Tag: #Weekly_Column

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

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

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

Some precious moments of life

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

Today we present his satire The Felicitation Ceremony of Sixty-Year-Old Mischief.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 63 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Felicitation Ceremony of Sixty-Year-Old Mischief… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

From dusty villages to the capital itself, there was a buzz: the Sahitya Akademi was about to host a “historic” program. The declared theme—“The Transitional Phase of Hindi Satire.” But the real spice lay elsewhere: the welcome speech was to be delivered by none other than the Secretary himself, whose mischief had turned a glorious sixty this year. Now you may ask—how can mischief ever grow old? Dear sir, in this land everything is cause for celebration. Some pour ghee in temples, some blow out candles on birthdays, and some—having made people’s lives hell for a good sixty years—get their mischief felicitated. The Akademi was all set to print invitations saying—“Diamond Jubilee of the Secretary’s Mischief.” But then they feared a cart of rotten tomatoes might decorate the hall’s entrance, so they softened it to the safer title of “Transitional Phase.”

On the day of the grand function, the hall looked like a theatre of absurdity. Outside, giant hoardings screamed—“Welcome the Transitional Phase!” Inside, a velvet-red table gleamed with flowers arranged into the number “60.” The Secretary waddled in, belly leading the way, and collapsed into the chair like a crowned king of Mischief on the day of coronation. On the wall, Parsai’s portrait hung, his eyes seemingly whispering, “Look at this—the offspring of my satire adorning with garlands the very man throttling its neck!” The litterateurs seated in the audience muffled their laughter, but not because the joke was funny—because they feared shoes might really start flying. The anchor on the mic boomed, “Today, present among us is a personality of great experience, our venerable Secretary!” I bit my tongue. Oh, to shout aloud—“Experience in what? Theft? Hypocrisy? Or simply decades of mischief?”

When the Secretary rose to speak, even the tube-lights on stage flickered nervously. Behind those thick glasses, his eyes glistened with the polished shamelessness of a thief declaring, “I’m here to dispense justice.” He began, “Friends, satire is going through a difficult transitional phase. We must preserve it.” The hall burst into applause. Just imagine: the man whose antics stick to every street corner like unpaid electricity bills, now sermonizing about saving satire! This is the real infection—when scoundrels start preaching piety. Each word from his mouth felt tugged by some invisible hand of falsehood, and the audience swallowed it whole as if it were divine truth.

The real comedy, however, was the row of writers nodding on stage. One bobbed his head mechanically—as though agreeing was a childhood habit. Another bowed so incessantly it felt like he was attending a villain’s wedding, willy-nilly playing the role of a dancing guest. One writer whispered over his teacup, “Friend, sharing the stage is mere compulsion.” Another muttered, “We’re here for literature, not the man.” It sounded as though they’d equated man with a sewer and literature with the Ganges, and happily stirred both into the same pot. This “transition” was not illness of language—it was a cold in the very soul. Satire, strong as steel in Parsai’s hands, was now wrapped and suffocated in the coffin of silence, while the Secretary sat beaming—his sixty years of mischief officially academic.

The richest satire, though, festered outside in the crowd. People came armed with baskets of rotten eggs, dead tomatoes, and ancient slippers. “This is the true way to welcome him,” someone chuckled. Another whispered, “Wait and watch—the speech will soon be decorated with red eggs.” But the guards were vigilant, standing stiff as if they were democracy’s gatekeepers, confiscating shoes like contraband and tossing them into a lockup. Inside, the Secretary smoothed out the creases in his pristine white kurta, while outside, democracy’s voice was stripped barefoot. Such is the state of satire today: when shoes on your feet are blessed for temple darshan, but the moment the same shoes arc majestically toward a rogue’s forehead, the hall calls it an outrage. The air inside smelled like rotten potatoes hidden under roses.

The Secretary’s speech dragged on and on. Louder even than his words was his laughter—that laughter bought with contractors’ cash, that laughter that salts the wounds of the wronged, that laughter awarded for six decades of perfected deceit. The writers sat listening as though the laughter itself were a bitter medicine they were compelled to swallow. Behind their frozen faces lurked fear. They knew too well—oppose him, and the foreword to their next book will be penned by someone else entirely. Better keep the pen locked in the pocket. Satire was no longer literature; it had withered into the stench of this hall. Each of his sentences crackled like an electric shock—writers clapped, not out of agreement, but as living insulators protecting themselves from electrocution.

If one calls this a “transition,” then this it is: the court silent, the stage dumb, the victim abandoned. Her cries clung mute to the peeling walls like forgotten posters. Each clap in the hall dropped another tear from her eyes. In those tears drowned pages of literature, while floating upon them was the mocking silhouette of his laughter. Shoes waited outside for justice, but inside, satire was lynched. This was no academic ceremony—it was satire’s funeral procession. Only difference—here the mourners showered not flowers but empty words, and the corpse was the pen itself, once sharpened by Parsai, now rusted into a party spoon tucked in the Secretary’s pocket.

