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 The Dog: A Citizen of the Republic of Irony.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 61 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Dog: A Citizen of the Republic of Irony… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

The dog is not merely an animal. He is a metaphor, a social commentary, a walking editorial. He is the only creature who can wag his tail and still be taken seriously. In our society, the dog has transcended biology and entered politics, bureaucracy, and even philosophy. He is the mascot of loyalty, the symbol of servitude, and the ambassador of absurdity. When a dog barks, it is not just noise—it is a protest, a press conference, a parliamentary debate. And when he bites, it is not violence—it is policy implementation. The dog is the only citizen who can roam freely, bark at authority, and still be fed by the very system he disrupts. In this republic of irony, the dog is not beneath us. He is among us. Sometimes, he is above us. He is the minister’s pet, the bureaucrat’s companion, the influencer’s accessory, and the common man’s mirror. If Harishankar Parsai were alive today, he would not write about the dog. He would interview him. Because the dog knows everything. He has seen everything. He has sniffed every scandal, marked every boundary, and slept through every revolution. He is not just a creature. He is a commentary.

The dog’s loyalty is legendary. But loyalty to whom? To the master, of course. The master may be corrupt, cruel, or criminal—but the dog remains loyal. This is not loyalty. This is conditioning. And this conditioning is not limited to dogs. Citizens too are conditioned. They vote loyally, cheer loyally, and suffer loyally. The dog licks the master’s boots. The citizen licks the master’s slogans. The dog wags his tail. The citizen waves his flag. Both are symbols of submission. The dog does not question authority. Neither does the voter. The dog is trained to sit, stay, and roll over. The citizen is trained to obey, pay, and rollover EMIs. The dog’s loyalty is rewarded with biscuits. The citizen’s loyalty is rewarded with promises. Both are edible, but only one is digestible. The dog is loyal because he knows no better. The citizen is loyal because he fears worse. In this democracy, loyalty is not a virtue—it is a survival tactic. And the dog is its most honest practitioner. He does not pretend to be free. He knows he is owned. The citizen, however, lives in the illusion of freedom, wagging his rights like a tail, unaware that the leash is constitutional.

The dog barks. It is his right. It is also his duty. He barks at strangers, at shadows, at silence. He barks to assert territory, to express anxiety, to demand attention. The citizen too barks—on social media, in drawing rooms, at news anchors. But his bark is hollow. It lacks teeth. The dog’s bark may not bite, but it warns. The citizen’s bark is often just noise. The dog barks at injustice instinctively. The citizen barks at injustice selectively. The dog does not need a trending hashtag to protest. He needs a reason. The citizen needs a camera. The dog’s bark is raw, unfiltered, and honest. The citizen’s bark is rehearsed, edited, and monetized. The dog barks even when no one listens. The citizen barks only when someone retweets. In this age of performative outrage, the dog remains authentic. He does not bark for likes. He barks for survival. And when he stops barking, it is not peace—it is resignation. The dog teaches us that silence is not always golden. Sometimes, it is dangerous. Because when the dog stops barking, the thief enters. And when the citizen stops barking, the tyrant wins.

The dog bites. Not always. But when he does, it is decisive. He does not issue warnings. He does not file petitions. He bites. And then he moves on. The citizen, however, does not bite. He debates. He discusses. He defers. The dog bites when provoked. The citizen tolerates when provoked. The dog’s bite is a reaction. The citizen’s inaction is a tradition. The dog bites the hand that hits him. The citizen kisses the hand that robs him. The dog is not diplomatic. He is direct. The citizen is not direct. He is domesticated. The dog bites and faces consequences. The citizen suffers and writes poetry. In this society, biting is rebellion. And rebellion is discouraged. The dog is punished for biting. The citizen is rewarded for bleeding quietly. The dog’s bite is a statement. The citizen’s silence is a compromise. The dog teaches us that sometimes, resistance must be physical. That sometimes, the only way to be heard is to bite. But we have forgotten how to bite. We have become toothless patriots, wagging our tongues instead of our tails, barking at each other instead of the system. The dog remains the last revolutionary.

