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. Today we present his satire The stomach judged, the rulers budged!.
☆ Witful Warmth# 44 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The stomach judged, the rulers budged!… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
Raghu’s entire life was spent in one queue or the other. First, the school queue. Then, the marriage queue. Then came the job queue. And now, in his twilight years, he was gloriously queued up for—hold your breath—ration! They say a man finally rests six feet under a line, but Raghu had managed to live in one, permanently. He’d wake up at 4 a.m. (bathing was optional), tie a half-hearted dhoti, and be in line before his wife could shout, “There’s no milk!” Milk? Raghu didn’t need milk. He needed wheat, rice, and a teaspoon of dignity. Ration queues, my friend, are the true melting pots of Indian democracy. Religion, caste, class—everything dissolves into one universal identity: “Please wait.” The government tone might as well be inspired by the ration shop’s eternal chorus.
“Last time I didn’t get salt,” Raghu mumbled. A cheeky teen behind him quipped, “Planning to make halwa this time, grandpa?” The shopkeeper, with the swagger of a TV anchor, stamped Raghu’s card and said, “You’ll get it when there’s leftovers. Move along, Baba!” It was the same every month—nothing left but leftover expectations. Ration has now become a seasonal blessing from the heavens, or more precisely, from the District Supply Office. Behind him, a girl shouted, “Give me rice, I feel like making daal today!” Raghu turned—she was around his granddaughter’s age but had a Smart Card. Raghu only had old memories and a fractured spine.
“Stay in line, old man!” The security guard’s voice had the softness of a hammer. Raghu stepped back. The words didn’t just strike his ears—they jabbed his soul. All his life he made sure his children stayed in line—school lines, fee lines, marriage bureaus. And today, here he was—an unregistered participant in the very line he had been loyal to. The women’s queue was longer, but their patience was even longer. “My bag’s torn!” a woman screamed. The shopkeeper chuckled, “Just like government promises—always bursting at the seams!”
Sweat ran down in streams. Raghu’s eyes leaked too—both victims of the merciless sun and merciless system. A kid asked innocently, “Grandpa, are you hungry?” Raghu smiled, “No, son. Hunger is no longer a feeling. It’s a habit now.” That was supposed to be a joke, but even the laughter trembled with weakness. When hunger becomes routine, a man doesn’t live—he simply performs the act of living.
Suddenly, a politician’s convoy zoomed past—AC cars like mobile glaciers in a desert. “Clear the way! The Hon’ble is coming!” the guard barked. Raghu’s face lit up, “Is he coming for ration too?” The crowd laughed—a hollow, stomach-growling laugh. Laughter in a ration line is a form of protest—it doesn’t lighten, it burns. Then came the cameras. Journalists took selfies with Raghu. “You look very inspirational, Dadaji!” one chirped. Raghu blinked—so hunger had now become an inspirational story!
He returned home with an empty bag and a full pocket—full of papers. One read: “Aadhaar not linked. Kindly visit the bank.” He showed it to his daughter-in-law. She sighed, “Leave it, Baba. We’ll just buy something from outside.” But Raghu knew—outside food comes with preservatives, not love. Home-made rotis, even without ghee, carried something else—dignity, belonging, soul.
The last time Raghu stood in the line, the guard said, “Why do you keep coming, Baba? You’re too old.” Raghu smiled, “The day I stop getting ration, son, I’ll stop breathing.” And so it happened. He collapsed in the line—without drama, without a scream. They brought water, but of course, there was no sugar in it. Just like his life—bitter, basic, and boiled down to survival.
Raghu left. Not just the queue, but the planet. Behind him, his torn cloth bag lay still. A perfect metaphor for every government scheme—too stretched, too fragile, and too empty. Bubbly, the girl from the back, was crying. The guard looked down. The shopkeeper, for the first time, didn’t crack a joke. And somewhere above, a final line was drawn—not on paper, but in memory. Ah… and the nation, still waiting in line, fell silent.
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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
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