Tag: #Weekly_Column

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra, widely known in the world of satire by his pen name ‘Uratipt’, expresses his emotions and thoughts with profound honesty and depth. His multifaceted talent is evident in his contributions across various literary genres. He is not only a renowned satirist but also a poet and a children’s author.

His satirical writings have earned him a special place in the literary world. His satire, ‘Shikshak Ki Mout’, went massively viral on the Sahitya Aajtak channel, garnering over a million views and reads—a monumental achievement in the history of Hindi satire. His collection of satires, ‘Ek Tinka Ikyavan Aankhen’ (A Straw and Fifty-One Eyes), is also highly acclaimed and includes his timeless work, ‘Kitabon Ki Antim Yatra’ (The Last Journey of Books). Other celebrated collections include ‘Mayaan Ek, Talwar Anek’ (One Sheath, Many Swords), ‘Gapodi Adda’ (The Gossiper’s Den), and ‘Sab Rang Mein Mere Rang’ (My Colors in Every Hue). His satirical novel, ‘Idhar-Udhar Ke Beech Mein’ (In Between Here and There), is a unique and groundbreaking work focused on the third world.

His significant contributions to literature have been widely recognized. He was honored with the Best Young Creator Award, 2021 by the Telangana Hindi Academy and the Government of Telangana, an award presented by Chief Minister K. Chandrasekhar Rao. The Rajasthan Children’s Literature Academy also honored him for his children’s book, ‘Nanhon Ka Srijan Aasmaan’ (The Creative Sky of Little Ones). Additionally, he has received the Vyanga Yatra Ravindranath Tyagi Sopaan Samman and the Sahitya Srijan Samman from Prime Minister Narendra Modi.

Dr. Uratript has also played a pivotal role in writing, editing, and coordinating a total of 55 books for the Government of Telangana for primary school, college, and university levels. His work is included in university textbooks in Bihar, Chhattisgarh, and Telangana, where his satirical creations are part of the curriculum. This recognition underscores that young readers can identify and appreciate quality and impactful writing.

Key Accolades and Works

• Viral Satire: ‘Teacher’s Death’ (over 1 million views)
• Satire Collections: ‘Ek Tinka Ikyavan Aankhen’, ‘Mayaan Ek, Talwar Anek’, ‘Gapodi Adda’
• Unique Satirical Novel: ‘Idhar-Udar Ke Beech Mein’
• Awards: Shreshtha Navyuva Samman (Telangana), Sahitya Srijan Samman (PM Modi), and more.
• Educational Contribution: Authored and edited 55 books for the Telangana government.

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 Wedding of Democracy and Burglary.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 70 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Wedding of Democracy and Burglary… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

In the glorious land of “Mahaan Bharat,” democracy is not a system; it is a festival. And like any Indian festival, it requires noise, pollution, and a sleight of hand that would put a street magician to shame. The latest trend in this festival is not the bursting of crackers, but the bursting of the ballot boxmetaphorically, of course. The phenomenon of “Vote Chori” (Vote Theft) has been elevated from a crime to a fine art form. It is no longer done by goons with mustaches and lathis capturing a booth. That is so 1990s. That is so analog. Today, vote theft is digital, sophisticated, and invisible. It is done with the grace of a gazelle and the precision of a neurosurgeon. The voter presses the button for the “Lion,” and the vote goes to the “Donkey.” The machine beeps, the light flashes, and the voter goes home feeling patriotic, unaware that his patriotism has just been hijacked by a microchip with a political agenda. I met a “Vote Management Consultant” named Mr. Ghotala (Scam) recently. He sat in a plush office, wearing a white kurta that was brighter than his future. I asked him, “Sir, how do you steal votes? Isn’t the Election Commission watching?” He laughed, a belly-jiggling laugh that smelled of expensive whiskey. “Parsai ji,” he said, “You writers are so naive. We don’t steal votes; we ‘redirect’ them. It is like traffic management. If the road to Party A is blocked, we simply open a bypass to Party B. The voter is happy because he pressed a button. The machine is happy because it beeped. And we are happy because we won. It is a win-win-win situation! Why bring morality into a technical matter?” He spoke of democracy as if it were a plumbing issuejust a matter of fixing the leaks in the pipeline to ensure the water flows into the right swimming pool. The plight of the common voter is truly heart-touching. He stands in line for four hours, sweating in the sun, holding his ID card like a ticket to heaven. He thinks, “Today, I will change the destiny of my nation.” He enters the booth, trembling with responsibility. He looks at the Electronic Voting Machine (EVM). It looks back at him with a blank, electronic stare. He presses the button. Beep. That beep is the sound of his agency being flushed down the toilet. He walks out with ink on his finger, showing it to everyone like a war wound. “I have voted!” he declares. Meanwhile, inside the machine, his vote is having an identity crisis. It started as a vote for change but decided mid-way to become a vote for the status quo. It is a demisical tragedy. The ink on the finger lasts for weeks, but the value of the vote lasts for zero seconds. Then there is the mystery of the “Missing Voters.” In every election, thousands of names vanish from the list. They are not dead; they are not abroad; they are just… gone. I asked an official, “Where did these people go?” He looked at me gravely and said, “They have been spiritually liberated. They have attained Moksha from the electoral process. Why do you want to drag them back into the Maya of politics?” It was a mindblowing explanation. The government is so efficient that it grants spiritual liberation to voters without them even asking for it! One day you are a citizen; the next day you are a ghost. You exist to pay taxes, you exist to pay fines, but when it comes to voting, you are as invisible as the development promised in the manifesto. Tears roll down the eyes when you realize you are a citizen only when the government wants your money.

