Tag: #Satire

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 – Where God Does Not Dwell.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 84 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Where God Does Not Dwell… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

The wrinkles on Kaleem Sahab’s face formed such a tangled script that it seemed written not by the ink of time, but by the collective rules and regulations of the city. Over sixty, he resembled the crumbling debris of what must have once been a magnificent mansion. In his hand, he held a transparent plastic bag containing two quarters of liquor and a water pouch. They clinked against each other like an old iron chain rattling against the wall of a deserted ruin in the gusts of wind.

It was already eleven at night. Fearing the police sirens, all the liquor vends in the city had pulled down their shutters. The vigilance of the law was such as if the entire crime of the world were locked inside that 180ml shard of glass. Kaleem Sahab’s knees were giving way, and his thirst? Thirst pricked his throat like a thorn, like a fish taking its final desperate gasps at the bottom of a dried-up well.

Just then, he reached the corner of the alley where the solitary tower of light stood in this dark and bitter city. It was a marble mosque whose minarets gleamed in the nocturnal moonlight as if God Himself had peeled silver leaf from the sky and pasted it there. Kaleem Sahab’s steps halted. His feet began moving toward that threshold where once the rich and the poor, the sinner and the virtuous, stood in the same row to bow in reverence.

Sitting on the platform there was the city’s most renowned Maulvi Sahab. His long white beard was groomed so meticulously that if one wished to find a single stray straw in it, they would fail. His kurta was so stiffly starched that if made to stand on its own, it would testify like a human being.

Clutching the trembling bag tightly against his chest, Kaleem Sahab stepped onto the stairs.

The Maulvi Sahab’s eyes fell upon Kaleem Sahab’s bag, and his eyebrows knit together as if someone had splattered black ink on a holy book. He lunged from his seat as if a scorpion had crawled under his wooden platform.

“Hey, hey! Oh Kaleem! Have you lost your mind? What is this impure thing you are holding in your hand as you walk toward the house of God? Shame on you for such shamelessness at this age! This is a mosque, the pure abode of God. This is the dwelling of angels, not for this handful of disgrace of yours.” The Maulvi’s voice echoed with the supreme custodianship of the entire religion.

There was a strange, cold silence in Kaleem Sahab’s eyes. He gripped the bag even tighter. His voice held no tremor of crying, but rather the sharp edge of a broken shard of glass. Looking straight into the Maulvi’s eyes, he spoke with very slow, trembling lips, “Sahab, I am exhausted. Life has squeezed me so dry that nothing but gunpowder is left inside. Just let me pour two sips down my throat sitting in some corner of this mosque. God is deeply merciful, isn’t He? He knows the innermost secrets of every heart; He will understand my helplessness too.”

“Repent, repent! Insolent, arrogant man!” The Maulvi waved his hand in the air as if shooing away a stray dog. “God is merciful, but He is not a helper of sinners. You don’t even possess the worth to set foot in this holy place in your impure state. Get out of here! God is present in every speck here; there is no corner for your filth.”

Kaleem Sahab’s back slumped. His condition had become like a torn envelope whose inner letter was lost long ago. He took a deep breath. Lifting his bag, he looked at the Maulvi and murmured the famous couplet:

“Zahid sharab peene de masjid mein baith kar…

Ya wo jagah bata de jahan par Khuda na ho.”

(O pious ritualist, let me drink wine sitting in the mosque…

Or show me a place where God does not exist.)

A sinister smile drifted across the Maulvi’s face. He pointed his finger toward the darkest, filthiest corner of the city, “Go! Go to that side. Where there is stench, where the gutter flows, where bodies are sold—go there. God does not dwell there. Do whatever you please there.”

Without a word, Kaleem Sahab turned back. He was panting, stumbling, and steadying himself. He did not go toward the gutter; instead, he turned toward the most affluent area of the city, lined with massive mansions. He stopped before one such mansion, where large letters on a marble nameplate read: ‘Kaleem Villa’.

This was Kaleem Sahab’s own home. The very house he had nurtured with the sweat and blood of his youth.

The sight inside was astonishing. Kaleem Sahab’s only son, known for his modern lifestyle and professional image, was hosting a grand party. The hall was filled with the city’s wealthy elite and government bureaucrats. Smoke, music, and rounds of expensive imported scotch were flowing freely.

When Kaleem Sahab entered the garden of his own house through the back door, he looked through the window and saw his son handing a thick envelope to the Maulvi Sahab—who had just arrived there from the mosque. The son was saying, “Sahab, this new project wouldn’t have been possible without ‘the blessings of the Almighty’. This is a small offering for your charity trust. Just pray that we bag the next tender as well.”

The Maulvi Sahab, who just ten minutes ago was preaching lessons of purity and impurity on the steps of the mosque, was now holding a glass of scotch in the very same hand. Smiling, he replied, “My dear, God is always with successful people like you.”

Kaleem Sahab sat down in that dark corner of his own lawn where he had once planted a sapling of hope. With trembling hands, he opened the cap of his cheap bottle. As the first sip went down his throat, the tears from his eyes fell straight into the liquor.

Inside, beneath the magnificent chandelier, ‘religion’ and ‘profit’ sat at the same table, celebrating together. Outside, in the darkness, sat that elderly father who had transferred his entire property and will to his son’s name just a few days ago, thinking his remaining days would pass in peace. But little did he know that the house in whose bricks he had buried his soul no longer had even a single chair left for him.

Gathering all his remaining strength, Kaleem Sahab took one last gulp. A smile surfaced on his lips—a smile in which the funeral of relationships and righteousness was taking place. He looked up at the sky, where the moon was hiding behind the clouds.

He murmured, “Maulvi Sahab… you spoke the truth. God was in the mosque, so I found no place there. And in this house… in this house, only a ‘transaction’ remains. When humanity itself is gone, how can God be here? I have found my place… where God does not dwell.”

The next moment, Kaleem Sahab’s head slumped to one side. The empty bottle slipped from his hand, crashed onto the marble floor, and shattered. Inside the room, the sounds of laughter and the counting of currency notes echoed on, while outside on the lawn, a father’s soul had departed forever, leaving behind one last, silent laugh in the face of this hypocritical world.

****

© 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 – Seat No. 71, And That Too RAC, Oh No, Never!.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 83 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Seat No. 71, And That Too RAC, Oh No, Never! ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

There were still fifteen minutes left before the train started, and I was walking up and down the platform like a goat being walked one last time before a big festival feast. I pulled the ticket out of my pocket and looked at it for the third time. The number was the same, the coach was the same, and that notorious corner was also the same—a place where a person begins to doubt the past deeds of their ancestors. The railway department must have invented Seat No. 71, the Side Lower berth, just to collect the monthly loan payments (EMIs) for all the remaining sins of the universe.

When I reached there, it felt like someone had made a seat not for human beings, but for sacks of old junk. A Rajasthani brother was already sitting firmly on half the space with his legs crossed. His mustaches were as stiff as two mongooses ready to fight each other. Seeing me, he spoke in a traditional style, “Come, sir, sit down. Humans do not sit here; only human hope sits here.” While I was still thinking about this heavy philosophy, a young man from Tamil Nadu also arrived there. First he looked at the seat, then he looked at us, then he looked straight up at God, and with a sad face, he said, “Oh dear, where will we sit?”

Just then, the magical back door opened.

One gust of wind came.

Then a second one came.

Then a third one came.

