ending.” Ramesh, with a wry smile, would pour out the anguish of his soul, “It is the very case of the dog in the manger, is it not? Gyanprakash will not partake of the plan himself, nor will he suffer us to do so.” Upon hearing such words, Gyanprakash would swell with a righteous indignation. “Hark! What dog? What manger? You have rendered our most holy tongue a common farce. Your language, I tell you, is of no home, and of no port,” he would declare, lacing his voice with a bitterness so potent it felt as a direct injection of poison into the listener’s ears. And the poor youths, with their bellies empty and their hearts hollowed out by a great chasm of hopelessness, could do naught but stare. Their laughter, their dreams, their very hopes, were interred beneath that dusty, wretched file. All they begged for was a single opportunity, a chance to prove their worth. But in the land of Gyanprakash, the word ‘chance’ did not exist; there were only two specters, ‘Ignorance’ and ‘Arrogance,’ who would, with monstrous glee, feast upon every nascent flight of fancy.

One day, with a courage born of pure desperation, Suresh stood before Gyanprakash and addressed him directly, “Mr. Gyanprakash, we are all educated folk! We possess degrees in engineering and a thorough knowledge of agriculture. Should this ‘Solar Energy Irrigation Scheme’ file be processed, our village may yet see a revolution in farming!” Upon hearing this, Gyanprakash’s half-shut eyes creaked open, as a rusty, ancient gate might groan open after decades of disuse. His face contorted with such an expression as though Suresh had revealed some terrible secret. “Hah! So you are educated? How am I to know this? You come here and merely idle away your precious time. Of what use is your education? My education was naught but the knowledge of the alphabet, and yet I understood the ways of the world. You, sir, are but a bookworm, a mere slave to the printed page!” he would mock, with a disdainful flick of his hand. “And what, pray tell, would you do with this file? It is a government file, a sacred trust, what would you do with such a thing?” he would ask, as if the file were a private estate bequeathed to him by his ancestors. To him, the file was but a symbol, a testament to his power, his influence, his very existence. He cared not a whit for what was written inside, nor what glorious scheme it detailed. It was enough that the file was in his possession, and that no one else could lay claim to it. His eyes, I must confess, held the very same demonic sparkle as a child’s when he hides his piggy bank, even if it contains not a single farthing. And thus, Gyanprakash’s cruel posture slowly but surely shattered the piggy banks of those young men’s dreams, which had contained nothing but air to begin with, and now, even that air was escaping into the bitter, cold night.

The reason for Gyanprakash’s bizarre conduct was a matter of no logic or earthly sense. It was merely a facet of his very being—a part of him that compelled him to say ‘nay’ to every single thing. He derived a profound sense of satisfaction from the fact that someone, anyone, was listening to him, that someone was begging him for a favour. In his mind’s eye, the youths who sought a path to their livelihood were but the ‘side heroes’ in the grand, sweeping epic of his life. He took great pleasure in the notion that he was the ‘hero’ of his own story, and that all others were merely ‘extras.’ “I am keeping this file for my grandson,” he declared one day to Ramesh, who had just returned from the city with a new, brightly-coloured mobile phone. “When my grandson comes of age, he will read this file and understand the grand schemes our government devises.” In truth, his grandson had not yet drawn his first breath. And yet, his lie, a most magnificent and brazen falsehood, lent a terrible weight to his arrogant words. He was perfectly content in his own imaginary world, a kingdom where he was the monarch and all others his humble subjects. He was the master of an empire in which there was no ‘circle of life,’ but a ‘circle of influence.’ To maintain this influence, he would stoop to any depth. “Why do you hunger for this employment? Find some labour, till the fields, do honest work. These files give you nothing but false hope,” he would lecture. He had forgotten, peradventure, that one day his own grandson might find himself wandering from door to door, begging for a file, only to be met by a Gyanprakash just like him. But this was a truth he could not, would not, comprehend, for all he loved was his power, his arrogance, and the influence of his ‘beard in the belly.’