The post-election analysis is another tear-jerker. The losing candidate screams, “The machines were hacked! The Bluetooth connected to the Wi-Fi which connected to the satellite which was controlled by aliens!” The winning candidate smiles like a saint and says, “This is the mandate of the people. The people have spoken.” Which people? The invisible people?

The ghost voters? The microchips? It is a reality show where the winner is decided before the contestants even enter the stage. The media plays the role of the cheerleader, analyzing the “wave” and the “swing.”

There is no wave. There is only the tsunami of manipulation. The voter is just standing on the shore, watching his hut get washed away, clapping because the water looks blue on television.

Let us look at the “buying” of votes. This is the retail sector of Vote Chori. In the old days, they gave liquor and blankets. Now, with inflation, the rates have gone up. But look at the honesty of the poor voter! He takes the money from Party A, eats the biryani from Party B, and votes for Party C. This is the only revenge he can take. But alas, even this revenge is short-lived if the machine itself is compromised. The politician says, “Take whatever you want, you fool. The button is in your hand, but the wire is in mine.” It is a relationship of absolute toxicity.

The voter is the battered spouse who keeps going back, hoping that this time, the partner will change. But the partner only changes the method of beating. The bureaucracy plays the role of the blind umpire. They see nothing, hear nothing.  They are the Three Monkeys of Gandhiji, but without the wisdom.  If you complain, they ask for proof. “Bring us the video of the invisible signal entering the machine,” they say.  It is like asking for photograph of the wind.  They form committees.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra, widely known in the world of satire by his pen name ‘Uratipt’, expresses his emotions and thoughts with profound honesty and depth. His multifaceted talent is evident in his contributions across various literary genres. He is not only a renowned satirist but also a poet and a children’s author.

His satirical writings have earned him a special place in the literary world. His satire, ‘Shikshak Ki Mout’, went massively viral on the Sahitya Aajtak channel, garnering over a million views and reads—a monumental achievement in the history of Hindi satire. His collection of satires, ‘Ek Tinka Ikyavan Aankhen’ (A Straw and Fifty-One Eyes), is also highly acclaimed and includes his timeless work, ‘Kitabon Ki Antim Yatra’ (The Last Journey of Books). Other celebrated collections include ‘Mayaan Ek, Talwar Anek’ (One Sheath, Many Swords), ‘Gapodi Adda’ (The Gossiper’s Den), and ‘Sab Rang Mein Mere Rang’ (My Colors in Every Hue). His satirical novel, ‘Idhar-Udhar Ke Beech Mein’ (In Between Here and There), is a unique and groundbreaking work focused on the third world.

His significant contributions to literature have been widely recognized. He was honored with the Best Young Creator Award, 2021 by the Telangana Hindi Academy and the Government of Telangana, an award presented by Chief Minister K. Chandrasekhar Rao. The Rajasthan Children’s Literature Academy also honored him for his children’s book, ‘Nanhon Ka Srijan Aasmaan’ (The Creative Sky of Little Ones). Additionally, he has received the Vyanga Yatra Ravindranath Tyagi Sopaan Samman and the Sahitya Srijan Samman from Prime Minister Narendra Modi.

Dr. Uratript has also played a pivotal role in writing, editing, and coordinating a total of 55 books for the Government of Telangana for primary school, college, and university levels. His work is included in university textbooks in Bihar, Chhattisgarh, and Telangana, where his satirical creations are part of the curriculum. This recognition underscores that young readers can identify and appreciate quality and impactful writing.