All three gusts of wind joined together and started a live telecast of all the old memories of my life, just like an old television show. I remembered my strict school teacher from the first grade. I remembered the muddy pond of my village. I remembered the spinning top lost in the drain during my childhood. Even great saints doing hard prayers would not have felt such a sharp and terrible experience. The Rajasthani brother immediately took a handkerchief out of his pocket, tied it over his nose like a protective mask, and said, “In our hometown, even a camel’s stable does not have this much closeness and strong smell, sir!” The Tamil youth said in pain, “There is a fish market in our village, brother, but even there, the air stays within its limits.”

The train started moving, and the complete destruction of our remaining self-respect began. The first passenger came, looked at our miserable condition, gave a wicked smile, and moved ahead. A second passenger came, shook his head looking at us as if he was inspecting a terrible accident spot. A third one came, pulled out a bottle of deodorant from his pocket, then looked at our faces, thought of something, and quietly put it back in his pocket. Perhaps he felt that television advertisements are all fake, because here, the wind of death elf was blowing.

In a short time, our seat turned into a public meeting square and an abandoned bus stand. Someone was standing with their elbow resting on our shoulder, and someone was scrolling through video reels while resting their heavy stomach right over our heads. Someone else considered our knees as the unclaimed property of the railway ministry and rested their feet on them to take a rest.

Just then, a child said to his mother, “Mom, why are these three uncles not sleeping?”

The mother said in a very serious tone, “Son, they are not sleeping; they are gathering a bitter experience of life.”

For the first time in my life, I realized that sometimes sadness also becomes a tourist spot where people come, look at you suffering, thank their own good luck, and walk away.

As the night grew deeper, our corner became like an international border checkpost. Whoever went toward the toilet went with brave facial expressions. And whoever returned from there smiled like a victorious army commander returning after winning a lost war. Every time the door opened, a new smelly chapter of air started. Our eyes were burning, our knees were crying in pain, and our waist was ready to call a village meeting to complain.

By ten o’clock at night, our seat looked less like a railway compartment and more like a live presentation of our country’s democracy. Any random person who felt like it would come to us, claim their right, and leave. An unknown uncle came and, without saying a simple hello, spread his smelly cloth on our seat. He returned after five minutes and said with authority, “Keep an eye on this, brother, this is my pillow.” I kept looking at him with wide-open eyes. The man had met me for the first time, and before leaving, he had appointed me as the permanent security guard of his personal property.

On the other side, another strange young man arrived. He put his mobile phone on charging. The plug was very far away, but the mobile phone was near us. As a result, the thin wire of the charger was passing right above the necks of all three of us like a rope used for drying clothes. The three of us sat with our necks bent down, looking like helpless flies caught in a fresh web woven by a spider, knowing that if we moved, we would be in big trouble immediately.

The Rajasthani brother said in irritation, “The scarecrow standing in my field gets more respect than this, sir.”

The Tamil youth cried out, “This is not a seat; this is the total result of the sins of our last seven births.”

Just then, another elderly man appeared like a special character. He spread an old newspaper right between our feet and sat on it like a king. Then he pulled a packet of puffed rice out of his pocket and started eating by taking careful aim. Every third puffed rice was falling into my shirt pocket, every fourth was falling into the lap of the Tamil brother, and the fifth was barely reaching his own mouth. The whole distribution system was completely broken.

By midnight, our condition became such that no part of our body was under the control of its original owner. My left knee had gone into the territory of the Rajasthani brother. His elbow had entered the borders of the Tamil youth. The heavy bag of the Tamil youth was sitting on my stomach, using its absolute power over me. All three of us together had become a helpless joint family.

In the middle of this, that same dangerous door opened again, and a new tsunami wave of bad smell arrived.

The Rajasthani brother immediately tied his handkerchief even tighter.

The Tamil youth closed his eyes in frustration.

And I left my hands and feet loose and started thinking deeply about the true meaning of life.

Just then, a gentleman came walking with a speed faster than an express train. The balance of the train shook a little, and that gentleman fell directly into my lap. Standing up and brushing his clothes, he said, “Forgive me, brother, sudden brakes were applied.”

I said in irritation, “Brother, the train is moving straight at a speed of sixty!”

He said in a very shameless manner, “Oh really? Then perhaps my luck must have slipped.”

That night, our luck slipped so many times that we forgot the count. someone’s broken slipper got stuck under us, and someone’s half-open water bottle rolled into our feet, making everything wet. Someone’s unclaimed toothbrush, goodness knows how, landed directly inside the open bag of the Tamil youth.

The two men on the berths right in front of us were staring at us again and again. Then, pulling up their bedsheets, they started snoring loudly. The deeper their sleep grew, the higher our curiosity reached. Why were they smiling again and again even while sleeping? Why was there such a strange confidence on their faces, looking like a robber who had looted a bank vault all alone and the police could do nothing to him?

Morning came. When the Ticket Examiner (TTE) came and checked our tickets, he told us the real truth. Swear to God, our condition became just like that of a poor farmer who suddenly finds out that the land he was crying over all night, thinking it was useless and barren, actually had a whole gold mine hidden beneath it!

Those clever young men in front of us, who had slept all night like kings and emperors on a fully comfortable berth, that berth actually belonged to us.

Yes, the seats of the three of us had been confirmed!

As soon as this was heard, a complete silence fell over the whole coach for the first two seconds, and then such a loud laugh echoed that a passenger sleeping on the upper berth woke up startled, fearing an earthquake.

The Rajasthani brother immediately folded his hands in front of those young men and said, “Great kings, may this deep sleep of yours live forever.”

The Tamil brother clapped his hands and said, “Brother, the comfort you people have enjoyed should be written as a separate chapter in history.”

Those young men first turned red with shame, and then they themselves started laughing shamelessly. Seeing them, the whole coach started laughing like crazy. I was brushing off the puffed rice from my shirt while looking out of the window, thinking that the most expensive thing in a train journey in this country is not the price of the ticket, boss—the most expensive thing is having the correct ‘information’. The night we did not have that information, in that single night, we completed a full ‘PhD’ course from the Indian Railways with top ranks, without paying a single rupee as a fee.

****

© 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 – Literature Scattered on the Road.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 82 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Literature Scattered on the Road… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

The vehicles running on the roads are not just vehicles; they are like moving universities of philosophy. When a new driver sits in his shiny car and holds the steering wheel, he feels like he is the king of the road. But true wisdom is written right on the back of that broken-down old truck which leaves behind a huge cloud of smoke and says, “The owner lives his life, while the assistant enjoys the cash.” The moment a middle-class man sitting with his hand on the car gear reads this line, all his pride melts away just like an ice cream cone melts under the burning sun. Even though the copies of traffic rules might be gathering dust in our country, the deep life philosophies written on the back of these trucks and auto-rickshaws shake the soul of every passerby. You can stand at any big city crossroads and you will never find such a live combination of the God of Death’s (Yamraj’s) duty and human helplessness anywhere else, which is available for free on the bumpers of these vehicles. This is the cheapest and most long-lasting entertainment in this country, for which you do not have to buy a movie ticket at a multiplex; you just have to keep your eyes open.