The dog sleeps. Anywhere. Everywhere. He sleeps on footpaths, under cars, beside garbage bins. He sleeps without guilt, without shame, without apology. The citizen too sleeps—through elections, through scams, through speeches. But his sleep is not restful. It is strategic. The dog sleeps because he is tired. The citizen sleeps because he is indifferent. The dog wakes up when danger approaches. The citizen wakes up when Netflix buffers. The dog’s sleep is innocent. The citizen’s sleep is complicit. The dog does not dream of democracy. He dreams of bones. The citizen dreams of democracy but settles for discounts. The dog sleeps in the open, vulnerable yet free. The citizen sleeps in gated colonies, secure yet caged. The dog’s sleep is a pause. The citizen’s sleep is an escape. In this nation of sleepers, the dog is the only one who wakes up for a reason. He wakes up to bark, to bite, to chase. The citizen wakes up to complain, to consume, to conform. The dog teaches us that sleep is necessary, but awakening is urgent. That rest is not resignation. That dreams must be chased, not just dreamt. But we continue to sleep—through injustice, through inequality, through incompetence—hoping someone else will bark.

The dog runs. Behind cars, cycles, cats, and sometimes, his own tail. He runs without purpose, without destination, without GPS. The citizen too runs—behind jobs, behind leaders, behind trends. But his run is not free. It is forced. The dog runs because he can. The citizen runs because he must. The dog’s run is chaotic but joyful. The citizen’s run is structured but stressful. The dog does not run for medals. He runs for movement. The citizen runs for validation. The dog runs even when he knows he won’t catch the car. The citizen runs even when he knows he won’t catch a break. The dog’s run is a metaphor for freedom. The citizen’s run is a metaphor for fatigue. In this race of rats, the dog remains a stray. He does not follow lanes. He does not obey signals. He runs because the road is his. The citizen runs because the system demands it. The dog teaches us that running is not always progress. That speed is not always success. That chasing is not always achieving. But we continue to run—on treadmills of ambition, on highways of illusion—forgetting that sometimes, the joy is in the run, not the result.

The dog is homeless. Technically. But he is not rootless. He belongs to every street, every corner, every chai stall. The citizen has homes, but no belonging. He lives in apartments, but not in communities. The dog is greeted by name—Sheru, Tommy, Moti. The citizen is greeted by designation—Sir, Ma’am, Boss. The dog is remembered for his bark. The citizen is remembered for his LinkedIn. The dog is fed by strangers. The citizen is ignored by neighbors. The dog finds warmth in winter, shade in summer, and food in festivals. The citizen finds EMI in winter, bills in summer, and stress in festivals. The dog is poor, but not pitiful. The citizen is rich, but not restful. In this urban jungle, the dog survives. The citizen struggles. The dog teaches us that home is not a building. It is a feeling. That belonging is not ownership. It is acceptance. That community is not WhatsApp groups. It is shared silence, shared space, shared stories. But we continue to build walls, install cameras, and forget names. The dog remains the only one who knows everyone, greets everyone, and trusts everyone. He is homeless, but never alone.

The dog dies. Quietly. On roads, in drains, under wheels. No obituary. No condolence. No trending hashtag. The citizen too dies—sometimes loudly, sometimes invisibly. But his death is documented. The dog’s death is deleted. The citizen’s death is debated. The dog dies without insurance. The citizen dies with policies. The dog dies because he lived freely. The citizen dies because he lived fearfully. The dog’s death is a statistic. The citizen’s death is a story. But both are forgotten. The dog teaches us that death is not the end. It is the punctuation. That life must be barked, bitten, and run. That silence is not peace—it is absence. That freedom is not safety—it is risk. But we do not learn. We mourn selectively. We remember conveniently. We live cautiously. So let us not dismiss the dog as a mere street nuisance or a loyal pet. He is our reflection—raw, unfiltered, and inconvenient. He barks when we whisper, bites when we beg, and sleeps when we pretend to be awake. In his wagging tail lies our conditioned obedience, in his bark our suppressed dissent, and in his bite our forgotten courage. The dog does not wear masks of civility; he exposes the farce of our own. He does not seek approval; he demands attention. And in doing so, he becomes the most honest citizen of this republic—unregistered, uncelebrated, but unforgettable. If we truly wish to evolve as a society, perhaps we must stop taming the dog and start learning from him. Because in a world where silence is rewarded and obedience is sold as virtue, the dog reminds us—sometimes, to be truly human, one must dare to bark.

