English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 44 – The stomach judged, the rulers budged! ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Poetry ☆ Anonymous litterateur of social media # 232 ☆ Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ☆

Captain (IN) Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

? Anonymous Litterateur of social media # 232 (सोशल मीडिया के गुमनाम साहित्यकार # 232) ?

Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi NM—an ex Naval Officer, possesses a multifaceted personality. He served as a Senior Advisor in prestigious Supercomputer organisation C-DAC, Pune. An alumnus of IIM Ahmedabad was involved in various Artificial and High-Performance Computing projects of national and international repute. He has got a long experience in the field of ‘Natural Language Processing’, especially, in the domain of Machine Translation. He has taken the mantle of translating the timeless beauties of Indian literature upon himself so that it reaches across the globe. He has also undertaken translation work for Shri Narendra Modi, the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, which was highly appreciated by him. He is also a member of ‘Bombay Film Writer Association’. He is also the English Editor for the web magazine www.e-abhivyakti.com

Captain Raghuvanshi is also a littérateur par excellence. He is a prolific writer, poet and ‘Shayar’ himself and participates in literature fests and ‘Mushayaras’. He keeps participating in various language & literature fests, symposiums and workshops etc.

Recently, he played an active role in the ‘International Hindi Conference’ at New Delhi. He presided over the “Session Focused on Language and Translation” and also presented a research paper. The conference was organized by Delhi University in collaboration with New York University and Columbia University.

हिंदी साहित्य – आलेख ☆ अंतर्राष्ट्रीय हिंदी सम्मेलन ☆ कैप्टन प्रवीण रघुवंशी, एन एम्

In his Naval career, he was qualified to command all types of warships. He is also an aviator and a Sea Diver; and recipient of various awards including ‘Nao Sena Medal’ by the President of India, Prime Minister Awards and C-in-C Commendation. He has won many national and international awards.

He is also an IIM Ahmedabad alumnus.

His latest quest involves writing various books and translation work including over 100 Bollywood songs for various international forums as a mission for the enjoyment of the global viewers. Published various books and over 3000 poems, stories, blogs and other literary work at national and international level. Felicitated by numerous literary bodies..! 

? English translation of Urdu poetry couplets of Anonymous litterateur of Social Media # 232 ?

☆☆☆☆☆

ज़रा सी कैद से ही

घुटन होने  लगी…

तुम तो पंछी पालने

के  बड़े  शौक़ीन थे…

☆☆

Just a little bit of confinement

Made you feel so suffocated

 But keeping the birds caged

 You were so very fond of…!

☆☆☆☆☆

अधूरी कहानी पर ख़ामोश

लबों का पहरा है

चोट रूह की है इसलिए

दर्द ज़रा गहरा है….

☆☆ 

 Silent lips are the sentinels

 Of  the  unfulfilled fairytale…

 Wound is of the spirited soul

 So the pain is rather intense….

☆☆☆☆☆

हंसते हुए चेहरों को गमों से

आजाद ना समझो साहिब

मुस्कुराहट की पनाहों में भी

हजारों  दर्द  छुपे होते  हैं…

☆☆

O’ Dear, Don’t even consider that

Laughing faces are free of sorrow

Innumerable  pains are  hidden

Even behind the walls of a smile…

☆☆☆☆☆

चुपचाप चल रहे थे

ज़िन्दगी के सफर में

तुम पर नज़र क्या पड़ी

बस  गुमराह  हो  गए…

☆☆

  Was walking peacefully

  In  the  journey of the life

  Just casting a glance on you

  Made my journey go astray…

☆☆☆☆☆

~ Pravin Raghuvanshi

© Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

Pune

≈ Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Poetry ☆ Anonymous litterateur of social media # 231 ☆ Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ☆

Captain (IN) Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

? Anonymous Litterateur of social media # 231 (सोशल मीडिया के गुमनाम साहित्यकार # 231) ?

Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi NM—an ex Naval Officer, possesses a multifaceted personality. He served as a Senior Advisor in prestigious Supercomputer organisation C-DAC, Pune. An alumnus of IIM Ahmedabad was involved in various Artificial and High-Performance Computing projects of national and international repute. He has got a long experience in the field of ‘Natural Language Processing’, especially, in the domain of Machine Translation. He has taken the mantle of translating the timeless beauties of Indian literature upon himself so that it reaches across the globe. He has also undertaken translation work for Shri Narendra Modi, the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, which was highly appreciated by him. He is also a member of ‘Bombay Film Writer Association’. He is also the English Editor for the web magazine www.e-abhivyakti.com

Captain Raghuvanshi is also a littérateur par excellence. He is a prolific writer, poet and ‘Shayar’ himself and participates in literature fests and ‘Mushayaras’. He keeps participating in various language & literature fests, symposiums and workshops etc.