The moment you step out on the road, your first competition is with that group of people who think of life as a race and whose vehicles have this written on the back: “If you drive slowly, we will meet again and again; if you drive fast, you will reach the holy city of death (Haridwar).” The wonderful ABCs of life and death taught in this single line can break the deep meditation of great saints. People in the morning rush to reach their offices try to turn their motorbikes into airplanes. Just then, an auto-rickshaw appears in front of them with big letters written on its back: “Do not smile, foolish girl, or I will fall in love; do not hit the brakes, or we will have an accident.” Reading this, even the best Romeos lower their vehicle’s speed below forty kilometers per hour because when the brakes fail in both love and on the highway, the damage directly happens to the heart and the bumper. Driving on Indian roads is like entering a battlefield where you have to face a new challenge at every turn. Here, Yamraj sits in some corner enjoying a sip of tea, and as his representatives, it is written on the back of our vehicles: “If you have the courage, pass me; otherwise, tolerate me.” This simple message is a sharp slap on that whole system which has become blind in the blind race of always moving ahead of others.

For the broken-hearted lovers wandering in search of true love, these vehicles are like the platform of a temple where the story of every broken heart is painted with text. When a lover, instead of becoming a sad Devdas in the grief of his beloved’s marriage, becomes a truck driver, he gets this written on his vehicle: “The one I gave my heart to went away to a big software company (Wipro); now I am searching for her from metro train to metro train.” This is not just a poem but a document of that bitter reality of the corporate world where human emotions bow down before big salary packages. When it is written on the back of a similar vehicle, “You rejected my love, now look at the gear of my car,” one understands that only a heartbreak turns a man into a big businessman or the owner of a heavy vehicle. When this pain running on the roads changes with the gear, another line shines in the light of the headlights in the silence of the night: “In the memory of my beloved, I changed the gear at night.” All the failed lovers of this country celebrate their failure by racing vehicles on these roads, as if their clutch and brake are the only support left in their lives. Listening to the words of these brave fighters suffering from separation in love, even a heart of stone would melt and be forced to get something similar written on the trunk of their own vehicle.

The story of financial slowdown and the struggles of middle-class families written on these iron lions cannot be found in any economics textbook. When a common man takes a loan from the bank and brings his dream vehicle out on the road, his first prayer is only this: “The kindness of the owner, the loan of the bank.” This line describes that endless trap in which a trapped man starts shaking even before the monthly date of payment arrives. Right next to it, an old broken-down vehicle laughs at its own ruined condition and says, “Do not look at how old I am; look at how stormy I am.” This self-confidence is the real strength of this country, which keeps the courage to touch the sky despite the shortage of resources. The pain of drivers crushed under the weight of monthly bank payments becomes even deeper when it is written on the back of their vehicle: “I am alive on bank payments, I am just a bird belonging to the owner.” These lines are no less than a poem by a great poet, which directly throws light on that part of society which sweats day and night to keep the wheels of the country moving. When the owners of vehicles bought on loan are troubled by the evil eyes of the world, they write clearly: “Brother, this is bought on loan; do not stare and give me an evil eye,” which automatically turns the face of the evil-eyed person black with shame.

The pure local comedy hidden behind these vehicles works like a magical medicine for patients with sadness. Standing at a traffic signal, when your eyes suddenly catch, “Horn po-po, sister go-go,” a wave of laughter runs across your face which becomes impossible to stop. This line is a sweet insult to that stereotype of our society which often makes jokes about women’s driving. On the other side, gathering family happiness and social remarks together, a long truck says, “Small family, happy family, and this long truck is everyone’s friend.” The relationship of these travelers running on the roads with their vehicles is such that they do not consider them just machines but pieces of their own heart. When a carefree person tries to fly his vehicle in the air, it is written on the back to stop him: “Drive slowly, someone is waiting for you at home—probably with a rolling pin.” It is this fear of the rolling pin that proves to be more helpful than the police department in bringing the married men of this country safely back home, and prevents accidents on the roads.

The ultimate wisdom of life and the secrets hidden in the back portion of these vehicles require a bit of a philosophical view to understand. When you are driving your vehicle very carefully, right then it is written on the truck in front: “If your attention wanders, an accident will happen, and your funeral food will be distributed.” This line points so accurately toward the feast held after death that the reader immediately starts fixing his seatbelt and helmet. No one else can explain the temporary nature of life in a better way than this, where a single moment of carelessness can give you a direct ticket to the next world. Reminding us of the wheel of time and the true value of a human being, another wise sentence is found: “Time is powerful, a human being is just a guest.” Reading these lines makes one feel as if some holy saint has left his hut and come to drive a truck on the highway, showing people the path to freedom from life. Between this same suspense and warning, when it is written, “Cash today, credit tomorrow; writing on the vehicle is forbidden, my friend,” one understands that behind this spiritual world, the real rule of business applies with full strictness.

The style and attitude behind small vehicles and two-wheelers have the power to make even the wealth and royalty of big kings look pale. When a small auto-rickshaw moves out of narrow lanes twisting like a snake, it is written on its back: “The auto-rickshaw is small, but the heart is big.” This line shows the self-respect of that driver who might earn only a few rupees daily but does not know how to bow down before the wealth of a rich man. On the other hand, when it is written on the motorbike of a college-going boy, “No girlfriend, no tension,” it is clearly understood that this is the freedom from worldly attachments after a heartbreak, which has now changed into the speed of the bike. The pain of the youth of this era, shaking with the fear of police fines, also comes out beautifully on the vehicles when they get this written: “Sir, I am not afraid of police fines; I am afraid of an empty pocket.” Between the long arms of the law and the cameras of the traffic police, these small vehicles wave their flag of freedom and say that talking to the wind and building a relationship with the roads is their real purpose.

This entire journey of the road ends with a very strange event. A very luxurious, expensive, and foreign sports car is speeding fast on the highway, looking as if it is not running on the road but flying in the air. The owner of that car, wearing sunglasses and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, thinks of himself as the emperor of the world. Just then, a very old, rusted truck releasing terrible black smoke comes in front of him, on the back of which is written in big letters: “Whoever collides with us will go straight to the repair garage.” The proud owner of the sports car gets irritated seeing that old piece of junk and starts blowing his horn continuously to overtake it. He puts his hand out of the window and shouts, “Hey brother! Move your line, take this bullock cart to the side!”

Suddenly, that old truck stops right in the middle of the road. The moment it stops, the sports car owner also has to apply emergency brakes, making the tires of his car scream. The owner of the car turns red with anger, gets down, and knocks on the door of the truck cabin, shouting, “Come out! If you do not know how to drive a car, why do you come out on the road?” As the creaking door of the truck opens with a sharp sound, not an ordinary driver but the God of Death, Yamraj himself, steps down. Yamraj is wearing rubber flip-flops on his feet, a dried garland of marigold flowers around his neck, and in his hand, instead of a buffalo’s rope, he holds a shiny digital fine-printing machine. The owner of the car is completely shocked to see him and loses his voice.

Yamraj smiles very lovingly, places his hand on the shoulder of that rich boy, and says in a local traditional style, “Why are you showing so much attitude, young man? You were reading the lines written on the back of our vehicle for a long time, right? Now, place your thumb on this machine.” The boy asks trembling, “Lord, are you driving a truck here?” Yamraj laughs and replies, “Oh brother! There is so much traffic and pollution on Earth now that my buffalo faces difficulty in breathing. Therefore, we also bought this second-hand truck on loan. By the way, the insurance of your car and the permit of your breaths have both expired at this very moment. Come on now, sit quietly in the back cabin. Three speeding lovers are already sitting there, changing gears in the memory of their beloved!”