The youths’ patience, I am heartbroken to report, was now on the precipice of a terrible fall. They had, up to this point, employed every tactic imaginable to sway Gyanprakash. Some had touched his feet, others had sung praises to his glory, and one even bestowed upon him the title of the city’s ‘superstar.’ But Gyanprakash’s arrogance was a stone of the most ancient variety, upon which no word or deed could leave a mark. His pronouncements were like the dialogue of some forgotten, black-and-white film, bearing no relevance to the world of today. “You are as a father to us, Gyanprakash ji,” Mahesh had said one day, in a desperate act of reverence. “Please bless us so that we may stand upon our own two feet.” Gyanprakash, with a flick of his hand, had cut him off immediately. “Do not use your cinema-drivel upon me. I am not a ‘father,’ I am a representative of the government. And I give you no blessing, but a ‘right,’ to come and go from this place as you please.” His sarcasm was a blow more wounding than a sword’s edge. Every word he uttered was a taunt, a jest that would draw not laughter, but tears. “I am merely guarding this file,” he would say, “lest some rascal or thief make off with it.” Upon hearing this, Ramesh had rested his head against the wall, a hollow look in his eyes. He could not comprehend how a man could so thoroughly deceive himself. The file was more than a treasure; it contained not only the youths’ dreams, but the hopes of their families, the medicines for their ailing mothers, and the school fees of their younger siblings. But Gyanprakash cared not a jot for any of this. He only loved his chair, his table, and his dusty file.

Slowly, but with a terrible certainty, the weight of this despair began to crush the youths’ spirits. Suresh, who had once dreamt of becoming a farmer and bringing a new agricultural revolution to the village, now toiled as a daily wage laborer on a city construction site. His mind, his knowledge, his immense strength, were now limited to hauling bricks and lifting bags of cement. One day, whilst he worked, an old friend asked, “Suresh, what became of your agricultural studies?” Suresh merely smiled. His smile was a mask of pain, of profound disappointment, and of a defeat so absolute it left no room for tears. On the other hand, Mahesh, the artist, had taken to drowning his art in drink. Where once there were colours, there was now a deep, abyssal blackness. “A single file buried so many dreams; one Gyanprakash ruined so many lives,” his painted lament became famous throughout the city, yet no one understood it. No one praised his art, no one felt his pain. All these tragedies were unfolding around Gyanprakash, but he remained utterly oblivious. He still sat upon his throne, staring at his dusty file, muttering to himself, “The youth of today is so naive; they want everything ready-made.”

Then, one day, the dam of patience finally broke, and Ramesh, gathering every ounce of his remaining strength, confronted Gyanprakash. “Mr. Gyanprakash,” he cried, his voice trembling, “why do you do this? Why do you not allow this file to move forward? We are starving, our families are starving!” Tears streamed down Ramesh’s face, but Gyanprakash, ignoring them completely, retorted, “Do not play-act this drama before me. I have seen thousands of these ‘film heroes,’ who weep and wail at first, only to do anything for their own selfish interests.” Upon hearing this, Ramesh’s tears dried up. In their place, his eyes held a strange, terrible fire, such as might be seen before a volcano erupts. “You are that dog who sits in the manger and will not let the horses eat hay!” Ramesh declared. But Gyanprakash did not take this seriously. He thought it a new, odd idiom invented by the children of today. “What is this ‘dog dog’ you speak of? Do you call me a dog? I am a respected citizen of the government! And this file, this is my private property!” Gyanprakash’s face turned a furious red, like a boiled tomato. He clutched the file tightly to his chest, as a child might clutch a precious toy. “Now, all of you, get out of here, and let me live in peace!” His words shattered the youths’ hearts like a pane of glass, scattering their hopes and dreams to the wind. They all left in a mournful silence, their eyes no longer holding tears, but a deep, terrible, and painful emptiness.

After that day, a great and terrible silence descended upon the Panchayat Bhavan. Suresh’s father, the farmer, despairing after a failed crop, took his own life. Ramesh, with a heavy heart, left the village forever. And Mahesh, one tragic night, was found dead beside one of his own painful paintings, having succumbed to drink. The solar energy scheme was never spoken of again in the village. Gyanprakash, however, still sat upon his throne, with the dusty file in his lap. He was happy. He felt that he had shown these ‘incompetent’ youths their rightful place. There was no more noise, no more fuss, no one asked him for anything. There was peace. The file’s name, ‘Solar Energy Irrigation Scheme,’ was eventually changed to ‘Clean Village Campaign.’ In truth, the file was a waste management project that could have given those youths employment and cleaned up the entire village. But because of Gyanprakash’s ‘sitting,’ no waste was cleaned, no one found a job, and the youths’ lives were terribly lost. Gyanprakash sits upon that file to this very day. The beard in his belly has grown even longer, but he feels no remorse. In his eyes, there is still that same demonic glimmer, the glimmer of a man who has accomplished nothing himself, and has prevented others from doing anything either. And the most heartbreaking truth of all is that there are many Gyanprakashes like him, still sitting upon such files, ruining the world. This thought, my friends, causes not just the eyes to weep, but the very soul to cry out in anguish

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

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.