Recently, he played an active role in the ‘International Hindi Conference’ at New Delhi. He presided over the “Session Focused on Language and Translation” and also presented a research paper. The conference was organized by Delhi University in collaboration with New York University and Columbia University.

हिंदी साहित्य – आलेख ☆ अंतर्राष्ट्रीय हिंदी सम्मेलन ☆ कैप्टन प्रवीण रघुवंशी, एन एम्

In his Naval career, he was qualified to command all types of warships. He is also an aviator and a Sea Diver; and recipient of various awards including ‘Nao Sena Medal’ by the President of India, Prime Minister Awards and C-in-C Commendation. He has won many national and international awards.

He is also an IIM Ahmedabad alumnus.

His latest quest involves writing various books and translation work including over 100 Bollywood songs for various international forums as a mission for the enjoyment of the global viewers. Published various books and over 3000 poems, stories, blogs and other literary work at national and international level. Felicitated by numerous literary bodies..! 

? English translation of Urdu poetry couplets of Anonymous litterateur of Social Media # 231 ?

☆☆☆☆☆

चार दिन भी लोगों की आंखो में

नमी ना होगी,

मैं फ़ना भी हो जाऊं

तो किसे क्या कमी होगी…!

☆☆

No one’s eyes will well up with tears,

even for four days,

And, no one will notice,

even if I perish…

☆☆☆☆☆

कौन सा ग़म था जो तरोताज़ा न था

इतना ग़म मिलेगा, ये भी अंदाज़ा न था,

आपकी झील सी आंखों का क्या क़ुसूर

डूबने वाले को ही गहराई का अंदाजा न था…

☆☆

No melancholy is new, yet

I didn’t expect this depth of anguish.

What fault do your ocean-like eyes hold?

Only the drowned ones couldn’t fathom the depth…

☆☆☆☆☆

फना होने वाले तो

बिना बताए ही चले जाते हैं,

रोज तो वो मरते है

जो खुद से ज्यादा किसी और को चाहते हैं…!

☆☆

Those who leave the world,

depart without warning,

The ones who love someone more than life itself,

die daily…

☆☆☆☆☆

कितना अकेला रह जाता है वो शख्स

जिसे जानते तो तमाम लोग हैं,

मगर समझता कोई नही…

☆☆

How lonely is my soul

Known by many,

yet understood by none?”

☆☆☆☆☆

~ Pravin Raghuvanshi

© Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

Pune

≈ Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 43 – The Progressive Ox and the Modern Plow ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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 Progressive Ox and the Modern Plow 

☆ Witful Warmth# 43 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Progressive Ox and the Modern Plow… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

It was a lazy Sunday morning at the village square. Old Kaka, with his wrinkled wisdom and a perpetually lit pipe, sat under the giant banyan tree. His gaze was fixed on the horizon as he puffed out smoke circles that seemed to mock the monotony of life. The younger folks gathered around him—they had just returned from their city escapades and were brimming with stories of “modern solutions” and “startups.”

Kaka cleared his throat, “I hear progress is galloping ahead like a wild horse. But tell me, how do we hitch an ox to this modern plow?”

The youth laughed. “Kaka, oxen are outdated now. We’re talking drones for farming, AI for irrigation, and apps that tell you when the crops are thirsty!”

Kaka’s brows furrowed. “Ah, so we’ll teach the ox to download an app next? Or is progress about abandoning the ox and buying one that runs on batteries?”

The crowd chuckled, but Gopal, the self-proclaimed village intellectual, stepped forward. “Kaka, you’re missing the point! Progress is about replacing old methods with innovative technology. Think of it this way—farming 2.0!”

Kaka took a deep drag from his pipe and exhaled with a smile. “So, we make farming so expensive that a farmer has to sell his land to afford the progress? Progress has become a race where the ox is left behind, and the farmer is left chasing loans.”

“But Kaka,” Gopal retorted, “Technology is the future. The villagers must adapt or perish. It’s survival of the smartest!”

Kaka chuckled softly. “Yes, but remember, Gopal, even the smartest fox cannot grow crops. Progress that leaves the ox, the plow, and the farmer behind is just a balloon—beautiful to look at, but bursts at the first prick of reality.”

The conversation spiraled from drones to digital wallets, as the youth defended their newfound faith in technology. Kaka listened patiently, occasionally nodding, as his pipe smoke seemed to form questions they couldn’t answer.

Finally, he stood up, tapped his pipe against the tree trunk, and declared, “True progress is when the ox and the plow walk hand in hand with technology—not when one is sacrificed at the altar of the other.”