****

© 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# 81 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Surefire Ways to Become a Chief Guest… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

The biggest and most bitter truth about literary events is that the Chief Guest is never chosen based on their deep knowledge. Instead, they are chosen because the organizers want to satisfy their own selfish greed. Behind inviting that so-called great leader onto the stage lies a complete business calculation. For example, if the person has strong connections in government offices, the organizing team flatters them in the hope that their stuck government contracts, land papers, and illegal building works will get cleared smoothly like butter in the future. If the Chief Guest sits on the selection committee of a large cash prize for literature, the organizers serve them refreshments while secretly planning in their minds how to grab that big, profitable award and its huge prize money. If the Chief Guest happens to be a big editor of a famous newspaper or magazine, they are worshiped on the stage simply out of the greed that next Sunday, the organizers’ poor, low-quality writings will be beautifully published right on the front page. And if the person has absolutely no knowledge but is a wealthy businessman overflowing with money, they are placed on the stage only so that the expenses of the event’s tents, chairs, samosas, and even the Chief Guest’s own welcome bouquet can be happily snatched from their pocket as a sponsor. This evening too was about dipping into a similar river of selfishness, where a grand poetry event was organized in the memory of Suryakant Tripathi ‘Nirala’, a legendary giant of the Hindi literary world. Here, the Chief Guest cared much less about Nirala’s poetic rhythms and much more about his own status and the organizers’ business. The long and short of it is that a Chief Guest is selected only by looking at the heavy weight of their power and position. The body posture of the Chief Guest sitting right in the center of the stage looked no less than that of a medieval king. He had crossed one leg over the other in such a way as if the geography of the whole world was crushed beneath his single knee. Looking at the serious, mysterious smile spread across his face, the audience sitting below was completely confused about whether he was understanding the depth of the poetry or secretly calculating the menu for dinner tonight. Again and again, he would roll up the sleeves of his kurta, look sideways at the cameraman standing in front, and strike such a picture-perfect pose that even good actors would look ordinary in front of him. A look of complete self-satisfaction floated in his eyes, which can only appear on the face of a person who has never in their life taken the trouble of flipping through even two pages of a book continuously. Whenever a speaker on the stage analyzed Nirala’s poems, the Chief Guest would nod his head in such a way as if Nirala used to come to his house every morning to read out the first draft of his poetry, sending it to be printed only after getting a green light from him. The reality was that he knew as much about Nirala as an ordinary cat knows about the principles of space science, but he was hiding his complete ignorance behind his royal facial expressions in such a way that the entire hall seemed to bow down before his silent pretense of great knowledge.

 

When the Chief Guest was invited to give his speech, he first took off his glasses and started cleaning them very slowly with a silk handkerchief pulled from his pocket, because starting to speak immediately after coming to the stage is considered the sign of a beginner. He rested both his hands on the podium and looked at the entire hall the way a lion looks at a herd of deer in its hunting ground. He cleared his throat two or three times and spoke in a serious, heavy voice, “Friends, as you know, Nirala Ji was a poet. Not just a poet, but a very big poet. As my previous speakers have also said, he used to write very good poems, and that is why his poems are taught in school and college courses.” Hearing this historic opening sentence, a few flatterers sitting in the very front row clapped in such a way as if they had discovered some ultimate truth of the universe. The Chief Guest carried his point forward and addressed the listeners, “Now, the poems that are taught in schools and colleges are bound to be good. And when the poems are good, how would the person who wrote them be? All of you tell me together!” At this, the entire crowd gathered their remaining senses and shouted back in one voice, “Good!” The Chief Guest picked up the glass of water on the stage, took a sip, and looked around as if he had won a massive war, presenting this simple and obvious fact as the greatest research paper on Nirala’s literature.

 

After this, the Chief Guest started pulling out arrows from the quiver of his speech, using which he had roamed around as the savior of every big stage his entire life without ever reading a single page. He applied the first foolproof rule of ruling a stage without any knowledge, which in the language of literature is called the art of changing the topic. He said, “Friends, a true poet is not one who only talks about palaces. A true poet is one who is connected to the soil, and Nirala Ji was so grounded that he even wrote poems on mushrooms (kukurmutta). He loved mushrooms very much. Wherever he saw a mushroom, he would sit right down there to write poems!” Hearing this wonderful and heavenly revelation, an elderly writer sitting at the very back end of the hall dropped his diary from his hand, but the Chief Guest kept flowing in his own speed. He demonstrated that timeless rule of roaring on a stage without knowledge, under which a speaker turns their complete ignorance into a dignified exit by making an excuse of running out of time. He looked at his wristwatch in a highly dramatic way, drew deep lines of worry on his face, and said, “Friends, I would have spoken much more on Nirala, but it is already very late and all of you must be getting bored too. Therefore, that is all for today. If you give me a chance again in the future, I will tell you such things about him that even Nirala Ji himself would never have known. Jai Hind, Jai Bharat!”

 

This speech of the Chief Guest was actually a living collection of all those academic tricks that are used to completely control any gathering without any preparation. When a speaker does not have even the slightest clue about the topic, his first foolproof formula is to prepare a long list of the names of the previous speakers and start blindly supporting everything they said. The second rule says that when you have nothing to say, you should start asking direct questions to the public, which makes the listeners feel that they are not listening to a lecture but are part of a group discussion, and they start clapping in excitement. The third trick is to catch hold of any single strange word related to the topic and make it the central point of the whole speech, just like this gentleman did with the word ‘mushroom’, which turns a serious discussion into something highly popular and entertaining in a single second. According to the fourth rule, the speaker must keep his body language so aggressive and full of confidence that the listener starts doubting their own knowledge, wondering if they themselves read Nirala incorrectly. The fifth and most important rule is to leave a mysterious suspense at the end of the speech, so that a curiosity remains alive within the people that this person possesses some secret treasure of knowledge which could not come out today only because of the shortage of time. In this way, an ignorant person also leaves the stage pretending to be a supreme scholar.

 

During this whole drama, the condition of the public sitting right below the stage was worth watching, as they were constantly blinking their eyes in an attempt to digest this wonderful intellectual nonsense. The Head of the Department sitting in the front row was nodding his neck in such a way as if he had drowned into the depth of every single empty sentence of the Chief Guest and reached straight to the underworld. Some young students, who had come to grace this gathering only for the greed of free samosas and tea, were sitting with handkerchiefs pressed to their mouths to stop their laughter after hearing this grand story about mushrooms. The confidence of the Chief Guest had reached such a level that after every foolish line he spoke, he looked toward the public as if he was expecting a national award from them for his unique ideological discovery. During his speech, he waved both his hands in the air in such a way as if he was catching all the rhythms of Nirala’s poems right from the air and throwing them straight into the lap of the public. The roaring sound of clapping in the whole assembly was not a proof that people liked his speech. Instead, it was a collective celebration of the fact that this mega-speech had finally ended, and it was now time to get freedom from the stage.

 

Another surefire method to establish your dominance on literary stages is that, without touching the actual core of the topic, you start making such a complicated web of words around it that the listener himself loses his way. The Chief Guest had gained mastery in this art as well, because without speaking a single word on Nirala’s philosophy or his progressive thoughts, he built his entire castle of words based only on Nirala’s presence in school textbooks. While he was speaking, his eyes would sometimes stare at the ceiling beams and sometimes suddenly lock onto some innocent listener sitting in front, because of which that poor person would sit up with a straight spine out of fear that the Chief Guest might ask the next question directly to him. This type of speech is actually like a blessing for those people who want to maintain their leadership in every field of society without any study, and who roam around wearing their ignorance like an ornament. The other special guests sitting on the stage were also well-acquainted with this art, which is why they too were closing their eyes and smiling at every ridiculous remark of the Chief Guest as if they were enjoying the sermon of a great holy saint.