Key Accolades and Works

• Viral Satire: ‘Teacher’s Death’ (over 1 million views)
• Satire Collections: ‘Ek Tinka Ikyavan Aankhen’, ‘Mayaan Ek, Talwar Anek’, ‘Gapodi Adda’
• Unique Satirical Novel: ‘Idhar-Udar Ke Beech Mein’
• Awards: Shreshtha Navyuva Samman (Telangana), Sahitya Srijan Samman (PM Modi), and more.
• Educational Contribution: Authored and edited 55 books for the Telangana government.

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 Punishments by YouTube Motivation Gurus.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 69 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Punishments by YouTube Motivation Gurus… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

The tragedy of the modern soul is that it has become an incorrigible slacker, unable to perform even the simplest act of self-improvement without the shrill, demanding voice of a professional motivation guru echoing from a smartphone speaker. Discipline, that austere, internal furnace that once fueled kings and philosophers, has been unceremoniously evicted and replaced by a cheap, Chinese-made electronic whip sold on the internet. We, the generation of perpetual promise, no longer seek the quiet wisdom of self-control; we crave the public spectacle of self-flagellation, outsourced to brightly colored YouTube channels and Instagram reels. The guru, with his perfectly sculpted jawline and suspiciously high thread count shirt, is no longer a teacher of principles, but a vendor of synthetic punishment. He doesn’t inspire; he demands. He doesn’t guide; he dictates arbitrary, mind-numbing acts of suffering—cold showers, $4$ am alarms, and journal entries filled with toxic affirmations—that are marketed as the only viable path to salvation. The irony is mind-blowing: we seek freedom from the self by surrendering to a digital tyrant who profits from our inadequacy. The heart weeps for the lost art of personal responsibility, now a commodity with a hefty monthly subscription fee.

This manufactured agony is fundamentally a performance, a tear-rolling drama where the viewer is forced into the dual role of obedient student and terrified audience member. The system works through a genius manipulation of the human need for external validation and the inherent fear of public failure. The guru’s commandments are designed not to foster genuine internal change but to create content: “Do $50$ burpees or transfer $\$100$ to your biggest rival.” This is not discipline; it is an elaborate form of financial self-extortion or public shaming, orchestrated by a man who has never met you and whose only investment in your life is your monthly viewing metric. We watch, hypnotized by the illusion of consequence, mistaking the adrenaline of fear for the quiet fire of commitment. The mind, starved of genuine purpose, embraces the shallow, spectacular punishment as a substitute for meaningful effort. The “tear-rolling” part comes when you realize the person you are failing is not the guru, but your own soul, which is being taught to respond only to threats, not to love or reasoned pursuit.

The Harishankar Parasai spirit demands we look beneath the velvet curtain of this self-help industry and recognize the demisical nature of its transactional morality. The entire enterprise is based on the premise that you are fundamentally broken and that the guru holds the only patented wrench capable of fixing you. They sell the illusion of a ‘zero-to-hero’ transformation in $30$ days, completely bypassing the messy, decades-long process of character formation. The “mind-blowing” realization is that this discipline is not an end, but a means to consumption. You must wake up at $4$ am so that you can be productive enough to buy the guru’s next course, the guru’s specific brand of ergonomic chair, and the guru’s custom-branded journal. The system creates the problem (your lack of discipline), sells the solution (his patented pain), and then sells the tools required to enact the solution, completing a perfect, self-sealing loop of capitalistic exploitation masquerading as spiritual awakening. The heart breaks for the poor fool who believes that true fulfillment can be found in a downloadable PDF checklist.

What is truly hearttouching, and tragic in its absurdity, is the transference of moral authority. We have voluntarily forfeited the right to judge ourselves, preferring instead to be judged by the arbitrary metrics of a content creator. When we fail to complete the required $10$-day detox, the guilt is no longer a catalyst for private reflection; it is a public sin against the cultus of productivity. The guru, through his digital priesthood, grants penance in the form of a harsher, more humiliating challenge, escalating the punishment until the ‘student’ either achieves a momentary, photo-ready victory or simply fades away, ashamed. This phenomenon is a subtle form of societal regression, a return to the public pillory, only now the stocks are virtual, and the village idiot who throws the tomatoes is our own internalized self-critic, amplified by a thousand strangers’ comments. The demisical element is undeniable: a man whose wealth is built on the collective inability of others to get out of bed suddenly becomes the arbiter of human worth.