The village square erupted in laughter and applause, not because they fully agreed with Kaka, but because they saw in his words the humor and irony of their reality. And as he walked away, one of the youths whispered, “Maybe the old man isn’t so outdated after all.”

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Poetry ☆ Anonymous litterateur of social media # 230 ☆ Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ☆

Captain (IN) Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

? Anonymous Litterateur of social media # 230 (सोशल मीडिया के गुमनाम साहित्यकार # 230) ?

Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi NM—an ex Naval Officer, possesses a multifaceted personality. He served as a Senior Advisor in prestigious Supercomputer organisation C-DAC, Pune. An alumnus of IIM Ahmedabad was involved in various Artificial and High-Performance Computing projects of national and international repute. He has got a long experience in the field of ‘Natural Language Processing’, especially, in the domain of Machine Translation. He has taken the mantle of translating the timeless beauties of Indian literature upon himself so that it reaches across the globe. He has also undertaken translation work for Shri Narendra Modi, the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, which was highly appreciated by him. He is also a member of ‘Bombay Film Writer Association’. He is also the English Editor for the web magazine www.e-abhivyakti.com

Captain Raghuvanshi is also a littérateur par excellence. He is a prolific writer, poet and ‘Shayar’ himself and participates in literature fests and ‘Mushayaras’. He keeps participating in various language & literature fests, symposiums and workshops etc.

Recently, he played an active role in the ‘International Hindi Conference’ at New Delhi. He presided over the “Session Focused on Language and Translation” and also presented a research paper. The conference was organized by Delhi University in collaboration with New York University and Columbia University.

हिंदी साहित्य – आलेख ☆ अंतर्राष्ट्रीय हिंदी सम्मेलन ☆ कैप्टन प्रवीण रघुवंशी, एन एम्

In his Naval career, he was qualified to command all types of warships. He is also an aviator and a Sea Diver; and recipient of various awards including ‘Nao Sena Medal’ by the President of India, Prime Minister Awards and C-in-C Commendation. He has won many national and international awards.

He is also an IIM Ahmedabad alumnus.

His latest quest involves writing various books and translation work including over 100 Bollywood songs for various international forums as a mission for the enjoyment of the global viewers. Published various books and over 3000 poems, stories, blogs and other literary work at national and international level. Felicitated by numerous literary bodies..! 

? English translation of Urdu poetry couplets of Anonymous litterateur of Social Media # 230 ?

☆☆☆☆☆

मुझे भी यकीन है,

और मौत पर भी एतबार है,

देखते हैं पहले कौन मिलता है,

हमे दोनो का इंतजार है…!

☆☆

I have faith in you and trust even death;

Let’s see who meets me first – I await both.

☆☆☆☆☆

किस्मत के खेल भी कितने निराले हैं,

जिसको चाहा वो मिला नही,

जो मिला उससे मोहब्बत ना हुई…!

☆☆

Fate’s games are indeed so strange;

I didn’t get the one who I desired,

And I didn’t fall in love with the one I got…

☆☆☆☆☆

ये वक़्त का सफर भी बड़ा अजीब सा चल रहा है

दौड़ तो रहा है, मगर खामोशी से…

☆☆

This journey of time is too strange,

It keeps unfolding but silently…

☆☆☆☆☆

हमें रुलाने वाले भी वही हैं जो कहते कि

हँसते हुए तुम बहुत अच्छे लगते हो…

☆☆

The who bring tears to my eyes is the same one 

who would say I resplendently shine when I smile.

☆☆☆☆☆

~ Pravin Raghuvanshi

© Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

Pune

≈ Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 42 – The Great Deceiver Maya, Our Mistress ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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 Great Deceiver Maya, Our Mistress 

☆ Witful Warmth# 42 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Great Deceiver Maya, Our Mistress… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

So, dear friends, the story begins on that fateful day when the greatest con artist of all—the human mind—decided to play its grandest trick on me. I woke up in the morning, rubbing my eyes, thinking, “Today, I’ll do something big, something that’ll go down in history!” But history? I couldn’t even cross my doorstep before Maya threw her first punch. “Beta, make some tea!” came my mother’s voice. Now, making tea isn’t exactly a grand feat, but Maya wove such a web around it that it wasn’t just tea—it squeezed the life out of me. No sugar, curdled milk, empty gas cylinder—and there I was, standing on the street with a pot in hand, singing like an unemployed poet, “Oh life, what have you given me?” Maya laughed, “This is just the trailer, the movie’s yet to come!” And trust me, the movie was so intense that even Shah Rukh’s films would pale in comparison. The shopkeeper said, “Cylinder will come tomorrow, cook on a stove today.” A stove? Is this 2025 or 1825? But behold Maya’s game—she turned me into a poet even while I hauled wood: “Life’s a stove, all smoke, no glow.” Neighbors laughed, “You’re quite the craftsman!” There was pain in that laughter, but who sees the tears in my eyes? Maya whispered, “Don’t cry, the day’s just begun.” And I, the fool, believed her and stepped out to embrace the day. Embrace? More like I got choked. 

