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 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.

****

© 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 Chips, Clicks, and the Cry of Empty Pockets.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 54 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Chips, Clicks, and the Cry of Empty Pockets… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

Now, I reckon it was a balmy Hyderabad evening, as balmy as a politician’s promise on election eve, and there I was, a poor soul, traipsing through the labyrinthine alleys of the city, searching for a chip-set for my infernal smart-contraption. Started my pilgrimage at five bells, and by eight, my spirits were as low as a snake’s belly in a ditch. This here Hyderabad, it seemed to have declared a holy war on ‘technological contentment’. The tech-parks were disgorging human beings like a leaky faucet, and the fancy gadget shops, these vegan eating-houses, and these ‘co-working’ dens were packed tighter than a sardine can on a monsoon evening. The online gaming parlors, well, they had young’uns glued to ’em like flies to a honey pot, their futures, if you can call ’em that, gambled away on glowing screens. And my chip-set? Ha! That elusive little bugger was probably holed up in some dark corner of the internet, waiting for its price to soar higher than a balloon at a carnival, much like a startup investor waiting for his golden goose to lay an egg.

I mused, in this digital purgatory, perhaps a cup of organic green tea might just cleanse my weary soul. So, I ambled into a ‘hip’ café, but lo and behold, peace was as scarce as common sense at a political rally! My inner ‘social media influencer’—a beast I usually keep chained in the basement of my conscience—awoke with a start, ready to churn out ‘reels’ faster than a politician spins lies. It brought to mind ol’ Mark Zuckerberg’s edict: “Move fast and break things.” And by Jove, this chip-set scarcity was surely breaking the back of this city’s ‘fast-growth’ gospel, wasn’t it? A chuckle, dry as a desert bone, escaped my lips. What was I, if not a digital phantom, my online identity stuck in a perpetual ‘buffering’ loop? Was I, too, one of those poor fools trying to buy ‘coding’ with ‘no-code’ tools? Likely so! This city, bless its cotton socks, had a ‘subscription plan’ for everything under the sun, except for the common decency of human compassion. I felt like a bewildered soul lost in some infernal ‘metaverse,’ where every ‘avatar’ was haggling for its worth, and I, a mere ‘user,’ had naught but the relentless ‘scroll’ of my thumb. As I stepped out, a young lad, looking as if he’d been plucked from a ‘digital detox’ clinic, extended a hand, “Master, a data pack, if you please, may your internet flourish!” I swear, if I’d had a ‘gigabyte’ to spare, I’d have given it to him to change his miserable ‘connectivity,’ but all I had was a ‘story,’ a ‘thread,’ and a ‘meme.’

Now, my ‘thinking cloud’ was racing faster than a 5G download, and that young chap’s face was playing a ‘looping GIF’ in my mind’s eye. Twenty-five, maybe thirty years old, skinny as a rail, but with a peculiar ‘no-Wi-Fi’ glint in his eyes. Was he a ‘digital pauper’ or some ‘tech-savvy’ con artist? His threadbare T-shirt and worn-out jeans were mocking the very idea of a ‘smart-casual’ dress code. I fumbled in my pocket, hunting for a ‘five-hundred MB’ pack, felt like an ‘archaeologist’ digging for ‘deleted files’ in some ancient hard drive. When I finally unearthed that paltry ’50 MB plan’ from amidst a heap of leftover data packs, it felt like unearthing ‘data from a lost civilization.’ But when I looked up, the lad was gone! ‘Invisible User’ – I declared myself the accidental inventor of a new ‘cyber-crime’ narrative. Had he truly vanished, or was my ‘data-sharing’ speed so abysmal that he figured, “Bless me, by the time you fire up that ‘hotspot,’ I’ll have begged four more ‘free Wi-Fi’ zones dry!” A ‘battery-low’ icon zipped into a nearby alley, and my brain screamed – ‘Connected!’ It was him, my ‘data-saving-campaign’ hero! “Hey, here’s your data!” I hollered, but he had ‘notification-muted’ himself so thoroughly, it was as if some ‘tech giant’ had decided to ignore user privacy altogether. He slumped onto a large charging station, his back to me, his face buried in his hands. I thought, this ‘user’ ain’t no user, he’s a ‘digital depression’ victim. Elon Musk, he once famously declared, “We are in a future where ‘Teslas’ are driving on roads, but people are still walking.” But this ‘digital’ beggar, he was hiding his ‘disconnection’ like a dirty secret, as if someone had managed to ‘monetize’ his ‘un-plugged’ existence. Was this merely ‘data-hunger,’ or a living, breathing ‘digital satire’ of this very city?