The tragedy deepens when we consider the emotional vacuum that this outsourced discipline fills. In a fragmented, lonely world, the guru provides not mentorship, but structure—a substitute father figure, a demanding coach, a digital dictator who, paradoxically, offers a perverse sense of belonging. The “punishment” is proof that someone cares enough to hold you accountable, even if that accountability is a shallow performance. This tear-rolling need for external force reveals a generation utterly disconnected from its own inner compass. We have forgotten that discipline is derived from the Latin disciplina, meaning ‘teaching’ or ‘learning,’ not ‘torture.’ The modern version, however, is pure external pressure, a grotesque parody of self-mastery. We perform the rituals of the motivated life—the goal-setting, the networking, the grinding—but the soul remains empty, for true growth requires quiet confrontation with the self, not a broadcasted confession of inadequacy to a legion of strangers.

The Harishankar Parasai style, rich in irony and biting social critique, would dissect the spiritual poverty of the wealthy guru. He lives a life of effortless, passive income, built upon the strenuous, active expenditure of his followers’ energy and money. His ‘discipline’ is the discipline of marketing; his ‘punishment’ is the punishment of high churn rates. The mind-blowing spectacle is how easily we mistake the gilded cage of manufactured routine for the open field of genuine freedom. We are taught to be ruthless with ourselves, to push through pain, to minimize sleep, all in the pursuit of a fleeting, externalized success defined by the very system that created our anxiety. The tear rolls when you realize that the motivation industry does not want you to succeed permanently, because a truly self-mastered individual is a permanently lost customer. They are selling a temporary fix, ensuring that your fundamental flaw—the lack of genuine, internally-sourced motivation—remains intact, ready for the next course, the next book, the next arbitrary, humiliating challenge.

The ultimate demisical statement is that we have made success a transaction, and suffering its currency. We no longer believe in the quiet, cumulative power of habit; we believe only in the shock and awe of the heroic, instantaneous change, which, of course, is a myth. The guru’s punishment system, with its cold showers and harsh words, is essentially a spiritual shortcut, a promise to bypass the long, boring, and truly difficult work of consistency and self-acceptance. But the soul is not a machine that can be kickstarted with a jolt of manufactured fear; it is a garden that requires daily, gentle tending. This entire phenomenon is a devastating critique of a society that values speed over substance, spectacle over sincerity, and the illusion of productivity over the reality of a balanced, humane life. It is hearttouching in its deep, collective delusion—a tear rolling for the millions who are actively purchasing their own mental slavery, believing they are buying freedom.

The final irony, the mind-blowing conclusion, is that the system of outsourced discipline works only by cultivating an internal weakness. It conditions the individual to rely on an external cue—the guru’s voice, the app notification, the public commitment—thereby systematically destroying the nascent inner voice of self-determination. This is the opposite of discipline. It is a dependency model masquerading as empowerment. The only true punishment is the realization that years of following these outsourced tyrants have left one perpetually dependent, permanently insecure, and forever chasing an arbitrary, moving goalpost set by a stranger whose greatest talent is not wisdom, but marketing. The heart bleeds for the fool who, after all the cold showers and all the $4$ am starts, wakes up one day to find the guru has retired on the proceeds of his anxiety, and he is left alone, staring at the ceiling, still needing a stranger’s permission to begin his own life.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra, widely known in the world of satire by his pen name ‘Uratipt’, expresses his emotions and thoughts with profound honesty and depth. His multifaceted talent is evident in his contributions across various literary genres. He is not only a renowned satirist but also a poet and a children’s author.

His satirical writings have earned him a special place in the literary world. His satire, ‘Shikshak Ki Mout’, went massively viral on the Sahitya Aajtak channel, garnering over a million views and reads—a monumental achievement in the history of Hindi satire. His collection of satires, ‘Ek Tinka Ikyavan Aankhen’ (A Straw and Fifty-One Eyes), is also highly acclaimed and includes his timeless work, ‘Kitabon Ki Antim Yatra’ (The Last Journey of Books). Other celebrated collections include ‘Mayaan Ek, Talwar Anek’ (One Sheath, Many Swords), ‘Gapodi Adda’ (The Gossiper’s Den), and ‘Sab Rang Mein Mere Rang’ (My Colors in Every Hue). His satirical novel, ‘Idhar-Udhar Ke Beech Mein’ (In Between Here and There), is a unique and groundbreaking work focused on the third world.