 

After the conclusion of this historic speech, when the Chief Guest came back and sat on his sofa-like chair, there was such a glow on his face which can only appear on the face of a king after winning a huge empire. He immediately pulled out his shiny mobile phone from his pocket and signaled the photographer standing in front to take some pictures of his victorious pose from different angles so that he could instantly share them on his social media accounts. He emptied the entire glass of water kept on the stage in a single breath, as if this historic speech on mushrooms had completely dried up all the springs of knowledge inside him. The listeners sitting below were still trying to recover from the shock of what they had just heard and understood about Nirala, but the Chief Guest did not care at all because his job was to steal the show on the stage, which he had successfully done with great politeness and cunningness. The entire atmosphere at this time was hanging between a strange silence and a suppressed laughter, a situation which perhaps Nirala himself would never have imagined even while writing his most complex poems.

 

Right after the program, a special refreshment was arranged for the Chief Guest in the VIP lounge. As soon as he reached there, an over-enthusiastic journalist of the city surrounded the Chief Guest with a microphone in his hand and asked very innocently, “Sir, your lecture today was going to set a new direction for Nirala’s literature, but will you tell our viewers which specific mushroom Nirala Ji was most influenced by, and is that mushroom relevant even in today’s times?” The Chief Guest jerked his kurta, twirled his mustache, and spoke with supreme confidence, resting his hand on the journalist’s shoulder, “Look brother, Nirala Ji was originally a very big doctor of botany, and the mushroom he discovered is what modern people call ‘mushroom’ in English. That is why I drink mushroom soup every morning so that a poetic energy like Nirala’s remains alive within me. And as far as relevance is concerned, today mushrooms are selling at two hundred rupees a kilo in the market. What bigger relevance can there be than this!” Hearing this, the waiter standing nearby gathered the plate of samosas, sat right down on the floor in shock, and the journalist left his microphone, went to the corner of the lounge, and started banging his head against the wall. Meanwhile, the Chief Guest, while happily chewing a piece of cashew sweet (kaju katli), had become busy searching for the name of Kabir Das’s father on the internet to speak at some upcoming seminar.

****

© 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 – Kneeling Humanity.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 79 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Kneeling Humanity… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

The big, fancy shoe store was decorated with shiny glass walls and soft velvet carpets. Rich, important people (VIPs) crowded into the store like a big group of people rushing to get free expensive gifts. Ramsharan had been working there for the last twenty years, bent down on his knees like our country’s weak democracy. His main and only job was to kneel down and measure the feet of these rich customers so that these “big bosses” wouldn’t face any trouble climbing the ladders of their corporate world. Whenever he bent his backbone at a ninety-degree angle to slip a five-thousand-rupee shoe onto a rich customer’s foot, a sharp pain would shoot through his bones. This cry of pain was lost in the soft, foreign music playing in the shop, disappearing just like political promises do after an election. The big owner of the shop often smiled and said, “Ramsharan, there is magic in your hands! Just by looking at a person’s feet, you can tell their social status and the exact size of their bank balance.” Ramsharan would only show a fake, advertising-like smile. His eyes would drift to a large leather box kept behind the counter, which always had a big lock on it—locked up just like the accountability of our government system. What was inside that box was a deep secret that none of the educated employees in the store knew. The key was always tied around Ramsharan’s neck with a dirty thread. People said that Ramsharan had buried all the happiness of his life in this shop, and now he was just a living corpse, holding a PhD in the art of rubbing and pleasing other people’s feet. Even today, when the city’s biggest businessman, Mr. Kapoor, stepped out of his shiny car, Ramsharan was already kneeling on the floor to welcome him. He looked like a slave bowing before a king, a man who didn’t even have a right to his own shadow.

Mr. Kapoor placed his heavy foot on Ramsharan’s knee, just like governments place the heavy burden of taxes on the heads of ordinary citizens. He said with great pride, “Ramsharan, show me a shoe this time that is absolutely royal and spotless, just like my new business deal. The shoe should make the other person’s status look crushed beneath it, and don’t worry about the money!” Taking off his socks, Ramsharan said very softly, “Sir, the size of your feet is the same as last year, but this time the skin on your soles feels a bit harder. Perhaps, while crushing other people’s rights, the human feelings in your feet have died.” Mr. Kapoor could not understand this sharp, hidden insult. He laughed loudly and said, “Ramsharan, you just measure the size of my feet, don’t try to measure the value of my life!” Just then, the manager sitting at the counter raised his neck high and shouted, “Ramsharan, hurry up! Stop this philosophical nonsense and bring out that special Italian leather shoe from the inside cabin. It has been specially imported only for the honor of big bosses like him.” Ramsharan stood up and walked panting toward the dark storeroom inside, where shoe boxes were piled up like a mountain—a mountain as hollow as the false claims of progress made by our country. Reaching there, he pulled out the key from inside his torn shirt and gently touched the mysterious box for a moment. But suddenly, the manager’s angry shout pierced the air like the roar of a hungry wolf. In that closed room, the suffocating smell of corporate greed was so strong that Ramsharan found it hard to breathe. The fog of corporate slavery blurred his eyes, but he controlled himself and walked out with the expensive shoe box.

While putting the new Italian shoe on Mr. Kapoor’s feet, Ramsharan’s hands were shaking, just like the hands of a new clerk taking a bribe for the first time. A single tear secretly fell from his eye and rested on the shiny shoelace. Mr. Kapoor pulled his foot back in disgust, as if his holy foot had been made dirty by touching an untouchable person’s feelings. He snapped, “What is this bad behavior, Ramsharan? How dare you drop your cheap, free tears on my five-thousand-rupee branded shoe? Has your little brain gone completely crazy?” Ramsharan immediately wiped the tear with his torn towel and said, begging for forgiveness, “Forgive me, sir. The bright, blinding lights of this five-star showroom have dried up the human feelings in my eyes, and that water is just leaking out. Don’t worry, this shoe will add a lot of charm to your false pride.” Just then, the glass door of the showroom opened, and an old beggar dared to try to step inside. The security guards, dressed in fancy suits and boots, immediately pushed him out, just like a poor person is kicked out of a country’s financial budget. Seeing that beggar, Ramsharan’s face turned completely white, as if someone had sucked all the blood out of his body. The metal scale he used to measure feet slipped from his hand and crashed onto the floor, making a loud noise that echoed through the store. The manager scolded Ramsharan angrily, saying, “If you want to do this drama, go beg on the streets! Don’t make a show of your poverty in front of our VIP customers.” Ramsharan silently bowed his head because he knew very well that only expensive shoes are sold in this fancy shop; human self-respect is kept here as a free mortgage.