Some precious moments of life

1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
2. Honoured with Oscar, Grammy, Jnanpith, Sahitya Akademi, Dadasaheb Phalke, Padma Bhushan and many other awards by the most revered Gulzar sahab (Sampurn Singh Kalra), the lighthouse of the world of literature and cinema, during the Sahitya Suman Samman held in Mumbai.
3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
5. Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.

Today we present his satire Kismatchand and the Bureaucratic Beast.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 56 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Kismatchand and the Bureaucratic Beast… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

In days of yore, when kings held sway and slaves were but their chattels, so too existed in this modern age of liberty, souls truly enslaved by the ‘System,’ their lives no less burdened than those in chains. Among these ‘System-afflicted’ stood our very own Mr. Kismatchand. His existence, alas, was no different from that of a ‘circus lion,’ condemned to dance daily within the confines of its cage, at the mere flick of a trainer’s whip. Rise with the sun, trudge to the office, lose oneself in a labyrinth of papers, and return home, weary and spent, as dusk descended. This was his daily ‘act.’ His ‘freedom,’ such as it was, extended only to choosing which queue to join for bill payments, or before which petty clerk to grovel. The ‘tyranny’ he endured was not trifling. One day, an exorbitant electricity bill would arrive; the next, the water meter would spin with unprecedented zeal; and then, in the hallowed halls of government offices, demands for ‘pure ghee’ would arise under the guise of ‘tea and refreshments.’ Kismatchand’s very being was tormented by this ‘System.’ One day, however, the cup of his endurance overflowed. The public tap in his neighbourhood ceased its flow, and when he ventured forth to complain, the clerk regarded him as if he sought not water, but the moon and stars themselves. It was then, in that very moment, that Kismatchand resolved, “Enough of this deference! I shall seek refuge in the ‘jungle’!” His ‘jungle’ was that desolate patch of land beyond the city’s sprawl, where no government office stood, no clerk held court, naught but dust and silence reigned. He imagined, at the very least, no ‘System’ would exist there, no ‘mechanism’ to measure his every breath. He fled, yes, truly fled, like a ‘liberated bird’ from its cage, little knowing that even ‘jungles’ had, by then, become ‘governmental property.’

Upon reaching that ‘wilderness,’ which he, in his innocence, deemed a ‘jungle,’ Kismatchand discovered a ‘lion’ already in residence. This was no ordinary beast, but a ‘Bureaucratic Beast’ – a colossal, decrepit, and dust-laden ‘government department’ office, its roof perpetually leaking, its walls stained with the indelible marks of ‘bribes.’ This ‘Beast’ lay gasping its last, for ‘files’ were ensnared in its claws, and the ‘red tape’ had tightened its grip around its very throat. The ‘Bureaucratic Beast’ repeatedly lifted its ‘paw,’ as if pleading, “Would someone, for pity’s sake, advance my ‘file’!” Kismatchand, at first, was seized by fear. “Good heavens!” he thought, “A ‘Bureaucratic Beast’ even here?” But then, a ‘peculiar compassion’ stirred within him. “Well,” he mused, “at least this ‘Beast’ isn’t hungry; its ‘stomach’ is merely bloated with ‘papers.'” He cautiously approached the ‘Beast.’ In the Beast’s ‘paw’ was not a ‘thorn,’ but a ‘thick file of scandal,’ which no one dared to touch. Kismatchand pondered, “Perhaps, if I assist it, it might not devour me, but rather bestow upon me a ‘government post’!” He summoned his courage and attempted to extricate that ‘scandalous file.’ The file was so ancient that a cloud of dust erupted upon contact. He dusted it, wiped it, and somehow undertook the daunting task of conveying it to the ‘correct desk.’ This was no trifling endeavour, for upon every desk, ‘serpents of red tape’ lay coiled, ready to strike.