****

© 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 Lamentable Chronicle of the Man in the Manger.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 57 ☆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

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

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

Some precious moments of life

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

Today we present his satire Kismatchand and the Bureaucratic Beast.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 56 ☆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

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

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

Some precious moments of life

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

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

☆ Witful Warmth# 55 ☆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

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

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

Some precious moments of life

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

Today we present his satire Chips, Clicks, and the Cry of Empty Pockets.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 54 ☆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

☆ Witful Warmth# 53 ☆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

© 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 Leadership By Loudspeaker: Akarmpur’s Path To Parched Prosperity.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 52 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Leadership By Loudspeaker: Akarmpur’s Path To Parched Prosperity… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

I still vividly recall those golden mornings in Akarmpur, a village where every problem found its solution not through diligent effort, but through a new ‘totka’ – a ritual, a gimmick, a quick fix. Akarmpur was not merely a village; it was a philosophy, a living embodiment of the maxim: ‘Do less, show more.’ Here, hard work was perpetually sidelined, relegated to the margins, while ostentation, pretense, and immediate ‘ritualistic compliance’ were elevated to the status of ‘supreme duty.’ The people of Akarmpur, as if liberated from a centuries-old curse of labor, now sought only the path of ease and comfort. If the specter of drought loomed over the village, instead of tilling the fields, a team of priests would be summoned. They would gaze intently at the sky, attempting to ‘mesmerize’ the clouds with their chants. When crops failed, there was no deliberation on the quality of seeds or the lack of irrigation; instead, easy remedies like ‘Shani’s donation’ or ‘Rahu’s wrath’ were sought.

Our village headman, Shri ‘Banaavati Lal’ – whose oratorical prowess was astounding but whose capacity for action was nil – would always declare, “Look, brothers, it’s all about ideas; action is merely a formality. When thoughts are pure, results will manifest on their own!” And the people of Akarmpur, so immersed in this cry of ‘thought revolution,’ remained oblivious to their crumbling huts, parched fields, and empty platters. Every evening, meetings were held at the Chaupal (village square) where grand theories of ‘nation-building’ were discussed. Afterwards, everyone would return to their homes, satisfied that they had offered their oblations in the ‘sacrifice of knowledge’ for the day. If someone asked, “Why is there no water?” the answer would come, “Oh, we are performing a ‘water-yagya’ for the water problem! We just need a little more ghee.” A problem was never a problem; it was merely an ‘opportunity for a ritual.’ And in the midst of these endless rituals, Akarmpur slowly, smilingly, dug its own grave. Every face was content, not because any real work had been done, but because the showmanship was so spectacular that it defied questioning! This had become the inherent nature of Akarmpur, where ‘inaction’ was the greatest ‘action.’

One day, as the sun began to scorch Akarmpur’s earth and the water in the wells receded into the netherworld, a desperate cry echoed through the village. Children whimpered from thirst, women stood helpless with empty pitchers, and men cursed the heavens. But lo and behold, our सरपंच Banaavati Lal, who saw a ‘new opportunity’ in every calamity, immediately announced an ‘unprecedented Water Crisis Aversion Grand Ritual’ (Adbhoot Jal-Sankat Nivaaran Maha-Yagya). A massive sacrificial pit was constructed in the village’s largest field. A team of twenty priests was summoned, their fees paid by the villagers who cut into their meager meals. During the ritual, white powder dissolved from a plastic container was offered instead of milk, as real milk had vanished along with the water. Fragrant oblations of ‘vegetable oil’ replaced ghee, which, while driving away flies, failed to summon any clouds. The priests chanted mantras as if reciting dialogues from a Bollywood film – loud voices, dramatic gestures, and silence as soon as ‘cut’ was called! One priest even started snoring in the middle of a mantra, but no one paid attention, for ‘devotion’ was at its peak.