Stepping down from the cafe, I felt like I’d stumbled onto the set of a ‘web-series’ gone wrong. Right there, in the middle of the alley, a young woman, wrapped in broken headphones, a year-old child cradled in her arms, and ‘touch-screen’ tears tracing paths down her face – it was a scene so ‘pixelated’ it made my ‘4K vision’ blur for a spell. She was weeping in ’emoji’ form, as if her tears held all the ‘bugs’ of this sprawling city. I watched as her sobs subsided, and she looked at me like a ‘QR code,’ then bowed, “Sir…” Suddenly, it clicked! This was that ‘content creator’ family I’d met two years back at a workshop, when we were all trying to go ‘viral.’ “Is that your ‘follower’?” I asked, and she, with a ‘yes, sir,’ began to weave her ‘life-story.’ I reckoned, if George Orwell had witnessed this, he might’ve ripped up his next ‘dystopian’ novel and started afresh right there. She was thin as a rail, like a ‘low-battery’ warning, and her husband’s ‘network bars’ were dangling precariously, as if threatening to ‘disconnect’ at any moment. I thought, this ain’t poverty, this is a live demonstration of the ‘digital divide.’ Without needing to ask, I understood their plight. ‘Content creators’ from a ‘tier-2’ town, chasing ‘views’ like a dog chases its tail, and I remembered that first time I saw their ‘low-resolution’ predicament, and my ‘like’ button had cried out in anguish. But now, my ‘heart’ was ‘un-liked,’ a ‘hardware’ so hardened, no ‘software’ could melt it. I figured, in this country, ‘digital destitution’ wasn’t a problem, it was just a ‘trending hashtag,’ and everyone was playing their part to perfection.

“After how many ‘videos’ did this ‘viral’ child come to us? Today, he yearns for a single ‘like.'” The young woman’s words echoed in my ears like the sound of a ‘buffering’ video. I looked at the child, plump as a fresh ‘download,’ but his state was like a ‘growing subscriber’ whose ‘channel’ had suddenly been ‘deleted.’ That ‘low-battery’ little one was sucking his thumb, and it dawned on me that he wasn’t sucking his thumb, but rather, the very ‘digital ethics’ of this society. I transferred a ‘digital transaction’ into her hand, and she took it as if I’d handed her the world’s largest ‘Bitcoin.’ “If there’s any ‘remote’ job, sahib, please get us one. We’ll both ‘freelance,’ we haven’t had ‘Wi-Fi’ connected for three days.” Three days! Good heavens, these folks were dying of ‘digital deprivation’ while I was here crafting ‘memes’! Harishankar Parsai, a wise old bird, once said, “In a country where you have the freedom to curse, you don’t need the freedom to speak the truth.” And I wondered, was I, too, engaged in ‘digital hypocrisy,’ merely for the sake of my ‘keyboard’ clatter? I told her, “Online jobs ain’t easy to come by. But anyway, meet me on ‘LinkedIn’ in a week.” And I handed over my ‘profile.’ The couple looked at me with ‘thank you’ ’emojis,’ but the husband’s face carried a ‘signal-loss’ kind of anguish that words couldn’t possibly capture. His eyes screamed, “I don’t need ‘online charity,’ I need ‘real’ work!” This wasn’t satire; it was an ‘Artificial Intelligence’ ‘glitch’ that had thoroughly scrambled all my ‘algorithms.’ I reckoned, in this country, there’s no ‘virus’ bigger than the ‘digital divide,’ and no ‘software update’ more crucial than ’employment.’