The sun rose higher, and I thought, let’s hunt for a job. I grabbed my resume, polished my shoes, and set off—“There are more destinations to conquer!” But Maya had already written the script. I boarded the bus, reached for my pocket—my wallet was gone. The driver barked, “Ticket or get off!” I pleaded, “Brother, adjust a little, I’m jobless.” He laughed, “Then this isn’t a bus, it’s a train straight to Footpath Station!” The crowd clapped, and I stepped off—not as a hero, but as a villain. Standing on the road, I wondered, “Is this Maya or my fate mocking me?” Just then, a beggar approached, “Sir, spare two rupees.” I said, “Brother, I’m a beggar myself, you give me some.” He laughed, “You’re worse off than me!” Maya cackled, “See, I’ve made you the king of the streets!” King? Yes, without a crown, without a kingdom. My shoes were worn out, my stomach growled, and Maya shouted, “The interview’s still left!” Interview? That became a distant dream because by the time I reached the office, it was night. 

Evening fell, and I thought, let’s meet some friends—maybe my heart will feel lighter. But Maya outdid herself here too. My friend said, “Good you came, I’m broke, lend me some money.” I replied, “Brother, my pocket’s full of air—and that’s polluted too!” He said, “No worries, sit, I’ll get tea.” Tea arrived, I started sipping, and the dhaba owner yelled, “Who’s paying?” My friend vanished, and I was trapped. The owner said, “Wash the dishes, then leave.” Now witness Maya’s magic—my day began making tea, and ended washing dishes. Hands covered in soap, eyes brimming with tears, and a single question in my mind—“Is this life or a punishment?” Maya placed her hand on my shoulder, “Not punishment, my art.” Art? This isn’t art, it’s cruelty! But who can reason with Maya? She just kept laughing, and I, like an empty vessel, kept sobbing. My friend called later, “Sorry, I was joking.” Joking? My life’s become a joke, and Maya’s sitting in the director’s chair, clapping away. 

Night arrived, and I returned home. Mom said, “Where were you? The food’s cold.” I replied, “Mom, I’ve gone cold from life itself.” I ate, but where was the taste? Maya had stolen that too. I tried to sleep, but Maya had kidnapped my sleep. Lying in the dark, I wondered, “What did I do wrong?” Maya answered, “Wrong? You were born—that’s your mistake!” And then her laughter echoed—ha ha ha! I buried my face in the pillow, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Outside, a dog was barking—perhaps another victim of Maya. “Brother, are you crying too?” I asked. The dog fell silent, maybe Maya scolded him too. I survived the night, morning came, and Maya was ready again—“New day, new drama!” I pleaded, “Enough, Maya! I can’t take it anymore.” But she said, “You’ll have to, because I’m Maya, the Great Deceiver!” And I, like a puppet, got entangled in her game again. 

Morning followed the same routine. I made tea, but this time Maya added a new twist—she swapped the sugar with salt. Mom shouted, “What is this?” I said, “Mom, this is the taste of my life—salty tears!” She snapped, “Stop the nonsense, go get milk.” I went, but the shopkeeper said, “Money first, milk later.” Empty pockets, teary eyes. I returned, and Mom taunted, “You’ll always be useless.” Useless? Yes, Maya had made me the emperor of the useless. The day progressed, and the phone rang. The electricity guy said, “Pay the bill, or we’ll cut the power.” I said, “Brother, my life’s already cut off, what’s electricity?” He laughed, “Then cry in the dark!” Darkness? It’s become my friend. Maya said, “See, I’ve shown you every shade—black, white, salty!” And I, without electricity, sat with a candle, talking to my shadow—“You’re better than me, at least Maya doesn’t toy with you.” 

Noon arrived, and a neighbor came by, “I hear crying from your house.” I said, “Brother, that’s my life, clinging to me and weeping.” He asked, “Some girl trouble?” I laughed, “Yes, a girl named Maya!” He didn’t understand and left. Then the postman arrived with a letter. I opened it—a job rejection: “You’re unfit.” Unfit? Maya taunted, “See, you’re unfit even for my game!” I tore the letter and screamed, “Maya, you’ve won!” But she said, “Won? The real fun of defeat is yet to come.” That evening, the power was cut. Sitting in the dark, I wondered, “What’s left?” Then water dripped from the ceiling—rain had started. Maya laughed, “I’ve summoned your tears from the sky!” I got drenched, and Maya danced. 