The village headman proclaimed over the microphone, “Friends! This is not just a ritual; it is the ‘Grand Confluence of our Water Consciousness’! Today, we have appeased the souls of our ancestors; now water will come on its own, just like voters on election day!” And the very next day after the ritual, the pond dried up further. Yet, the village headman attributed this to the ‘immediate effect of the ritual’ – “The impurities are drying up; pure water is coming from below!” The people were hungry and thirsty, but a sense of ‘satisfaction’ was etched on their faces, for ‘something had been done.’ And when nothing works, the pretense of ‘doing something grand’ becomes the greatest solace.

The Rally of Empty Slogans: ‘Save Water, Save Nation, Print My Name in Newspaper’

When even the grand ritual failed to bring water, and the villagers, waiting for ‘holy water,’ began to wither further, the youth brigade took charge. The leader of the youth brigade, Shri ‘Hawaabaazi’ (Mr. Empty Talk), announced, “Friends! Rituals are old traditions; now is the time for ‘modern consciousness’! We will organize the ‘Save Water, Save Nation, and Get My Name Printed in the Newspaper’ rally!” A plan for the rally was drawn up. Posters were printed, featuring one or two drops of water, with the rest of the space dominated by Shri Hawaabaazi’s smiling face. Tempos were rented, blaring patriotic songs from loudspeakers, and at every intersection, slogans like ‘Water is Life!’ and ‘How will the nation survive if you die of thirst!’ were shouted. Some people in the crowd had only come for the ‘free snacks,’ and others didn’t even know what the water problem was; they were just enjoying ‘being part of the rally.’

Hawaabaazi delivered an impassioned speech, “Communalism doesn’t bring water, casteism doesn’t make water drip! We must unite for national unity, for water!” Then, two empty buckets were symbolically burned, an act termed ‘the burning of the effigy of corruption.’ People applauded heartily, because watching burning buckets was more entertaining than looking at dry wells. The rally ended. Everyone was exhausted, but with the inner satisfaction that ‘today we have done something significant!’ The next day, large pictures were splashed across newspapers, showing Hawaabaazi and his cronies with slogans, but water was still nowhere to be found. The village children were now chanting ‘national unity’ slogans, but their thirst had only intensified.

The water problem had now taken a severe turn. People were fleeing the village, and those who remained cursed their fate. Then, a renowned intellectual from the city, Professor ‘Gyanchand’ (Mr. Knowledge Moon), who had a penchant for organizing ‘seminars’ on every problem, arranged a grand seminar in the village on ‘Water Crisis: A National Discourse.’ The seminar hall was splendid, air conditioners hummed, and mineral water bottles (which the villagers could not afford) were placed on the tables. Three scholars expressed their deep concern: “The water crisis is a ‘crisis of our morality’! It is a result of ‘global climate change’! We must ‘rethink water management’!”

Professor Gyanchand delivered an hour-long, verbose speech on the ‘economic dimensions,’ ‘social implications,’ and ‘philosophical nature’ of water. Most of the audience was either sleeping or playing games on their mobile phones. At the end of the seminar, a ‘resolution’ was passed that more ‘discussions’ on ‘water conservation’ would be held in the future. The next day, large pictures of Professor Gyanchand appeared in newspapers, showing him expressing concern over ‘the nation’s plight.’ One headline read: “Scholars Hold Deep Discussions on Water Crisis in Akarmpur, Another Step Taken Towards Solution!” Outside the village, an old woman, with thirsty eyes, looked at that newspaper, under which was written – “Professor Gyanchand said at the seminar, ‘Water is a fundamental right!'” And then she collapsed, not from knowledge, but from lack of water.