When the afternoon passed and the crowd of rich people—who shop worth lakhs just to kill their boredom—grew thin, Ramsharan secretly went into the dark inside cabin. He unlocked the mysterious box. There were no gold or silver coins inside. Instead, it held a very old, torn pair of cheap rubber flip-flops (hawaii chappals) covered in dust, along with a few old pieces of newspaper that were as torn as the poverty statistics of this country. Ramsharan held those old slippers close to his chest and began to cry bitterly. His painful sobs echoed off the air-conditioned walls of the closed room. Air conditioners can cool the air, but they cannot cool the burning fire of a broken heart. Kissing the slippers, he wept, “Every morning I sit here measuring other people’s feet and guessing their wealth, but I could never buy the right size of shoes for your feet from this store.” Just then, the manager walked in without knocking. Seeing Ramsharan in this state, he wrinkled his eyebrows and asked, “Ramsharan, what is this madness? Why have you hidden this smelly junk right under the nose of this VIP showroom?” Ramsharan made a sharp, sarcastic reply while wiping his wet eyes, “Sir, this is not junk. This is the mirror of my true reality, which I look at every night. I need it so that while polishing the shoes of these big rich men, I don’t forget that I am a human being too.” The manager treated this deep, emotional answer as the nonsense of an uneducated servant and said, “Go sell this philosophy outside on the footpath! Get out now, a new rich customer has come who wants to buy the most expensive shoes for his beloved son.”

Ramsharan sat back on the floor on his knees in his usual serving position. He began to measure the feet of the rich man’s little child, who was throwing a tantrum in his mother’s lap, twisting around just like politicians twist for power. Looking at Ramsharan’s bent back and torn clothes, the child’s mother said with great hatred and pride, “Look, son! If you do not study hard and become a big officer, you will also have to sit at people’s feet like this, cleaning their shoes. This will be your worth in life.” These words pierced Ramsharan’s heart like a burning nail. Without saying a word, he gently slipped a beautiful, soft velvet shoe onto the child’s foot—a shoe that cost more than a poor man’s lifetime savings. Suddenly, the spoiled child kicked Ramsharan hard right on his face. A thin stream of blood flowed from Ramsharan’s dry lips and dripped onto the floor. The entire showroom fell dead silent for a second. But instead of apologizing, the educated parents laughed and said, “He is just a child, a little naughty! Anyway, he is used to making everyone dance to his tunes. And since he is the son of a rich man, kicking is his natural right!” Ramsharan wiped his own blood from the floor with a trembling finger. With a painful smile, he said, “It’s okay, ma’am. A kick from a rich man’s child is nothing less than a royal blessing for poor people like us.” Seeing this heartbreaking and bitter scene, tears of shame came into the eyes of some of the new salesmen standing there. But in the cruel system of this showroom, Ramsharan’s suffering was still far from over.

In the evening, when it was time to close the store and locks were being placed on the glass doors, the owner called Ramsharan into his office. Handing him a white envelope, the owner said in a very cold, uncaring voice, “Ramsharan, you are old now. Because of your shaking hands, our VIP customers face a lot of trouble. Therefore, this is the final settlement of your salary, and you don’t need to come from tomorrow.” Ramsharan looked at the envelope, which held the price of his twenty years of loyalty in the form of a few paper notes. He then took off the key from around his neck, placed it on the owner’s glass table, and said, “Sir, just allow me to take that box kept inside, because my real account is closed within it.” The owner laughed cruelly and said, “Take away that junk! Anyway, it was ruining the high standards of our branded showroom. But before you leave, tell me, what kind of romantic relationship do you have with those torn slippers?” Ramsharan lifted the heavy box onto his old, bent shoulders. Walking toward the door, he wept and said, “Sir, twenty years ago, my only son was walking barefoot just outside this showroom. To protect the expensive shoes of your VIP customers from getting stained, and out of fear of losing my job, I chased him far away. While running, he was crushed and killed under the wheels of a rich man’s speeding car. These torn slippers belonged to his bare feet. To find his size, I have been searching for my lost life in the feet of every rich child who walked into this store. I wanted to give my dead son a perfect pair of shoes just once. But this showroom only taught me how to measure other people’s feet; it did not teach me how to stitch my own son’s shroud.” Hearing this, the soft carpet beneath the owner’s feet seemed to slide away. That luxury showroom drowned in the sea of an old father’s tears—an end that no one had ever imagined.

****

© 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 – The Highway of Broken Clocks.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 78  ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Highway of Broken Clocks… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

The sun was throwing a tantrum, baking the earth below, as four pairs of legs trembled violently on a dirt track that was currently busy throwing a dust parade. Atop a creaking, groaning bamboo cot, a heavy, suffocating silence had made itself comfortable. Shifting his coarse cotton towel to the other shoulder, Gopi grunted, “Hey, Sukna, watch it. There’s a landmine of rocks ahead. We don’t want Mother’s spirit to get any more seasick than it already is.”

Sukna wiped away a waterfall of sweat from his forehead. “I’m trying, brother. Just hold that umbrella straight. The sun is spitting pure fire today, as if it’s personally tasked with roasting whatever is left of our destiny.”

The figure stretched out on the cot was completely lifeless, eyes shut tight, as if it had successfully unsubscribed from all the chaos of the living world. On this particular path in the village of Chidhauti, every single pebble felt like a sharp, pointed interrogation mark. For centuries, this soil had generously ripped open its chest to supply the nation with coal and stone. In a beautiful act of gratitude, it was rewarded with this feet-mangling excuse for a path.

Little Mangra, marching ahead as the self-appointed navigator, muttered under his breath, “The city folks keep saying the country is flying high. Shiny cars are out there racing the wind.”

Gopi let out a bitter, joyless laugh. “Oh, absolutely! Those cars are parked right inside the lavish mansions built by eating away at our mountains. For our share, we get this beautifully unstable piece of firewood. Just yesterday, the government clerk was bragging that the road has already been constructed on paper—it just needs to physically descend onto the earth. I guess our backs are the actual roads they had in mind.”

Suddenly, Sukna’s foot betrayed him. The cot tilted violently. “Ram, Ram! Slow down!” Gopi shrieked. But the cot remained chillingly indifferent.

In the distance, massive billboards of progress were gleaming under the sun, featuring flawlessly smiling faces shouting praises about ‘Free Healthcare and Prosperity for All.’ Right beneath those dazzling advertisements, this four-shouldered funeral procession quietly crawled by.

As the hospital slope finally came into view, Gopi let out a sigh of pure relief. “We made it. Mother! Open your eyes. The doctor sahib will give you a little injection now, and all the pain will magically vanish.”

The moment they set the cot down, Gopi yanked the blanket away. There was no sick human being underneath. Instead, carefully wrapped inside was the broken wall clock from the village school and a bundle of official government documents—the ones that had been waiting for months to receive a rubber stamp of approval for a local clinic.

Sukna broke down into tears. “Mother already breathed her last night without a single drop of medicine, Gopi! We’ve just carried the corpse of this dead system all the way here to show the Sahib, so he can finally treat this paper ghost on his glittering, imaginary highway.”

****

© 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 – The Eternal Tesla and Musk’s Great-Grandmother.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 77 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Eternal Tesla and Musk’s Great-Grandmother… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

It was a crisp morning, the kind where the sun hits just right. On a dusty Indian road, the kind of road that holds the memories of three generations of childhoods, this shiny, driverless foreign car came gliding in. It was acting all cool, completely unaware that it was about to bump into its own great grandmother, our timeless, eternal bullock cart.

The moment they stood face to face, the car computer and fancy sensors lost their absolute minds. It was exactly like a high profile, cocktail party hopping modern bride suddenly running into the village matriarch in a traditional veil. The car massive touchscreen started flashing red lights in absolute panic, as if crying out, “Oh my god, what model is this?!” If we are being honest, the original autopilot belongs to our bullock cart. Back when the ancestors of the West were wrapping themselves in tree bark and making cave noises, our elders simply rested a hand on the shoulders of two bullocks and activated Autopilot Mode without a single lithium ion battery in sight. No GPS drama here, boss. Its navigation system is hardwired into the bullocks tails and their muscle memory. Today tech heavy cars honestly look like amateurs next to it.