The night deepened, and I had a dream. Maya stood before me, saying, “You think I’m cruel? I’m your teacher.” I asked, “What have you taught me? To cry?” She said, “No, to endure!” Endure? Yes, Maya had turned me into an endurance machine. I woke up, my pillow soaked. The rain had stopped outside, but the storm inside me raged on. Mom said, “Get up, do something.” I replied, “Mom, what can a man defeated by Maya do?” She stayed silent—perhaps she sensed Maya’s presence. The day began, but for me, every day was the same—Maya’s game, Maya’s trap. I looked at the sky, “Oh Maya, you’ve taken everything, what’s left?” She said, “Your tears are left—I’ll squeeze those too!” And she did, while I kept crying. 

In the end, I was sitting on the street. A child approached, “Uncle, why are you crying?” I said, “Son, what else can a man defeated by Maya do?” He asked, “Who’s Maya?” I laughed, “The guest who’ll soon visit your life!” The child left, and I sat there. Maya came to me, “Game over, now go.” I asked, “Where?” She said, “Back where you came from.” I thought, maybe it’s time to die. But Maya threw her final punch, “I won’t even let you die—keep living!” And I, like a living corpse, lay on the street. The crowd watched—some laughed, some cried. But Maya? She moved on, hunting for her next prey. My tears dried, but a sigh escaped my heart—“Oh Maya, you’ll always be the Great Deceiver!” And reader, if you’re crying too, know this—Maya has already arrived at your doorstep.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Poetry ☆ Anonymous litterateur of social media # 229 ☆ Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ☆

Captain (IN) Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

? Anonymous Litterateur of social media # 229 (सोशल मीडिया के गुमनाम साहित्यकार # 229) ?

Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi NM—an ex Naval Officer, possesses a multifaceted personality. He served as a Senior Advisor in prestigious Supercomputer organisation C-DAC, Pune. An alumnus of IIM Ahmedabad was involved in various Artificial and High-Performance Computing projects of national and international repute. He has got a long experience in the field of ‘Natural Language Processing’, especially, in the domain of Machine Translation. He has taken the mantle of translating the timeless beauties of Indian literature upon himself so that it reaches across the globe. He has also undertaken translation work for Shri Narendra Modi, the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, which was highly appreciated by him. He is also a member of ‘Bombay Film Writer Association’. He is also the English Editor for the web magazine www.e-abhivyakti.com

Captain Raghuvanshi is also a littérateur par excellence. He is a prolific writer, poet and ‘Shayar’ himself and participates in literature fests and ‘Mushayaras’. He keeps participating in various language & literature fests, symposiums and workshops etc.

Recently, he played an active role in the ‘International Hindi Conference’ at New Delhi. He presided over the “Session Focused on Language and Translation” and also presented a research paper. The conference was organized by Delhi University in collaboration with New York University and Columbia University.

हिंदी साहित्य – आलेख ☆ अंतर्राष्ट्रीय हिंदी सम्मेलन ☆ कैप्टन प्रवीण रघुवंशी, एन एम्

In his Naval career, he was qualified to command all types of warships. He is also an aviator and a Sea Diver; and recipient of various awards including ‘Nao Sena Medal’ by the President of India, Prime Minister Awards and C-in-C Commendation. He has won many national and international awards.

He is also an IIM Ahmedabad alumnus.

His latest quest involves writing various books and translation work including over 100 Bollywood songs for various international forums as a mission for the enjoyment of the global viewers. Published various books and over 3000 poems, stories, blogs and other literary work at national and international level. Felicitated by numerous literary bodies..! 

? English translation of Urdu poetry couplets of Anonymous litterateur of Social Media # 229 ?

☆☆☆☆☆

रहने दो मुझको यूँ ही उलझा

हुआ सा अपने लोगों में

सुना है सुलझ जाने से धागे

अलग अलग से हो जाते हैं…!!

☆☆

Let me remain entangled like

this only with my own people

I have heard that the threads

get apart when untangled !!

☆☆☆☆☆

तुम्हारे एक लम्हे पर भी

मेरा हक़ नहीं…

न जाने तुम किस हक़ से

मेरे हर लम्हें में शामिल हो..

☆☆

I have no right even on

Any of your moments…

Knoweth not how you keep

Owning all of my moments…!

☆☆☆☆☆

ना जाने क्यों अधूरी सी

लगती है ज़िन्दगी मुझे..