After the seminar, when the water bottles were empty and the echoes of speeches faded into the air, the situation worsened. Now, the ‘Pledge of Apathy’ loomed over the village. Our सरपंच Banaavati Lal, whose unwavering faith in ‘problem-solving’ still persisted, announced yet another ‘grand strategy’: “We must form a ‘Water Solution Committee’! This committee will prepare an ‘in-depth report’ on the ‘water crisis,’ which will pave the way for the future!” And the very next day, a ‘committee’ was formed, comprising the laziest but on paper the most ‘learned’ people in the village. The chairman of this committee was a retired Babu (clerk), Shri ‘Kaagazilaal’ (Mr. Paper Man), who was an expert at counting files but had an allergy to fieldwork.

Committee meetings began. Each meeting involved rounds of tea and samosas, followed by members ‘discussing’ the ‘report.’ Kaagazilaal would ask ‘extremely serious’ questions to each member, such as “Have we correctly defined the water crisis as a ‘problem’?” or “Do we have sufficient ‘positive outlook’?” Three months later, the committee presented a ‘voluminous report’ of 300 pages, detailing the ’causes,’ ‘effects,’ and ‘potential solutions’ to the water crisis. The report contained weighty terms like ‘river interlinking projects,’ ‘rainwater harvesting,’ and ‘public participation,’ but not a single drop of water appeared on the ground. The report was filed in a government office among piles of ‘extremely important’ documents, where it gathered dust. The villagers were happy to see the report, because ‘government work’ had been completed, but their homes still held dry pitchers. One day, a child, crying from hunger and thirst, asked his mother, “Mom, can we squeeze water from this report?” Tears welled up in his mother’s eyes, but no words escaped her parched throat.

The committee’s report, the rally’s slogans, and the ritual’s ashes, all combined to transform Akarmpur into a dry desert. The problem had now become so dire that it was difficult to ignore, yet Akarmpur’s nature remained unchanged. Now, the era of ‘scientific totkas’ began. The village’s greatest ‘scientific baba,’ Dr. ‘Ajeeblal’ (Dr. Strange Red), claimed he had a ‘mantra’ to bring ‘artificial rain.’ He constructed a large ‘apparatus’ with wires and bulbs, which he kept shining day and night, claiming that ‘this will create vibrations in the sky and bring clouds!’ Children would gather around the apparatus, thinking that perhaps candies would emerge from it. The apparatus ran for a week, the electricity bill skyrocketed, but no clouds appeared.

Then, a new ‘reformist movement’ began. Some young people raised slogans for ‘dowry-free marriages’ and ‘inter-caste marriages.’ One day, two lovers, from different castes and without dowry, ran away from the city and came to Akarmpur to get married. The so-called ‘progressive’ people of the village welcomed them like ‘heroes and heroines.’ Their pictures were published in newspapers, proclaiming, ‘Akarmpur brings revolution to society!’ But a few days later, the girl’s family arrived and took them back under threat. The ‘progressive’ people quietly slipped away, knowing that true social change comes not from ‘limelight’ but from ‘grinding effort.’ The village youth were now even more disheartened. They saw that their village’s problems, which were initially small, were only growing larger due to grand events and useless speeches. Their hearts wept, but even their tears had dried up.

In this very Akarmpur, there lived an ordinary young man named ‘Karmaveer’ (Hero of Action). He found all this showmanship distasteful. When the water crisis struck the village, he did not participate in rallies, rituals, or seminars. He quietly, along with some of his fellow youths, went to the village’s oldest well. The well had been dry for decades, filled with garbage. Karmaveer and his companions picked up shovels and began to dig. People laughed at them, “Oh, you fools, the सरपंच performed a ritual, Hawaabaazi led a rally, Professor Gyanchand held a seminar, and Kaagazilaal prepared a report! What will you achieve by digging dirt? Will you change history?” Karmaveer paid no heed to their mocking words.