The zero maintenance philosophy behind this cart is something foreign CEOs would go bald trying to figure out. There is no drama of changing engine oil every three months, and zero guilt of slipping cash to a pollution control officer. The fuel? Purely organic. Throw in two handfuls of green grass, and the cart is ready to cruise at a chill, unbothered tortoise pace of eight kilometers per hour. And look at the design, the bio waste its silencer leaves behind turns into literal gold for the fields, while foreign cars just choke your lungs with smoke. If Elon Musk car breaks down, you either have to fly an engineer in from Silicon Valley or sell a kidney for spare parts. But if the wooden wheel of our eternal Tesla cracks mid journey, any passing carpenter or a sturdy branch from a nearby neem tree can perform a successful open heart surgery on it. In two minutes, everything is sorted.

Big insurance companies would literally shut down their offices if they saw our cart Auto Crash Prevention System. Modern cars deploy airbags so you do not crack your skull against the steering wheel. But our cart twin engines, our beloved bullocks, are so emotional and perceptive that the moment they spot a pothole or a politician shiny SUV, they jam their own brakes. They do not need expensive cameras or radar. Their big, expressive eyes are the ultimate radar. Even in the pitch dark of night, they can spot a drunkard or a stray bull from a mile away and instantly switch the cart to Eco Mode. Plus, riding this thing saves you a gym membership. The natural vibrations from those heavy wooden wheels melt away belly fat faster than ghee melting under the scorching summer sun. It is not just a ride; it is a moving yoga center.

This cart teaches us a beautiful lesson: why is everyone in such a rush anyway? Reaching the destination is not nearly as important as soaking in the earthy scent of the passing fields. When you ride this cart with pride, all those wealthy folks honking behind you in their Mercedes and Audis suddenly fall into a disciplined, respectful line. It looks like a high security VIP convoy where no one has permission to overtake. You do not need anti theft alarms either. No thief has the audacity to shoulder a twenty quintal wooden masterpiece and run away. And don’t even get me started on the interiors. The velvet seats of foreign luxury cars fade in comparison to the fragrant bed of dry straw laid out in our cart. The kind of deep, ultimate sleep you get lying on that straw is something millionaires cannot buy in a five star hotel.

Kids these days are obsessed with Bluetooth and voice commands, but they should know our cart has a voice activation system so seamless the driver barely needs to move his tongue. A soft click of the tongue or a simple “hurr hurr” or “tit tit,” and the entire system alters its course without needing a high speed internet connection. This Bluetooth runs purely on a heart to heart connection without any complicated passwords. Security? Absolutely bulletproof. If a bandit tries to stop the cart at midnight, the twin engines deliver an anti theft kick with their hind legs that sends the thief straight to the afterlife. While modern cars catch a short circuit and die in knee deep water, our indigenous ride floats across the swelling waves of the Ganges and Yamuna like a duck chilling in a pond.

You want a sunroof? Musk charges a fortune for that. Our cart gives you a twenty four seven panoramic sky view for free. You get the crisp sun by day and a canopy of stars by night. Even the horn is not some annoying, high pitched Chinese buzzer. When those heavy wheels spin, the dry wood creates a rhythmic “churr choo, churr choo” melody that sounds like a classical string instrument, making even the stray dogs on the pavement wag their tails in respect. The braking tech is the most revolutionary part: the driver just takes off his old slipper and jams it between the wheel and the wooden frame. The cart stops dead in its tracks with a sudden silence, looking exactly like a corrupt clerk caught red handed accepting a bribe.

That morning, when that glittering foreign car stopped dead right in front of our great grandmother bullock cart, its automated brain mistook the bullocks long, sharp horns for some terrifying new military sensors. The car panicked and automatically engaged reverse gear. Our local brother sitting on the cart, with a Banarasi paan tucked into his cheek, looked down at the panting foreign machine with his relaxed, sleepy eyes. He gave a deeply philosophical smile and gently twitched the tail of his right bullock. That was it. The moment the tail was twitched, the system activated. The bull raised its tail and slapped a massive, homegrown sensor reboot stroke right onto the shiny bonnet of the car. That single slap completely fried the car million dollar software. The car turned on all four of its hazard lights right in the middle of the road, started honking frantically like a lost calf crying for its mother, and began blinking its headlights repeatedly as it practically fell at the feet of the bullocks. It looked exactly like a spoiled, strayed grandson falling into a full prostration posture at the feet of his great grandmother, whispering, “I messed up, Dadi. I am finally home.”

****

© 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 – Less Oil, More Gas.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 76 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Less Oil, More Gas… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

Oh brother, my brain turned into a spinning top the moment I stepped into that petrol pump! People say the world is round, but I say the world is a big ‘zero’! As soon as I arrived on my old, broken scooter, the salesman smiled like a movie hero. Moving his chewing tobacco to one side of his cheek, he said, “Brother, look at the zero on the meter!” I also acted cool, squared my shoulders, and said, “I see it, dude, the meter is completely empty.” But the real trick was hidden behind that zero. Looking at that zero is like reading a wedding bio-data that says the boy has ‘good manners’—but from the inside, sir, they have coded seventy different tricks. I thought only my wallet would get lighter, but my scooter’s engine started crying so loudly, like a bride’s friends crying at a wedding farewell. I don’t know what kind of petrol they put in, but it felt like they mixed Thums-Up and cough syrup together and fed it to my scooter. The whole system shook up!

Now, let me tell you the whole list of tricks used by these petrol pump people, and it will blow your mind. Their first trick is how they hold the nozzle, which is the petrol gun. They hold it like villain Mogambo’s gun! Half of the petrol turns into vapor and flies into the clouds to chat on WhatsApp. The meter needle jumps around like a fast mouse. It skips numbers entirely, just like backbenchers disappear from a classroom. The meter that shows the density or purity of the oil is always stuck in one place, like a government clerk glued to his chair with Fevicol. After putting the nozzle into the petrol tank, the boy clicks the trigger on and off like a DJ playing a remix in a disco—click, click, click! The petrol smells so bad, like old leather shoe polish. It is mixed with so much junk that a chemistry professor would lose his mind. If you ask for filter paper to check the purity, they make a face as if you asked for their family property. The card swipe machine suddenly loses its network the exact moment you don’t have change in your pocket. If your bill is a little over the round figure, they will say, “Sir, Madam, take a candy, we don’t have change,” as if they have opened a chocolate factory instead of a bank!

They open the tank cap at lightning speed. You will feel like you are sitting in a magic show instead of a petrol pump. Before the last drop of petrol can fall, they shake the pipe like a laundryman beating wet clothes, pulling half a drop back into their own vault. They will trick you by saying, “Sir, this Premium petrol has an extra-mileage capsule mixed in it.” But that extra mileage only goes to their bank balance, while your scooter moves like a slow tortoise. They keep the lights on the digital meter so dim that at night you would need to light a candle and call CID detectives to read it. The free air compressor machine is always snoring with a board that says, “Bro, it broke down just yesterday.” If you ask for the complaint book, they look at you as if you asked for both of their kidneys. They keep the nozzle pipe so long that half a liter of oil stays asleep inside the stomach of the pipe itself. The bill receipt paper is so cheap that the print disappears in the sun within two minutes, like horns from a donkey’s head!