Kismatchand commenced the arduous task of tending to this ‘Bureaucratic Beast.’ This ‘tending’ entailed conveying that ‘scandalous file’ from one desk to another, offering ‘tea and refreshments’ to every clerk, and bowing in ‘servile deference’ before every ‘officer.’ For many days, he strove to keep that ‘file’ alive, much like a ‘physician’ attending to a ‘dying patient.’ At times, he would ‘deposit’ the ‘file’ in the ‘registry,’ and at others, he would ‘resuscitate’ it in the ‘dispatch section.’ Through this ‘care,’ the ‘Bureaucratic Beast’ found a measure of ‘respite.’ That ‘file,’ which had languished for years, advanced by a mere ‘inch’! This, for the ‘Bureaucratic Beast,’ was nothing short of a ‘miracle.’ In ‘gratitude,’ the ‘Bureaucratic Beast’ began to ‘lick Kismatchand’s hand.’ This ‘hand-licking’ signified that Kismatchand had received a ‘small receipt,’ upon which was inscribed, “Your complaint shall be considered.” This receipt, to him, was worth more than a ‘Nobel Prize.’ Then, the ‘Bureaucratic Beast’ quietly retreated into its ‘lair,’ meaning that the ‘file’ once again vanished into some ‘dark corner,’ but Kismatchand, at least, possessed a ‘receipt’! He thought, “Hark! At long last, I have accomplished a ‘government task,’ however trivial!” His chest swelled with pride, as if he had conquered some formidable ‘Everest.’

Meanwhile, the ‘soldiers’ of ‘His Excellency, the Honourable ‘Development Man” – that is to say, the ‘clerks’ of the ‘Vigilance Department’ and the ‘vultures of the media’ – were in hot pursuit of Kismatchand. For Kismatchand had dared to ‘rectify’ the ‘Bureaucratic Beast’s’ ‘file’ through ‘improper means,’ and this, for the ‘System,’ was an ‘unpardonable offence.’ To attempt to ‘correct’ the ‘System’ was, in itself, a violation of the ‘System’s’ very rules! At last, one day, Kismatchand was apprehended. He was brought before ‘His Excellency, the Honourable ‘Development Man’.’ The ‘Development Man’ was exceedingly displeased. Lines of ‘fury,’ rather than ‘development,’ furrowed his brow. He thundered, “Cast this ‘System-breaker’ before the ‘hungry lion’!” This ‘hungry lion’ was none other than the ‘court of public opinion,’ where ‘media trials’ were conducted and ‘memes’ were spawned on ‘social media.’ This ‘lion’ was hungry because it craved a ‘new prey’ each day, a ‘new issue’ upon which to sink its ‘fangs.’ Kismatchand thought, “Alas! I merely advanced a ‘file,’ and now my own ‘file’ is to be closed!” He began to regret his ‘compassion.’ He lamented, “Would that I had left that ‘Bureaucratic Beast’ to its own devices; then, I would not face this grim day!”

On the day Kismatchand was to be cast before the ‘hungry lion,’ the entire ‘populace’ of ‘Rome’ – meaning the city’s ‘largest auditorium’ – had gathered. This ‘populace’ comprised ‘media persons,’ ‘social media influencers,’ and sundry ‘idle folk’ who sought a ‘free spectacle.’ Before all, Kismatchand was thrown into the ‘cage’ of the ‘hungry lion.’ The ‘cage’ was none other than the encirclement of ‘media cameras,’ and the ‘hungry lion’ was the ‘public’s wrath,’ which the ‘media’ had assiduously fanned. Kismatchand trembled with fear. He saw not ‘death,’ but ‘disgrace’ staring him in the face. He thought, “Alas, my ‘reputation’ is about to be ‘cremated’!” He began to invoke ‘God,’ and simultaneously, all those ‘clerks’ and ‘officers’ who had ‘stalled’ his ‘file.’ The ‘lion’ – that is to say, the ‘media’ – advanced towards Kismatchand. ‘Cameras’ zoomed in on him, ‘microphones’ were thrust before his mouth, and ‘reporters’ posed questions as if he were some ‘international criminal.’ Kismatchand was drenched in perspiration. In his terror, he squeezed his eyes shut. But what was this? Instead of ‘devouring’ Kismatchand, the ‘lion’ – that is to say, the ‘media’ – began to ‘lick his hand.’ This ‘hand-licking’ signified that an ‘old reporter,’ who once hailed from Kismatchand’s ‘neighbourhood,’ had recognized him and, removing his ‘microphone,’ whispered, “Kismatchand! Is that truly you? You were the one who advanced that ‘government department’s’ ‘file,’ which had stalled my ‘pension’!” The Emperor was astonished, the entire populace was astonished, and Kismatchand himself was equally so.