Day and night, he and his companions toiled, sweating profusely. Their hands were chafed, their bodies ached, but their minds held only one resolve – water. For weeks, they dug, removed earth, and broke stones. Slowly, some other villagers, who had become disillusioned with these ‘totkas,’ began to join them. They dug small pits, cleaned the silt from ponds, and built small dams to conserve rainwater. This work proceeded slowly; there was no ‘media coverage,’ no ‘awards,’ and no ‘speeches.’ It was simply ‘relentless hard work.’ And one day, as they were digging the final layer of the well, a faint gurgling sound was heard – ‘kal-kal, kal-kal.’ And then, clear, cold water gushed forth from the well. A wave of joy swept through the village. People ran to Karmaveer and his companions, embracing them. But this joy was fleeting.

Karmaveer and his companions drew water from the well, quenching the village’s thirst, but this was only the beginning. The real challenge now lay ahead: changing the village’s mindset. When Karmaveer said, “We must now cultivate the habit of saving water in every home; these useless totkas will achieve nothing,” the very people who had just honored him now began to resent him. “What are you talking about, Karmaveer? Now that water has come, why should anyone work hard? Now we will worship the ‘water deity’ again!”

Sarpanch Banaavati Lal became active once more. He organized a ‘Water Gratitude Rally’ in which he declared himself the ‘Water Man,’ and Karmaveer’s name was nowhere to be heard. Professor Gyanchand organized another seminar, its subject being ‘The Availability of Water and Its Impact on Social Psychology,’ in which he described Karmaveer’s work as ‘unscientific’ and ‘unorganized.’ Kaagazilaal prepared a ‘supplementary report,’ claiming that the water in the well was a result of ‘his original report.’ Karmaveer saw that the people who had been with him moments ago had now returned to the ‘easy path.’ He tried to explain, “Look, this is just one well; the whole village needs water, and we must cultivate the habit of saving water!” But people ignored him. They dismissed him as ‘negative-minded’ and ‘unable to tolerate happiness,’ ostracizing him. Karmaveer found himself alone. His hard work, his sacrifice, his wisdom – all seemed in vain, because the ‘easy remedies’ had so enchanted Akarmpur that they were celebrating their own ruin as a ‘festival.’

Ultimately, Akarmpur’s ‘inherent nature’ once again dominated. When Karmaveer saw that his hard work was merely considered another ‘totka,’ and people had reverted to their old habits, his heart broke. The well he had nourished with his sweat slowly began to dry up again, because people, instead of conserving water, started wasting it, confident that ‘when thirst strikes, a new totka will work.’ The village सरपंच, Hawaabaazi, Professor Gyanchand, and Kaagazilaal had all moved to a new city, where they organized another ‘national seminar’ on ‘Lessons from Akarmpur’s Water Crisis.’ They had now become ‘global experts’ on ‘water management.’

Left behind was Akarmpur – a dry, desolate, and ruined wasteland. People began to die of hunger and thirst. The children who once chanted ‘Water is Life’ were now reduced to whispers of ‘If only… if only we had listened to that Karmaveer.’ An old mother, taking her last breath with a parched throat, looked at her child’s withered face, and a sigh escaped her lips – ‘Alas, this totka! Where has it left us!’ Karmaveer, who was among the survivors, stood on the highest mound of the village, watching his beloved Akarmpur burn, now merely a ‘heap of ashes.’ He tried to shed tears, but his eyes too had dried up. He saw that even there, some people were caressing the dry ground, searching for a new ‘tantric totka’ – perhaps a mantra to ‘transform the desert into a lush green land’! It was surely better to be a human than an angel, but becoming human required so much effort that we chose the easy path of becoming angels, and perished.