Sometimes the petrol is so white it looks like toned buffalo milk—your vehicle won’t run, it will probably freeze into yogurt! The tick-tick sound of the meter starts running faster than your heartbeat. The salesman’s style of distracting you is amazing. He will say, “Oh brother, look behind you, who is going there?” The moment you turn your head, a few rupees worth of petrol disappears into thin air! The paste used to check water mixing is always ‘out of stock,’ as if they ate all the paste themselves. The rubber grip of the nozzle is torn on purpose so that fuel leaks and falls back into their machine, cutting your pocket. When you give them big currency notes, they count them so slowly, like the Governor of the Reserve Bank checking for fake notes. It is a ninja technique to waste your time, boss! That VIP lane where normal public is sent just to make an extra charge is a total shortcut for them to get rich. The machine’s keypad is broken, so when you press one button, something else gets pressed, ruining the bill. The glass of the purity checking machine is so blurry that your own face looks like a ghost in it.

The nozzle holder is always kept loose so that the pressure stays low and more air gets in. Because of the cheap liquids mixed in the petrol, the vehicle’s engine coughs like an old grandfather with asthma. There is a myth about getting petrol early in the morning. When the density is right in the morning, they will say, “Sir, stock is empty, the tanker is coming.” This means when the time is right, the shop is closed! Instead, they sell petrol in the burning afternoon heat when liquids expand. This way, you get less oil and more gas, making you feel like you are running your scooter on an LPG gas cylinder! They have a tiny remote hidden behind the machine. With one click of a button, the meter runs at the speed of a cheetah, and your brain blows a fuse. The tiny net at the mouth of the nozzle turns the petrol into foam. The tank gets filled with foam, and the salesman says, “It’s full, boss!” If you say, “Put 1000 rupees worth,” they stop it midway and say, “Oh brother, I didn’t hear you, let me add more.” And without resetting the old meter, they play their game and cheat you!

Listen to their sweet talking, it can literally make your ears bleed. They will say, “Brother, your vehicle’s engine oil has turned completely pitch black. Change it right now or the engine will blast!” They make predictions like they are relatives of a famous fortune-teller. In the name of Nitrogen air, they fill your tires with normal oxygen and charge extra money, just like companies sell air inside potato chips packets! They make excuses for digital payments by saying, “The QR code is not scanning, please give cash, brother,” just so they can hide their money and avoid taxes. If you ask them to give petrol in a plastic bottle, they will quote the law saying that petrol in bottles is banned. Why? Because in a clear bottle, their theft would be easily caught! The staff members have their own secret codes. For example, if one says, “Go clean that side,” it actually means, “Lower the pressure of that machine and cheat the customer!” The tip of the nozzle is always bent so the oil doesn’t fall straight. Even when they press the reset button and it goes click-click, the numbers start from the old amount. It is a total scam!

****

© 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 – All Lines on This Route Are Busy.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 75 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ All Lines on This Route Are Busy… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

Talking before marriage and tea leaves have one thing in common. In the beginning, both show a lot of color. The fragrance is so strong that the whole neighborhood knows something is boiling. But slowly, time passes, and those same tea leaves look like dry grass left in the corner of a utensil. The same thing happened between us.

The man who promised to stay with me for seven lifetimes during our wedding rounds locked himself inside a screen in just seven months. Now, when he comes home, he just lies on the sofa and keeps moving his thumb. That 15-second world of Instagram reels has become more valuable than my entire life. His fingers slide on the screen like a magician flipping playing cards. I sit next to him holding a cup of tea and keep looking at him, but his eyes never wander from the phone. It feels like I am just a piece of old furniture in that house, covered in dust, which no one even wants to bother moving.

One day I said, “Listen, I need to talk to you.” Without looking up, he said, “I am busy right now, we will see later.” This “later” never comes. When a man pretends to be busy, he is actually running away from his responsibilities. To break the silence of this loneliness, I found a new way. I would call my own number from my own mobile phone. When the voice from the other side said, “The number you have dialed is currently busy,” a strange peace would fill my heart. At least someone was saying that I was busy. Someone was noticing my presence, even if it was just a computer’s recorded voice. This was the biggest sadness of my life—that I had to use my own number to convince myself that I existed in this world.

Just then, a new young man came to live in front of our house. He was two years younger than me, and perhaps that is why he was far away from the clever tricks of the world. He understood my loneliness just by looking at the sadness on my face. While the master of the house was busy scrolling reels on the sofa, that boy was reading my silence. When my husband was not home, he would visit my house on the excuse of asking for salt or tea leaves. There was a strange kindness in his eyes, which felt like a cool shower of rain in my desert-like life. One day, during a conversation, he told me very simply that he was not married yet. I felt that God had sent him to the house opposite mine just to end my loneliness.

As we started meeting more often, the dried-up river inside me began to flood with life again. Every time I planned to run away with him from this suffocating life, he would smile and say, “Don’t rush. Let’s make a plan tomorrow.” I thought he was saying this for our safety. A man’s “tomorrow” sometimes becomes a woman’s lifelong wait. He would make an excuse every time, and I would come back to sit at the edge of the same sofa next to the reels. When love is received in small bits, its value increases even more. I was passing my days with the help of his false hope, telling myself that one day this darkness would go away.

One day, he suddenly came to me on his own and said, “Tomorrow we will go far away forever. Pack your bags and be ready.” That day, I felt like my years of prayer had finally answered. I quietly took out my favorite sarees from the cupboard and started packing them in a suitcase. In the next room, my husband was laughing loudly while watching a prank video on his mobile. His laughter stabbed my ears like a sharp nail. I felt pity for that man, who did not even know that the ground was slipping from under his feet. I packed the bitterest truth of my life into a bag and began waiting for the morning that was going to witness my departure.

When I reached his house with all my bags packed, he had already left. A lock was hanging on the door of the house opposite mine, and only dust was flying around. My breath got stuck in my throat, and the suitcase fell from my hand to the ground. When I didn’t see anyone around, I asked a shopkeeper nearby about him. The truth told by the shopkeeper completely shook me. The shopkeeper spat his tobacco and said very casually, “Oh, he was married. His wife lives in Bengaluru, and she came early this morning to pick him up. Both left by the first bus.”

Hearing this, everything inside me shattered. The boy whom I thought to be the savior of my loneliness was nothing but a cheat. He was just using the tea leaves and salt of my house to pass his free time. What could be a more horrible form of heartbreak than this? The person I thought was my way to freedom had pushed me into a deeper well. I sat on the doorstep of that empty house and started laughing because I ran out of tears to cry. The whole game was just about passing time—whether it was watching reels or asking for salt in the neighborhood.

With shaking hands, I picked up my suitcase and walked back toward my old house, where silence was waiting for me. The main door was open, and the sounds of the same reels were still coming from the sofa. My husband didn’t even look at me. While looking at the screen, he said, “Oh, you are back? Just check if we are out of salt.” Without saying anything, I looked toward the kitchen where the salt container was already half-full. I understood that in this world, everyone is busy with their own screens and their own stories, and other people’s emotions are just a source of entertainment.

I took out my phone and dialed my own number again. The same familiar voice came from the other side, saying that the number you have dialed is busy. I kept the phone pressed against my ear and started feeling the comfort of that busy tone. Now I was completely sure that in this selfish and fake world, only my own number was there which would never betray my loneliness, even if it always pretended to be busy. This final goodbye to love had made me completely self-reliant.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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