At length, Kismatchand comprehended that, surely, this was none other than the very ‘Bureaucratic Beast’ whose ‘ailing state’ he had ‘tended.’ That ‘old reporter’ from the ‘media’ was, in fact, a ‘representative’ of that very ‘government department’ whose ‘file’ Kismatchand had advanced. He had recognized Kismatchand because the advancement of that ‘single file’ had led to the approval of the reporter’s ‘pension.’ He, too, began to ‘caress’ Kismatchand and ‘pat his back,’ meaning he began to ‘praise’ Kismatchand on ‘live telecast.’ He declared, “This is the man who endeavoured to ‘correct’ the ‘System,’ while the ‘System’ itself seeks to brand him ‘wrong’!” Witnessing this, ‘His Excellency, the Honourable ‘Development Man” commanded his ‘soldiers’ to remove Kismatchand from the ‘cage.’ The ‘Development Man’ mused, “Ah! This is ‘positive publicity’! Let us capitalize on it!” He inquired of Kismatchand, “What did you do that the ‘lion’ – that is to say, the ‘media’ – instead of ‘devouring’ you, began to ‘lick your hand’?” The ‘Development Man’s’ face now bore a ‘smile’ instead of ‘fury,’ for elections loomed, and a ‘positive image’ was paramount. Kismatchand recounted the ‘jungle incident’ and pleaded, “Your Excellency, when the ‘Bureaucratic Beast’ – that is to say, that ‘department’ – was ‘ailing,’ I tended to it for but a few days. Because of this ‘benevolence,’ it did not ‘devour’ me, but rather ‘praised’ me. Yet, I have served your ‘System’ for years, paid my ‘taxes,’ abided by your ‘rules,’ and despite all this, you sought to take my ‘life’!”

‘His Excellency, the Honourable ‘Development Man”s ‘heart softened.’ His ‘heart,’ being made of paper, had become somewhat pliable in the downpour of ‘publicity.’ He ‘freed’ Kismatchand and also ‘released’ the ‘Bureaucratic Beast’ – that is to say, that ‘department’ – into the ‘jungle.’ This ‘freedom’ meant that Kismatchand did not regain his ‘old job,’ but was instead appointed an ‘honorary member’ of the ‘System Reform Committee.’ ‘Honorary’ meant ‘without remuneration,’ implying that he would now ‘reform the System’ for ‘free’! And ‘releasing the Bureaucratic Beast into the jungle’ meant that the ‘department’ was ‘closed down,’ for it had been operating at a ‘loss.’ Kismatchand thought, “Hark! The very ‘Beast’ I ‘cured’ has been ‘closed down’! What became of my efforts?” Tears welled in his eyes. He had gained ‘freedom,’ but that ‘freedom’ was akin to an ’empty cage.’ He lamented, “Would that I had remained a slave; at least then, I would have had ‘bread’!” The ‘Development Man’ patted him on the back and declared, “Go forth, Kismatchand, from this day, you are ‘free’! And remember, continue to ‘contribute’ to ‘System reform’!” Kismatchand observed that the ‘Bureaucratic Beast’s’ ‘office’ had now transformed into a ‘ruin.’ His ‘efforts’ had turned to dust.