जैसे खुद को किसी के

पास भूल आया हूँ मैं…

☆☆

Do not know why the life

seems incomplete to me

As if I have forgotten

myself with someone…

☆☆☆☆☆

तुमसे तो अच्छे हमारे दुश्मन हैं

जो बात बात में कहते हैं कि

तुम्हें छोड़ेंगे नहीं…

☆☆

My enemies are better than you;

At least they threaten

not to leave me.

☆☆☆☆☆

~ Pravin Raghuvanshi

© Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

Pune

≈ Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 41 – The Universal Truth ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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 Universal Truth 

☆ Witful Warmth# 41 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Universal Truth… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

It is a truth universally acknowledged (though seldom admitted by those who ought to know it), that in our modern metropolis—in which industrial mechanizations, fraudulent schemes, and the ever-expanding folly of commerce preoccupy the hours of both the diligent and the idle—the art of common sense has been, by degrees, effaced by the artful incompetence of modern industry. In this spirit, I now present to you a tale—half mirthful, half mournful—a chronicle of the curious misadventures of Mr. Bartholomew Gudgeon and his motley assembly of compatriots, who in their blind pursuit of profit, have rendered themselves as veritable marionettes to the inane puppetry of economic absurdity.

Mr. Gudgeon, a man of no small ambition and even less common sense, had risen from the squalid bowels of the lower quarters to preside, however insignificantly, over an establishment known simply as “Gudgeon & Sons, Importers of All That Glitters.” This establishment, rather than being a beacon of integrity and industrious labour, had become a veritable repository of every modern contrivance that promised to convert common superstition into extraordinary profit. Gudgeon’s offices, festooned with gaudy advertisements extolling “The Miracle of Modern Mechanisms,” bore witness to the grand delusion that all problems might, indeed, be solved by mere acronyms and flashy slogans. “Efficiency”—that once noble ideal of honest labour—is now a word bandied about by corpulent managers in carbuncles of greed, each one eager to see society reduced to a series of figures balanced in monstrous ledgers. And so it came to pass that Mr. Gudgeon, amidst a veritable circus of accounting fiascoes and misappropriated funds, set forth a series of “innovative” directives, which, while promising to cut expenditures and inflate profits, only served to exacerbate the endemic foolishness that had long infested his establishment.

In the bustling thoroughfares beyond the precincts of Gudgeon’s offices, one might observe the common folk scuffling about in an array of colourful garments and broken dreams, all the while subjected to the whims of a modern aristocracy whose passion for waste often knew no bounds. Mrs. Prudence Tickler, a matron of some repute among the local trade unions, once declared, in a tone as mournful as it was melodious, “The world is a stage where folly and greed are worn as badges of honour, while the blood and sweat of good men are used to grease the wheels of avarice.” Her words, though steeped in despair, carried with them an undercurrent of hope—that human decency might yet triumph over the impersonal tyranny of profit and procedure. Alas, such sentiments fell upon ears as deaf as those of the proverbial mariner, who, lost amid the cacophony of modern ventures, would not pause to consider the lamentations of his fellow travellers.

Meanwhile, in the somber parlours of civic administration, a cadre of officials—more concerned with the latest fashions in bureaucratic jargon than with the corporeal well-being of their constituents—laboured under the illusion that life’s complexities could be distilled into neat sections and subsections of policy. It is a truth, indeed, that the pen is mightier than the sword; yet in these modern times, the pen appears oft to be wielded by those who have never seen the sharp edge of human hardship. A memo issued one fateful morning proclaimed, with all the gravity of a schoolmaster’s reprimand, that henceforth all public complaints were to be reduced to strictly formatted inquiries, to be answered with the precision of a clock’s tick and the mercy of a ledger’s arithmetic. This, dear reader, was not the tongue of compassion nor the voice of understanding—it was the cold, unyielding sound of mechanized jargon, designed to stifle the heartbeat of a nation in distress.

Yet among the throng of such recondite administrators, there existed an oddity—a mild, almost comical figure, by the name of Mr. Chesterfield Pumblechook. Mr. Pumblechook, though neither stout nor particularly resplendent, possessed a curious talent for navigating the labyrinthine corridors of government offices with a jaunty air of misplaced confidence. With his threadbare waistcoat and spectacles perpetually askew, he laboured under the delusion that every bureaucratic form was but an unwritten love letter to reason, and every stamped document a token of his own importance. “By Jove,” he would exclaim amidst piles of unsorted files, “if this is not the apex of administrative genius, then I am a lowly clerk in the realm of ignorance!” His proclamations, laced with the irony of fate and a wit as dry as the arid plains of misfortune, were received with a blend of amusement and pity by those who understood that very few possessed the subtle grace to laugh at one’s own absurdity.