His significant contributions to literature have been widely recognized. He was honored with the Best Young Creator Award, 2021 by the Telangana Hindi Academy and the Government of Telangana, an award presented by Chief Minister K. Chandrasekhar Rao. The Rajasthan Children’s Literature Academy also honored him for his children’s book, ‘Nanhon Ka Srijan Aasmaan’ (The Creative Sky of Little Ones). Additionally, he has received the Vyanga Yatra Ravindranath Tyagi Sopaan Samman and the Sahitya Srijan Samman from Prime Minister Narendra Modi.

Dr. Uratript has also played a pivotal role in writing, editing, and coordinating a total of 55 books for the Government of Telangana for primary school, college, and university levels. His work is included in university textbooks in Bihar, Chhattisgarh, and Telangana, where his satirical creations are part of the curriculum. This recognition underscores that young readers can identify and appreciate quality and impactful writing.

Key Accolades and Works

• Viral Satire: ‘Teacher’s Death’ (over 1 million views)
• Satire Collections: ‘Ek Tinka Ikyavan Aankhen’, ‘Mayaan Ek, Talwar Anek’, ‘Gapodi Adda’
• Unique Satirical Novel: ‘Idhar-Udar Ke Beech Mein’
• Awards: Shreshtha Navyuva Samman (Telangana), Sahitya Srijan Samman (PM Modi), and more.
• Educational Contribution: Authored and edited 55 books for the Telangana government.

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 Sound of Silence, Sold for the Loudest Lie.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 66  ☆

☆ The Sound of Silence, Sold for the Loudest Lie… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

The idea, when it first surfaced in the hallowed halls of the Ministry of Quiet Revenue (a truly Parsai-esque bureaucratic monstrosity), was hailed as an economic masterstroke. Why allow classroom silence—that vast, unmonetized void between the chalk-dust scattering and the bell’s tyranny—to lie fallow? This ‘Silent Inventory,’ as the consultants termed it, was prime real estate, moments of pure, captive concentration ready for colonization. The official circular, penned in the verbose, self-congratulatory jargon of modern efficiency, spoke of “optimizing scholastic bandwidth” and “extracting efficiency dividends from temporal assets.” It ignored the fact that silence was not an asset, but the medium in which all valuable assets—thought, doubt, and original curiosity—were forged. It was announced: the two-minute ‘Contemplation Slots’ and the crucial five-minute ‘Post-Theorem Introspection Periods’ would be bundled and auctioned off to the highest political bidders. And thus, the deepest recess of the learning mind was assigned a price tag, marking the day the soul of education was officially declared redundant and commercially available. The gavel struck, not with a simple thud, but with the sound of a thousand fragile glass dreams shattering in unison.

The first successful bid, naturally, went to the ruling party, the Party of Perpetual Promise, a group whose entire existence was predicated on replacing substance with high-decibel assurance. The amount was astronomical, a record-setting price that immediately raised teacher salaries by a symbolic 0.1%—just enough to ensure the educators’ complicity without actually relieving their financial misery. The silence of the eighth-grade math class, the sacred pause after grappling with the quadratic formula, was violently usurped. Instead of the quiet, beautiful hum of gears turning in young minds, there was a deafening, aggressively cheerful jingle praising the Leader’s visionary policies regarding water buffalo and fiber optics. It was a clash of frequencies: the subtle wave of pure logic, seeking connection in the quiet, against the blunt, jackhammer pulse of propaganda, demanding acceptance in the noise. The teacher, Mr. Shrivastava, a man who once believed in the purity of pedagogy, merely adjusted the volume knob on the ceiling-mounted speaker. His face held the quiet, defeated shame of a man who had not just sold a commodity, but had personally handed over his students’ capacity for independent thought to the highest, most vulgar bidder.

In the third row, young Leela, a sensitive girl whose universe revolved around the silent, internal drama of solving impossible problems, felt a physical sickness rise in her throat. The two minutes of enforced advertisement, once her haven for processing complex concepts and simply being, had become a sonic assault. She had been on the cusp of understanding why the hypotenuse behaves as it does, a beautiful moment of cosmic recognition that demands absolute quiet, when the jingle erupted: “Vote for Progress! Our Leader Delivers Dawn!” Leela watched her nascent understanding—that fragile, newly-formed thought—flicker and die under the noise. It was not just an interruption; it was a conceptual vajra-prahār (thunder-strike) against her inner world. She realized, with the crushing clarity of youth, that the world was now afraid of silence because silence allows people to think, and people who think are bad for business and terrible for unquestioned political power. A single, hot tear rolled down her cheek, a tribute to the death of her own mind, a silent protest drowned out by the promises of a brighter, louder tomorrow she instinctively knew would never arrive.