Kismatchand was now ‘free,’ yet his ‘freedom’ was akin to that of an ‘orphan child,’ burdened with ‘responsibility’ but devoid of ‘support.’ He attended meetings of the ‘System Reform Committee,’ where, besides ‘tea and biscuits,’ nothing of substance was ever gained. His ‘positive publicity,’ too, soon became ‘old news.’ No longer was he hailed as a ‘hero,’ but rather dismissed as a ‘useless social worker.’ He gazed upon the ‘ruins’ of that ‘Bureaucratic Beast,’ where once he had advanced a ‘file.’ He recalled how that ‘Beast’ had, in ‘gratitude,’ ‘licked his hand.’ Today, that ‘hand’ was empty, and in his ‘heart’ lay a ‘deep wound.’ He lamented, “I performed a ‘good deed,’ and in ‘return,’ I received ‘unemployment’! I hoped for ‘gratitude,’ and in ‘return,’ I received ‘mockery’!” Tears streamed from his eyes, but these were not tears of ‘sorrow,’ but of ‘satire.’ He regretted why he had committed the ‘sin’ of ‘reforming’ the ‘System.’ The ‘System’ had ‘freed’ him, but the price of ‘freedom’ was so ‘exorbitant’ that he could not ‘pay’ it. A ‘sigh’ escaped him, “Would that I had remained in that ‘jungle,’ where at least the ‘lion’ was ‘real,’ not ‘bureaucratic’!” This ‘tale’ teaches us that ‘compassion’ is a noble quality, but in the ‘governmental system,’ the ‘fruits’ of ‘compassion’ are often ‘bitter.’ And ‘gratitude’? Alas, it languishes, gathering ‘dust’ in ‘government files,’ until some ‘new scandal’ deigns to ‘unearth’ it. Kismatchand was now ‘free,’ but ‘freedom’ had left him more ‘alone’ than any ‘cage.’ His ‘story’ still echoes through the ‘corridors’ of the ‘System’ today, a ‘poignant satire.’

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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

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.

Some precious moments of life

1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
2. Honoured with Oscar, Grammy, Jnanpith, Sahitya Akademi, Dadasaheb Phalke, Padma Bhushan and many other awards by the most revered Gulzar sahab (Sampurn Singh Kalra), the lighthouse of the world of literature and cinema, during the Sahitya Suman Samman held in Mumbai.
3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
5. Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.

Today we present his satire Democracy’s Lament: A Village’s Woes.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 55 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Democracy’s Lament: A Village’s Woes… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

Ah, Rampurwa! A name that, in days gone by, would conjure visions of village squares brimming with honesty and an almost pastoral simplicity. Where the first blush of dawn saw ploughs cleaving the earth, and the twilight hours gathered the elders on the chaupal, their wisdom a balm to every dispute. The tale of its very first panchayat election, a distant echo from a purer time, still kindles a faint, melancholic glow in the eyes of old Bhabua Kaka. “Oh, my child,” he would sigh, his voice a whisper from a bygone era, “those were the days! Candidates, with hands clasped in humble supplication, would go from door to door, pledging their ‘service,’ their only offering the ‘sweat of their brow’ and an unblemished ‘integrity.'” In that golden age, the ‘people’ were the masters, and the ‘leaders’ their devoted servants. The assembly? It was naught but a ‘temple,’ a hallowed space where every matter was subjected to ‘deliberation,’ never mere ‘dispute.’ Character, not the paltry sum declared on a character certificate, was the true measure of a man. A vote then was a ‘blessing,’ a sacred trust; now, alas, it has transmogrified into a mere ‘offer,’ a transactional trifle. They once vowed, “We shall lay down our lives for you,” and indeed, they did. Today’s leaders, with a chilling irony, declare, “We shall lay down your lives,” and, by Jove, they often do! Then, a leader was a ‘servant’; now, he is a ‘saving account.’ In that era, should a candidate suffer defeat, the villagers would console him, “Fret not, my son, serve us again next time.” Today, should one fall, the retort is a cynical shrug, “Never mind, spend more ‘money’ next time.” That was a time when politics was a ‘faith,’ and politicians, veritable ‘saints.’ Now, politics is but a ‘trade,’ and its practitioners, mere ‘traders.’