In the marketplace of ideas—a marketplace as corrupted by the stain of greed as any bazaar of trifles—there stirred a movement, nascent yet resolute, composed of thinkers, writers, and reformers who dared to challenge the prevailing superstitions of progress. They gathered in dimly lit taverns, under the flickering light of gas lamps, to debate with fervour the impending collapse of a society governed not by wisdom but by the sterile pursuit of fiscal advantage. “The spirit of man is not for sale,” they declaimed, with a passion that stirred the soul even as it mocked the inanity of those who would have it otherwise. Yet their voices, though potent in their candour, were drowned out by the roar of machines and the clangor of coin, for the modern era had, in its relentless march toward mechanized desolation, forgotten the warmth of a genuine human heart.

Thus, in the great theater of modern existence, where each act is scripted by the architects of commerce and every scene orchestrated by those who profit from our folly, we are left to ponder the true cost of progress. It is a cost measured not merely in pennies or pounds, but in the lost hours of youthful exuberance, in the shriveled dreams of those once luminous with hope, and in the silent laments of a people made to feel insignificant amid the towering edifices of ambition. For what is progress but a fevered dream, a grand illusion that dances on the edge of despair? And what, dear friends, is the role of the individual but to bear witness to this tragic comedy and perhaps, if fortune favours, to inject a measure of sanity into the ceaseless machinery of avarice?

In the final analysis, it behooves us to remain vigilant against the encroachment of unthinking conformity and the cold tyranny of the profit motive. Let us raise our voices, however faintly, against the tidal wave of absurdity that threatens to wash away the delicate filigree of human decency. For in every petty misadventure and every bureaucratic blunder lies a lesson—a reminder, perhaps, that while the gears of industry might grind on relentlessly, the human spirit, with all its quirks and contradictions, remains the true engine of our existence. And so, in the spirit of resolve and reflection, let us not forget that the parody of our modern age, though wrapped in the garb of progress, is, in truth, a lamentable spectacle of self-inflicted imbecility.

May the echo of our protests be as enduring as the clamor of the mills, and may we, with courage and wit, continue to challenge the follies of our time. Thus, I leave you with this thought: if our era is to be judged by the measure of its contradictions, let us at least choose to pen our destiny with the quill of conscience rather than the blunt instrument of greed.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Poetry ☆ Anonymous litterateur of social media # 228 ☆ Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ☆

Captain (IN) Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

? Anonymous Litterateur of social media # 228 (सोशल मीडिया के गुमनाम साहित्यकार # 228) ?

Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi NM—an ex Naval Officer, possesses a multifaceted personality. He served as a Senior Advisor in prestigious Supercomputer organisation C-DAC, Pune. An alumnus of IIM Ahmedabad was involved in various Artificial and High-Performance Computing projects of national and international repute. He has got a long experience in the field of ‘Natural Language Processing’, especially, in the domain of Machine Translation. He has taken the mantle of translating the timeless beauties of Indian literature upon himself so that it reaches across the globe. He has also undertaken translation work for Shri Narendra Modi, the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, which was highly appreciated by him. He is also a member of ‘Bombay Film Writer Association’. He is also the English Editor for the web magazine www.e-abhivyakti.com

Captain Raghuvanshi is also a littérateur par excellence. He is a prolific writer, poet and ‘Shayar’ himself and participates in literature fests and ‘Mushayaras’. He keeps participating in various language & literature fests, symposiums and workshops etc.

Recently, he played an active role in the ‘International Hindi Conference’ at New Delhi. He presided over the “Session Focused on Language and Translation” and also presented a research paper. The conference was organized by Delhi University in collaboration with New York University and Columbia University.

हिंदी साहित्य – आलेख ☆ अंतर्राष्ट्रीय हिंदी सम्मेलन ☆ कैप्टन प्रवीण रघुवंशी, एन एम्

In his Naval career, he was qualified to command all types of warships. He is also an aviator and a Sea Diver; and recipient of various awards including ‘Nao Sena Medal’ by the President of India, Prime Minister Awards and C-in-C Commendation. He has won many national and international awards.

He is also an IIM Ahmedabad alumnus.

His latest quest involves writing various books and translation work including over 100 Bollywood songs for various international forums as a mission for the enjoyment of the global viewers. Published various books and over 3000 poems, stories, blogs and other literary work at national and international level. Felicitated by numerous literary bodies..! 

? English translation of Urdu poetry couplets of Anonymous litterateur of Social Media # 228 ?

☆☆☆☆☆

क्यूँ शर्मिंदा करते हो रोज

हाल हमारा पूछ कर…

हाल  हमारा  वही  है

जो तुमने बना रखा है..