Wandering through the electronics market, my mind drifted back two years, to a time when I was hunting for ‘genuine accessories’ for my new ‘iPhone.’ A ‘fast charging’ hub stood ready, and after tucking my belongings into a ‘digital locker,’ I settled into the ‘experience zone.’ The view outside? On one side, phones with ‘broken screens,’ ‘repair shops,’ and mountains of ‘e-waste’ – a scene straight out of a ‘cyber-crime’ movie, only the ‘multimedia’ colors were a bit faded. On the other side, ‘dated operating system’ gadgets, with kids playing ‘games’ like ‘professional e-sports athletes,’ begging for ‘in-app purchases’ as if their ‘lifetime subscriptions’ depended on it. ‘Users’ who shelled out money for ‘in-game items,’ those kids would ‘hack’ and extract them in a flash. Their ‘pixel-by-pixel’ tapping after money felt like a painful ‘digital entertainment’ to me. I thought, these weren’t just kids; they were ‘data miners,’ diving into the ‘virtual world’ for their ‘bread-and-butter.’ In my ‘pocket Wi-Fi’ section, a ‘tech entrepreneur’ and an ‘influencer’ boarded, looking like ‘business partners.’ They seemed to have come from ‘Cyberabad,’ seeking ‘funding’ with promises. After being ‘hacked’ during a ‘pitching session,’ they were returning to their ‘startup’ in a ‘data-corrupted’ state. Outside the ‘incubator,’ their two ‘angel investors’ stood by, and the entrepreneur offered a ‘five thousand dollar’ ‘check.’ “Only five thousand dollars given… what about the rest?” The investor’s voice was like a ‘venture capitalist’ collecting his ‘equity.’ I thought, these aren’t just investors; they’re ‘digital money launderers’!

“What rest, we agreed on five thousand dollars,” the entrepreneur said, pointing to the ‘CEO’ standing nearby. “These five thousand dollars are fine for me, give him three thousand.” The influencer, standing beside him, chimed in, “…and three thousand dollars? I won’t even give a thousand. It was settled that you’d both get a total of five thousand dollars.” I thought, this wasn’t a ‘startup pitch’; it was a bargain at a ‘black market,’ where ‘equity’ had become a subject of negotiation. Her husband pulled out a thousand dollars and offered it to the other investor. He flatly refused to take it. “If it’s one cent less than three thousand dollars, we won’t take it. They even started returning the first five thousand.” The second investor, with a ‘download-failed’ tone, sneered, “From where will such ‘budget-conscious’ startups become ‘unicorns’?” His words struck me like a ‘ransomware attack.’ The entrepreneur ‘froze,’ and his wife, the influencer, showed rapidly changing ’emojis’ of distress. Suddenly, her ‘battery’ began to ‘overflow.’ Wiping tears with a ‘power bank,’ she cried, “Smash three thousand dollars on his face!” Those two ‘mock-CEOs,’ making money from such a vile act, grinned sheepishly and walked away. The ‘file transfer’ had also started, but her ‘screen’ wouldn’t stop weeping. Her husband tried to ‘debug’ her repeatedly, but she kept crying. In a frantic ‘error-message’ voice, she cried, “Did we come all this way to hear these words from such ‘fake-profile’ people?” I thought, this woman wasn’t just a woman; she was a victim of ‘digital fraud.’ I tried to ‘recover’ her ‘corrupted data’ with a few words, but my interference wasn’t appreciated. After a while, she ‘rebooted.’ I figured, in this country, even ‘Web-3.0’ demands its ‘fees,’ and if the ‘blockchain’ falls short, they threaten with ‘NFTs.’

In Hyderabad, they were ‘tech-workers.’ Both husband and wife worked ‘remotely.’ He wrote ‘code.’ She analyzed ‘data.’ They managed their household on a ‘fixed income,’ saving quite a bit. I thought, these folks were the true face of ‘New-Age India,’ living their ‘digital’ lives independently, without any ‘government schemes.’ They had been married for eight years but were ‘childless.’ The husband was indifferent to this, but the wife couldn’t be. She had been saving money for ‘IVF’ for a year. Although the husband didn’t believe in it, he came along for his wife’s sake. I thought, this wasn’t ‘medical tourism’; it was ‘biotech hope,’ which people sought in ‘clinics.’ From ‘online consultation’ to ‘Hyderabad,’ I kept talking to them. The husband and wife shared a deeply ‘chemical bond’ of love. Both thoroughly enjoyed their ‘digital’ journey. They gave money to every ‘charity link’ that came their way. From ‘delivery’ apps to ‘subscriptions’ and ‘premium features,’ they enjoyed buying everything. I thought, these people knew how to buy ‘happiness’ ‘online,’ even if it was ‘virtual.’ When we bid farewell upon reaching Hyderabad, it felt as if ‘connections’ of many years were now ‘disconnecting.’ I thought, in this country, people ‘follow’ each other as quickly as they ‘unfollow.’ The place where they were sitting was just a ‘Wi-Fi zone’ away. Knowing that at least today they would get food with the money I had ‘UPI’ed them filled me with immense satisfaction. I thought, my ‘digital benevolence’ had come alive, if only for a short while.