Yet, as the wise old adage goes, ‘decay’ does not descend in a single, thunderous clap; it creeps in, slow and insidious, like the relentless termite gnawing at the very heart of timber. In Rampurwa, the first faint tremor of this transformation was felt when, alongside the customary ‘tea and water,’ ‘sweet boxes’ began to make their surreptitious appearance. Initially, these were tokens of ‘affection,’ then symbols of ‘influence,’ and finally, the blatant instruments of ‘temptation.’ Those very leaders, who once traversed the village’s dusty, unpaved paths with bare feet, now arrived in gleaming ‘SUVs,’ raising clouds of dust in their wake, a visible testament to their newfound prosperity. Their humble ‘bicycles’ had yielded to the imposing ‘Scorpios,’ and their ‘plain kurtas’ were replaced by ‘colourful shawls’ of ostentatious weave. When ‘public service’ mutated into ‘self-service,’ no one could precisely pinpoint the moment of this dark alchemy. Once, ‘development’ signified a village road, a school, or a hospital; now, it denotes the leader’s sprawling ‘mansion’ and his burgeoning ‘bank balance.’ The day the first victorious candidate chose to distribute ‘liquor bottles’ instead of traditional sweets, Bhabua Kaka clutched his head in despair. “What, pray tell, is happening?” he had whispered, his voice laced with profound sorrow. “This is no longer ‘democracy’; it is ‘demon-cracy,’ where the populace is ensnared in a ‘tantra’ to be ‘looted.'” A vote, once a sacred ‘blessing,’ had now become a vulgar ‘offer.’ The age when leaders spoke of ‘sacrifice’ had long passed; now, they merely threatened ‘resignation’ should their ‘demands’ remain unfulfilled.

Then dawned the ignominious reign of ‘Limping Lakhan.’ Lakhan, a figure of considerable notoriety in the village for his sheer ‘brutality,’ a man who had never darkened the doors of a school, now aspired to be the ‘headman’ of the ‘Panchayat.’ He possessed no eloquence, no grand speeches, only a formidable ‘cudgel’ and eyes that glowed with a chilling ‘red.’ ‘Persuasion’ and ‘conciliation’ had become relics of a forgotten age; now, only ‘threats’ and ‘suppression’ held sway. Votes were no longer garnered by ‘appeal’ but by sheer ‘terror.’ The ballot box, that venerable symbol of democratic choice, had been usurped by the ‘bullet box.’ No soul in the village dared to voice ‘dissent,’ for to ‘oppose’ Lakhan meant, quite literally, the ‘extinction’ of the ‘opponent’s’ very ‘existence.’ Bhabua Kaka bore witness to the tragic spectacle of his simple, guileless villagers, who once trembled before the ‘Almighty,’ now cowering in abject fear before ‘Lakhan.’ Once, there was ‘voting’; now, there was ‘fist-casting.’ Lakhan would declare, with a menacing grin, “Vote for me, and there shall be ‘development’; refuse, and there shall be ‘destruction.'” And the villagers knew, with a chilling certainty, just how ‘precise’ his ‘destruction’ could be. No longer was it ‘the people,’ but a mere ‘multitude,’ herded like ‘sheep and goats’ to their predetermined fate.

And then, with a cynical regularity, arrived the ‘season of transfers,’ a period that proved far more ‘profitable’ for Rampurwa than even the bountiful ‘monsoon.’ The village accountant, the police inspector, nay, even the schoolmaster—all became ‘commodities for sale.’ Every ‘posting’ bore a discernible ‘rate card,’ openly discussed at the village tea stall as if it were the price of vegetables. “Oh, brother, you desire the transfer of that particular accountant? Ten lakhs, if you please!” “And the inspector? Twenty lakhs!” Such transactions were bandied about with the casual air of haggling over cabbages. The common man, who once trudged tirelessly through the labyrinthine corridors of bureaucracy for his paltry affairs, now found himself entangled in the web of ‘middlemen.’ ‘Service’ had been unceremoniously supplanted by ‘setting.’ Bhabua Kaka once overheard the lament of a poor farmer, who, after months of futile efforts to secure his land documents, was ultimately forced to proffer a ‘bribe’—a sum he had painstakingly saved for his daughter’s wedding. The farmer, tears streaming down his weathered face, had cried out, “Sir, ‘development’ now means the development of the ‘pocket,’ and ‘schemes’ are but ‘plans’ for ‘plunder.'” This, indeed, was a brand of politics where ‘integrity’ held no sway, only ‘incentives’ reigned supreme.