 ☆☆

Why d’you embarrass me everyday

By inquiring about my condition…

My condition  is  the   same only

As to what you have made me of

☆☆☆☆☆

सब्र तहजीब है…

मोहब्बत की साहब

और तुम समझते हो

कि बेजुबां  हैं  हम…

 ☆☆

O’ dear! Reticence is an

etiquette of endearment

And you think that

I  am  speechless …

 ☆☆☆☆☆

न जाहिर हुई तुमसे…

और न ही बयाँ हुई हमसे

बस सुलझी हुई आँखो में

उलझी रही मोहब्बत…

 ☆☆

Neither it was expressed by you

Nor was it ever revealed by me

Love just remained  entangled

Explicitly in the unravelled eyes!

 ☆☆☆☆☆

एहसास सच्चे हों

तो वही काफी है

यकीन तो लोग

सच पर भी नहीं करते…

☆☆

If the feelings are true

That itself  is enough

People don’t even

Believe in  the truth…!

☆☆☆☆☆

~ Pravin Raghuvanshi

© Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM

Pune

≈ Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 40 – The Accidental Death of Honesty, Hope, and Hunger☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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 Accidental Death of Honesty, Hope, and Hunger 

☆ Witful Warmth# 40 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Accidental Death of Honesty, Hope, and Hunger… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

It was an ordinary day in the Republic of Promises, where potholes were deeper than policies, and citizens were mere statistics waiting to be updated. At a deserted bus stop in a remote village—where election banners arrived more frequently than electricity—three coffins lay silently. Inside them rested an old farmer, a young graduate, and an honest officer. Their deaths were accidents, of course. The farmer accidentally mistook a rope for a government loan, the graduate mistakenly believed in merit, and the officer, well, he simply forgot that honesty was an outdated currency.

The villagers watched with silent reverence, for these three had achieved something extraordinary—they had managed to make the system notice them, albeit as corpses.

Ramprasad, the farmer, had a legacy of debt that grew faster than his crops. Every election season, a man in a white kurta would arrive, promising “Farmer Welfare” with one hand while holding a bank foreclosure notice in the other. One day, exhausted from running in circles between government offices, he decided to apply for a farming assistance scheme. The clerk smiled, took a bribe, and rejected his application in the same breath. That evening, Ramprasad found an easier government scheme—hanging from a tree. His suicide note was the only paper the authorities ever approved. It read: “I have cleared my debt. Will you?”

The next morning, politicians arrived for a quick photo session. They announced an investigation, formed a committee, and drove off in their air-conditioned cars. The village remained unchanged—thirsty, bankrupt, and ready to produce another Ramprasad for the next election cycle.

A few miles away, Abhishek, a young man with more degrees than his father’s entire generation, had spent years chasing a government job that the minister’s nephew secured in a single afternoon. He had memorized every motivational quote about perseverance but found no chapter on how to survive without a salary. Every time a job vacancy was announced, a convenient court case postponed the recruitment indefinitely. His father, once proud of his son’s education, now suggested, “Son, why don’t you start a small shop?”

But Abhishek was stubborn. He had sworn to serve his country, unaware that in this country, dreams belonged only to those who could afford them. His lifeless body was found near the railway tracks, clutching an old newspaper with the headline: “India’s Youth: The Future of the Nation!” The irony was poetic—the future had just thrown itself in front of a speeding train.

Meanwhile, Shivnath, an engineer who foolishly believed in the power of honesty, made the mistake of exposing corruption. His colleagues warned him, “Don’t fight the system. It’s older than you.” But Shivnath was honest, which, in his profession, was more dangerous than being a criminal. When he refused to approve a fraudulent contract, he unknowingly signed his own death certificate.

A few weeks later, he met with a “tragic accident”—his motorcycle mysteriously lost control on a dry, empty road. The police called it “death due to reckless driving,” the newspapers labeled it “an unfortunate incident,” and the system wrote him off as just another man who didn’t understand how things worked. His wife pleaded for justice, his son knocked on every door, but all they got was “We are investigating.” Investigation, after all, was just another word for waiting until people forgot.

Back at the bus stop, life continued around the coffins. The tea vendor poured another cup of tea, the shopkeeper discussed cricket, and a politician’s convoy sped past, not even slowing down. A journalist arrived but left quickly—there was bigger news in town. A celebrity had just bought a pet dog worth ₹5 lakh.

As the sun set, the villagers whispered, “Who’s next?”

No one knew the answer, but they all understood the game.

The system did not kill people. It simply created the circumstances for them to die.

And so, the nation moved forward, marching proudly toward progress—stepping over the graves of honesty, hope, and hunger.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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