Mrs. Sharma, the veteran history teacher whose class was famed for its profound, pin-drop silences during discussions of ancient tragedies, looked out the window at the school garden. She remembered a time when silence was a learning tool, a positive pressure that forced students to internalize, structure, and articulate complex ideas. Now, her silence slots were sponsored by the ‘Coalition of Contentment,’ who used the time to play testimonials from suspiciously satisfied citizens praising the subsidized prices of stale bread. Mrs. Sharma’s idealism, once a roaring fire, had dwindled to a cold ember, surviving only on the meager salary supplement derived from the ad revenue. She couldn’t quit; the mortgage on her tiny government flat was too real. But she had quit, internally, the day she realized her true job was no longer to teach history, but to manage the acoustics for political messaging. Her blackboard stood untouched, chalk in hand, while the voice of the state replaced the voice of Socrates. Her silence was louder than any advertisement, a profound, internal scream that nobody, least of all the government auditors, could hear or monetize.

The content of the advertisements themselves was a masterclass in absurdist tragedy. The political parties, knowing they had a captive audience of young, developing minds, didn’t bother with logic or policy. One party ran a continuous loop of their leader staring intensely into the camera, merely repeating the word “Development” 120 times in two minutes, occasionally punctuated by a CGI explosion. Another, more subtle ad from the opposition, promised a 10% reduction in all taxes and an exclusive, government-funded pony for every child under ten. The hypocrisy was paralyzing. These were the moments when students were meant to be applying geometric theorems, understanding the gravity of the French Revolution, or analyzing the poetry of Ghalib. Instead, their young minds were force-fed cognitive junk food—a thick, gooey paste of meaningless superlatives and contradictory promises. The children, quick to adapt, learned not to think during the ‘Contemplation Slot.’ They learned to perform a mental evacuation, a necessary survival mechanism, ensuring that the critical thinking faculties remained unmarred by the political debris.

This grand auction was, at its heart, a philosophical theft—a demisical attempt to sell the un-sellable. What is true silence, after all? It is not merely the absence of sound; it is the presence of potential, the canvas upon which the nascent intellect draws its first independent thoughts. It is the only space where one can truly hear the faintest whispers of the self, the voice of the soul trying to distinguish truth from the collective clamor. By selling this space, the state had essentially auctioned off the child’s right to an epiphany, their right to doubt, and their fundamental right to introspection. They had declared war on the inner life, ensuring that every waking moment, even the brief interregnum between breaths, was colonized by the market or the state. The ultimate realization for the satirist is that this system doesn’t just want the children’s votes tomorrow; it wants their minds today. It needs a populace that is incapable of sitting quietly enough to realize the absurdity of the advertisements.

The absurdity, as is always the case in this tragicomedy of existence, continued to escalate. Soon, the two-minute slot was deemed inefficient, and parties began bidding on the mandatory one-minute ‘Transition Period’ between classes, transforming school hallways into deafening political carnivals. The final, mind-blowing twist came when a dissident, reform-minded political rival, realizing the futility of fighting noise with more noise, made the highest bid of all. They did not buy the slot to run an advertisement. They bought the five most expensive minutes of silence in the city’s most prestigious school, purely to run nothing. They paid millions simply for the children to experience actual quiet once again, a single, pure, unmolested moment. This was the pinnacle of satire: the greatest political statement they could make was the profound, beautiful declaration of nothing at all. Yet, the children, so conditioned to the noise, only grew anxious in the unfamiliar vacuum, looking up, confused, waiting for the jingle to begin.

And so, the auction continues, not just in classrooms, but in every public park, every hospital waiting room, and soon, one suspects, in the brief, agonizing pause between a sigh and a tear. The system won, not by proving its ideas were superior, but by colonizing the very faculty required to evaluate those ideas. The true tragedy is not the sale of the silence, but the total adaptation of the recipients. The students grew up hearing the promise of ponies and perpetual progress, and they never learned to question, because they never had the quiet time required to formulate a decent question. The only true, profound silence left in the land is the silence of the electorate, who no longer care, and the final, ultimate silence of the children, whose inner voices have been drowned out so thoroughly, so profitably, that they have forgotten they ever had anything original to say. The only thing left to sell is the air itself, which, one hears, is being bundled into premium ‘Oxygen Vouchers’ for the next quarterly auction.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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