****

© 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 Where Trees Were Promised and Titles Were Planted.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 51 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Where Trees Were Promised and Titles Were Planted… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

In the dust-choked lanes of a forgotten village in Champaran, where only electoral drizzle now refreshes the thirst of hope, once sprouted a noble seedling: the Janhit Utthan Parishad. This was not an institution born of lobbying or LinkedIn connections, but of a frail old teacher—Masterji—who traded his only piece of ancestral land, not for stock options, but for the betterment of the village. Back when devotion had not yet been gobbled up by dopamine-fueled selfies, and when sacrifice did not need hashtags to go viral, Masterji dared to dream of a platform that would channel rivers of altruism. That sacred shrine of public service has now been annexed by a mob of sweet-toothed contractors who flock not to serve but to be served. The walls that once echoed with his maxim, “An institution is a temple of service,” now display laughing faces on election posters. Mahatma Gandhi still hangs there, though rumor has it he occasionally mutters, “Hey Ram! What calamity is this?”

Where once sat councils of virtue—discussing education, sanitation, and green revolutions—the institution’s meetings have been demoted to exhibitions of egos and necktie knots. One fine day, as though an old transistor caught a rogue frequency, ten members stood up simultaneously and cried, “The institution is sinking!” One might have mistaken it for the Titanic’s final scene, had it not been accompanied by the chairman’s candy-store smile. And like a comic twist in a political reality show, the solution proposed was not reform in intent or action, but reform in titles—new president, new vice president, and a minister to complete the trilogy. As if governance was a talent hunt and the prize was a gilded armchair. Not a whisper on principles, but a stampede for positions. Somewhere in the cracked plaster behind Masterji’s garlanded photo, his spirit may well have headbutted the wall.

Gone are the days when meeting agendas brimmed with purpose—children’s education, cleaning of the village pond, and planting of trees. The modern meeting resembles a wedding procession, without the bride. Chairs line up like anxious guests; speeches rain down like confetti, but the issues are conspicuously absent. The only mission now is the mission to capture a better camera angle. The guiding philosophy has been replaced with an inventory of chairs. One veteran, his eyes moist with betrayed faith, whispered, “We used to plant trees; now we plant titles.” This from a man who once pledged his pension to the cause, now left to admire the president’s gold chain while peering into an empty treasury register.

The annual celebration—once a festival of soil and saplings—has transformed into a carnival of banners, drums, and declarations. “Fifty trees planted this year!” the president announced, and the crowd clapped like metronomes. Meanwhile, the village searched for a single sprout. Neither pit nor plant could be found. The trees had evidently taken root in reports, watered and nourished by budget files. A trophy followed—“Best Environmentalist”—handed to the chairman, who stepped up and declared, “Our institution is the mother of society!” A child in the crowd innocently quipped, “Then why does she feel so stepmotherly?” Ah! There lies the whole tale—this mother no longer nurtures, she merely poses.

The institution’s social media handles now read like a satire on benevolence. The same leader, the same cap, the same posture—ad infinitum. Old-age homes became backdrops for photo ops. Fruits were ‘distributed’—or rather, made to hover before the lens—while the elders received smiles more than sustenance. One old man chuckled, “Son, they didn’t give us fruit; they just clicked pictures and vanished.” And thus, the institution transitioned from a service mission to a lighting studio, where emotion was the wallpaper and the spotlight reserved for faces, not causes.

As the curtain drew further, original members were either retired with ceremonial garlands or systematically muted like unwanted tabs on a browser. Masterji, once a living manual of integrity, now only grins from his dusty frame. His grandson once asked, “Grandpa, what does your institution do now?” He sighed and replied, “It’s no longer an institution, son. It’s a flea market for chairs.” The PR firm has taken over the spirit, and truth, it seems, has taken a long vacation. Masterji no longer speaks from the dais; he speaks from the frame. A relic of a time when service was the language of the soul.

Eventually, under the theatrical name of ‘restructuring,’ the institution quietly dissolved itself. No drums, no slogans, just a withered meeting where Masterji’s photo received its final garland. A crack ran down the wall, and those nearby claim they heard a voice whisper, “I created this for service. You used it for selfies.” The institution that once irrigated the barren fields of Champaran with hope has itself turned barren. Now, its tale is preserved in one corner of a modest library, in a frail diary’s final line: “There’s only one letter’s difference between service and power—but the intent is separated by a thousand miles.”

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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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