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
- Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
- 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.
- Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
- Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
- Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.
Today we present his Stories – Ramrajya.
☆ Witful Warmth# 89 ☆
☆ Stories ☆ Ramrajya… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
Amidst the dim light and the swirling smoke of a mosquito coil, he sat reviewing files. Sitting continuously on that worn-out government office chair had made his back stiff. His name was Avinash. His designation was Senior Clerk, but his actual role was that of a spineless bonded laborer. Outside, it was raining heavily. The entire city was submerging under water. Floodwaters had breached the shantytowns. People were stranded on roofs, hungry and thirsty. The control room phones were ringing incessantly, and Avinash was mechanically repeating the same rehearsed sentence to every caller: “Relief material is being dispatched, please have patience.”
Just then, his old phone vibrated in his pocket. The screen flashed: MLA Ji (The Legislator).
Startled, Avinash answered the phone immediately. A heavy, commanding voice boomed from the other end, “Listen Avinash, come over to the mansion. There are some urgent documents to sign. And yes, bring that flood relief file along with you.”
Avinash looked outside. The water was knee-deep. There was no means of transport available. But an order was an order. He wrapped the file in a plastic bag, adjusted his torn slippers, and set out on foot. Hunger was causing sharp cramps in his stomach. His own neighborhood was on the verge of drowning. His elderly mother and younger sister were alone at home. He tried calling his mother, but the network was gone. A strange anxiety settled deep in his chest.
After half an hour of struggling through the water, he stood before the massive iron gates of the MLA’s residence. Police guards stood watch outside. The scene inside, however, belonged to an entirely different world—a luxurious lawn, gleaming cars, and the ambient glow of chandeliers.
Avinash was summoned straight into the grand hall.
The moment the door opened, the sight inside turned the hunger in Avinash’s stomach into a bitter knot. A chilly breeze from the air conditioner filled the room. On a massive sofa sat the MLA with a few of his close henchmen. On the central table lay plates of roasted cashews, and expensive whiskey floated in crystal glasses. The room echoed with bursts of laughter. It felt as though this room had absolutely nothing to do with the catastrophe unfolding outside. Truly, Ramrajya (the utopian ideal kingdom) had descended inside the MLA’s mansion.
The MLA looked at Avinash and smiled, “Come in, Avinash. Don’t sit, keep standing. We need to wrap up this work quickly. Hand over that relief fund file.”
With trembling hands, Avinash extended the file forward.
Taking a sip from his glass, the MLA began flipping through the pages of the file. The document detailed exactly which areas of the city required an immediate dispatch of relief materials and food worth five lakh rupees each. The MLA pulled out a pen and began crossing out the names of the neighborhoods where the poor and laborers lived. Instead, he wrote down orders to transfer those funds directly into the bank accounts of his favored contractors.
Avinash could not restrain himself. Gathering his courage, he pleaded, “Sir, the situation in those areas is critical. The water has reached neck-level. If food and rescue boats don’t reach them tonight, many will not survive. My own neighborhood is…”
The MLA measured Avinash from head to toe. His eyes held a terrifying coldness. Slamming his glass down on the table, he said, “Politics is run by equations, Avinash Babu, not by emotions. Those people are not our voters. The government treasury does not open for those who are of no use to us. Leave your ‘clerk-mindset’ back at the office. When you are here, just stamp whatever you are told to.”
Just then, the phone of one of the MLA’s henchmen rang. He listened to the call and burst into laughter, “Bhai sahab, this is golden! The opposition leader who was touring the area on a boat—his boat capsized. The leader has drowned!”
The entire room erupted into roaring laughter. The plate of cashews was pushed forward. The whiskey glasses clinked once more.
Avinash felt darkness clouding his vision. This was no joke; it was a literal celebration of death being observed inside this luxurious room. He felt as though he was standing in a haunted mansion where people smiled after drinking human blood. A horrifying secret had unveiled itself before him: that in the face of the hunger for power, the worth of public life was less than that of a single roasted cashew.
The MLA signed the file and tossed it toward Avinash. “Go, log this into the computer right now so the funds are released by morning. Into our men’s accounts.”
With heavy steps, Avinash picked up the file. His heart was pounding violently. Tears had welled up at the corners of his eyes, but he swallowed them down. He silently walked out of the room.
As soon as he stepped outside, a blast of cold wind and torrential rain lashed against him. He immediately pulled his phone out of his pocket. The network was back. Ten missed calls from his mother’s number flashed on the screen.
Avinash’s hands began to shake. He instantly called back.
The crying voice of a neighborhood boy answered from the other side.
“Avinash bhai, where are you? Come quickly!”
Avinash’s throat went completely dry. “What happened, Rahul? Are Mother and Gudhiya okay?”
Rahul broke down sobbing. “Bhai… they suddenly released the dam water. The floodwater rushed into our colony with terrifying speed. There were no boats, no one to rescue them. Your house has completely collapsed. Aunty and Gudhiya… both of them were swept away by the raging current. We couldn’t save them, bhai. Everything is gone.”
The phone slipped from Avinash’s hand and splashed into the water.
Avinash sank to his knees right there in the mud. The rain falling from the heavens and the tears flowing from his eyes became one. The echoes of laughter from inside the MLA’s mansion were still ringing in his ears. He wanted to scream, but the sound died in his throat.
The very relief file he clutched in his lap carried a signature that had bargained away the lives of his own mother and sister. He sat there pressing against his chest the file that protected the very ‘Ramrajya’ that had ruined his entire world. The rain continued to pour, and lying there in the mud, he kept beating his chest, weeping in absolute silence.
****
© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
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