Suddenly, a young woman, with ‘scattered pixels’ in her hair, came running towards me, weeping. She stood before me, glaring like a ‘bug.’ I looked back at her, her eyes brimming with ‘errors.’ It was that same ‘content creator.’ “Sir, have you seen my ‘account’? Have you seen my ‘channel’?” “Your ‘account’! The one that was ‘deleted’?” “Yes, that one… someone ‘hacked’ it.” I blurted out, “It won’t go anywhere. Don’t worry, where’s your husband? Let’s report it to the ‘cyber cell’.” Comforting her, I started walking with her towards her ‘IP address.’ It was eight o’clock at night. There was no other ‘software,’ so I bought a ‘connection’ from an ‘expensive foreign VPN’ store and came to her house through the same ‘dark web’ route. There, her husband sat in a deplorable state, his head in his ‘hard disk.’ He looked at me like a ‘Blue Screen of Death.’ “I left the ‘channel’ with them to get ‘cloud storage.’ When I returned, it was gone,” she said. After that, she didn’t stay in front of me. Pounding her ‘mouse’ and ‘keyboard,’ she cried out… “My ‘viral’ child, where have you gone… Ha…” She ran into the ‘alley’ between the ‘phishing sites,’ questioning anyone carrying a ‘recovered account.’ Her wailing and lamenting grew louder and louder. “Let’s report it to the ‘cyber cell’,” I told her husband. “I’ve ‘scanned’ everywhere. I’ve also ‘complained’ to the ‘police’.” After staying there for five minutes, I started walking towards my house. After years of ‘networking,’ a ‘follower’ had been gained. Now, where had it ‘vanished’?” When my wife came to me, holding our son in her ‘tablet,’ I remembered that ‘data-lost’ child and the ‘suffering motherboard.’ I ‘zoomed’ in on the child and kissed him. Two days passed. An ‘app developer’ was shouting from outside. I called out to the ‘app developer’ and went out. The ‘app developer’ was none other than that ‘tech-worker’ from Secunderabad. He had arranged beautiful ‘apps’ in a ‘play store’ basket. Placing the ‘play store’ on a ‘laptop-like’ platform, I began choosing ‘apps.’ His lips trembled, his eyes welled up. “Did you find the ‘account’?” I asked. “It won’t be found.” “Why won’t it be found?” “The ‘account’ wasn’t ‘hacked’; this sinner sold it for fifty ‘dollars’.” “You sold the child’s ‘account’…” He sat on the ‘laptop,’ wiping his eyes, and said, “To save the child, she was ready to go ‘offline’ and die of hunger. Whatever ‘digital content’ she got, she’d give to the child. Even after giving so much, the child’s ‘data’ wasn’t full, sir…” “Then?” “Then I couldn’t find any other ‘loophole’ for income.” “A ‘dark web king’ from outside asked for the child. He promised good ‘profiling.’ Thinking it was for everyone’s good, I sold the ‘account.’ My wife doesn’t know about this.” I sighed. “This sinner sold the child with these very ‘clicks.’ I’m doing ‘app development’ with those very dollars. Every day I earn two-four ‘dollars.’ I’ve told my wife that you gave me money for ‘funding’ the business. If she finds out about selling the child, she’ll ‘system crash’ herself.” “How could your ‘moral algorithm’ allow this…? You got this ‘account’ by seeking ‘funding’ from ‘Cyberabad’?” I asked. Hearing my words, he just kept ‘buffering’ for a long time, as if that ‘loading’ contained every ‘click’ of that child, every ‘tear’ of that mother, and every ‘error’ of that father. I thought, in this world, there’s no ‘virus’ bigger than ‘digital divide,’ and no ‘cyber attack’ bigger than ‘hunger.’ And finally, I could only say, “Oh, ‘online life,’ what a ‘business model’ you have, where a mother’s ‘like’ and a father’s ‘subscription’ are sold in the ‘dark web’!”

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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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