The village’s Gram Sabha meetings, once the vibrant epicentres of ‘discourse’ on Rampurwa’s future, had, by this lamentable juncture, devolved into a grotesque ‘circus.’ The microphones, instead of amplifying ‘issues,’ reverberated with crude ‘expletives,’ and ‘debates’ frequently escalated into unseemly ‘brawls.’ The Sarpanch, once the venerable ‘head of the village,’ had been reduced to a hapless ‘referee’ in an arena of chaos, blowing his whistle in futile desperation. On one memorable occasion, during a heated discussion concerning the ‘water problem,’ a politician, in a fit of pique, hurled a ‘water bottle’ at his adversary. In the assembly, ‘debate’ was no more; it was a ‘buffalo-like’ brawl, devoid of reason or decorum. Bhabua Kaka would often remark, “Once, ‘leaders’ thought; now, they merely ‘shriek.'” The villagers, who once attended the Gram Sabha with a glimmer of hope, now came solely for ‘entertainment,’ eager to witness who would ‘trounce’ whom on any given day. The slogan of ‘service to the nation’ had been perverted into ‘the nation serving them,’ as leaders busied themselves solely in their own aggrandizement.

The village tea stall, once a humble haven for idle chatter, had, by a cruel twist of fate, become the ‘true parliament’ of Rampurwa. It was there that the common folk would gather, to rail against the ‘government,’ to heap curses upon their ‘leaders,’ and to weep silently over their ‘destiny.’ “Oh, brother,” one would exclaim, “these leaders are like a ‘dog’s tail,’ never to be straightened!” Another would add, with a bitter laugh, “They deserve ‘shoes,’ not ‘votes’!” Yet, these fervent declarations remained confined to the tea stall’s humble confines. When election time inevitably arrived, these very same individuals, with a chilling predictability, would barter their ‘future’ for a bottle of ‘liquor’ and a paltry ‘fifteen hundred rupees.’ The media, too, played its part, sensationalizing these ‘spectacles’ as ‘breaking news,’ yet offering no tangible ‘solutions.’ The populace, once casting ‘votes,’ now merely mourned their collective ‘fate.’ They knew, with a crushing certainty, that ‘change’ would never come, for those who were meant to bring ‘change’ had themselves ‘changed,’ irrevocably. This, indeed, was an era when ‘democracy’ had become a cruel ‘jest,’ and the people, the unwitting ‘objects of ridicule.’

One day, old Ram Pyari, her back bowed by the weight of years and her eyes brimming with the ‘suffering’ of a lifetime, came to the Gram Sabha, seeking her pension and medical aid. Wiping her eyes with the tattered corner of her sari, she pleaded, “Government, I have no one. A little help would mean so much…” But her frail voice was swallowed by the ‘uproar’ of the assembly. One leader dismissed her as a ‘drama queen,’ another waved her away as a relic of ‘bygone times.’ Her desperate ‘need’ was callously transformed into a ‘political weapon.’ “Oh, give this old woman her pension, so we can secure votes in the next election!” a leader bellowed, his words devoid of all humanity. Old Ram Pyari simply watched, her eyes reflecting not ‘hope,’ but profound ‘tears.’ She sank to the ground, and the tears that streamed from her eyes bore silent witness to the ‘plunging depths’ of ‘democracy’s’ decline. The leaders’ pockets were stuffed with ‘notes,’ but their hearts held no ‘principles.’ On that day, Bhabua Kaka, for the very first time, felt ‘tears’ welling in his own eyes. They were not the tears of old Ram Pyari; they were the ‘tears’ for that ‘Rampurwa,’ which had, by now, tragically transformed into ‘Ravanpurwa.’

Today, a profound ‘peace’ has settled upon Rampurwa, but it is the chilling ‘peace of a graveyard.’ No ‘debates’ now disturb the air, for there is no one left to ‘debate.’ The spirit of ‘sacrifice’ had long been ‘abandoned,’ and now, only the ‘mission’ of ‘acquisition’ remains. Bernard Shaw, with his characteristic cynicism, once declared, “Politics is the last refuge of a scoundrel.” In Rampurwa, alas, the ‘scoundrel’ had not merely sought refuge; he had seized ‘the entire mansion.’ The dreams of ‘freedom fighters,’ the noble ideals of ‘Gandhiji,’ all had been trampled into the ‘dust.’ ‘Service to the nation’ has now become a mere ‘career,’ wherein ‘gain’ is the sole and ‘primary objective.’ When men like Dr. Shankardayal Sharma wept in Parliament, in Rampurwa, men like Bhabua Kaka wept silently in the solitude of their homes. The tears that flowed from their eyes were falling upon the ‘funeral procession’ of ‘democracy.’ Once, there was ‘revolution’; now, there is only ‘demise.’ And upon this ‘demise,’ alas, nothing remains but to weep.

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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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