When the event concluded, the writers eagerly posed for photographs. The Secretary smiled, flowers rained, and shoes languished in their lock-up prison, denied their rightful protest. Off to the side stood a woman, silent. Swollen eyes, cracked lips, broken heart—she was the one branded guilty. Her tears alone scripted the real text of this ceremony. On stage claps thundered, but within her chest roared endless screams. It was in that scream that satire’s final word was etched: “The Secretary’s mischief may have completed sixty years, but justice remains an orphan.” And as we exited the hall, it seemed Parsai himself whispered from the walls—“Satire is dead, my friends. Not even shoes were granted to perform its last rites.” The echo of that slap still lingered in the air

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

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

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

Some precious moments of life

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

Today we present his satire The Demise of a Merit-Less Soul.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 62 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Demise of a Merit-Less Soul… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

The news arrived not as a tragedy, but as a statistical anomaly. It was a Tuesday morning when the principal’s office received the official report on the demise of Student Number 16, a fact conveyed in a tone befitting a clerical error. The student, it was noted, had simply ceased to be. His final moments were not of despair, but of a quiet, meticulous calculation of failure. His mind, having processed the impossibility of achieving a 99.8% average, had logically concluded that a successful life was no longer a viable option. It was a pragmatic decision, devoid of melodrama or romanticism. The school, in its infinite wisdom, immediately formed an Ad Hoc Committee for the Management of Unforeseen Demises. The committee’s primary task was not to mourn or to understand, but to ensure that the student’s failure did not tarnish the school’s pristine record. The chairman, a man with a mind as sharp and as cold as a freshly honed pencil, instructed the clerk to remove the student’s file from the “Exemplary” category and place it directly into the “Statistical Anomaly” box. The whole affair was handled with the same cold efficiency as a bank processing a loan rejection.

The student’s parents, upon hearing the news, did not shed a single tear. Tears, they reasoned, were a useless expenditure of valuable bodily fluids. Their initial reaction was a financial one. “All that money,” the father lamented, “spent on coaching classes, on tutors for mathematics and physics, on the late-night snacks to fuel his futile efforts. It’s a complete loss of investment. The ROI is zero, perhaps even negative.” The mother, ever the pragmatist, immediately called the tuition center to demand a refund. “My son’s demise,” she explained to the bewildered receptionist, “is a clear indication of your teaching’s ineffectiveness. The guarantee was for success, not for a permanent withdrawal from the rat race.” They held a small, formal gathering where relatives offered condolences not on the loss of life, but on the loss of a future doctor or engineer. “Such a pity,” an aunt sighed, “all that potential, all those perfectly good notebooks, now wasted.” The entire conversation revolved around the monetary value of a life that had, in their eyes, become an economic liability.

The neighbors, who had previously praised the student as a diligent boy with a promising future, now spoke of him in hushed, judgmental tones. He was no longer a symbol of hope but a cautionary tale, a social scarecrow erected to frighten their own children into submission. “You see what happens,” a father whispered to his son, his voice thick with implied threat, “when you don’t score well? The pressure becomes too much. It’s better to just study hard now and avoid such an outcome.” The story of Student Number 16 was added to the national curriculum of parental warnings, alongside anecdotes of children who had run away from home for daring to express an interest in art or music. His demise, in a strange, bureaucratic twist of fate, had finally given his life a purpose: to serve as a negative example. He was now more useful to society as a statistic of failure than he ever was as a living, breathing human being. His existence, a brief and frantic sprint toward a finish line he could never reach, had culminated in a final, impactful act of non-existence that served the very system that had consumed him.

The local government, ever eager to be seen as proactive, swiftly announced the formation of the “Bureaucracy of Student Well-being and Protocol for Terminal Academic Exhaustion.” The new department was a shining example of officialdom at its finest: an elaborate building, a dedicated staff, and a mountain of paperwork. The first order of business was to draft a 500-page report on the incident, a document that would contain not a single word about the human cost. The report would instead focus on procedural failures, such as the student’s failure to submit a “Pre-Demise Intention Form” and the school’s neglect in providing a “Certified Stress Mitigation Counselor” with a valid license to counsel. The report’s conclusion was not to recommend a change in the education system, but to suggest a new, mandatory module on “Emotional Resilience and the Proper Filing of Grievances” for all students. The student’s demise was thus transformed from a tragedy into a job-creation scheme, an administrative triumph of form over substance.

The media, sensing a juicy story, descended like vultures on the school. A television news anchor, his face a perfect mask of manufactured concern, delivered a dramatic monologue. “Today,” he declared, “we mourn the loss of a young life, a victim of our cutthroat education system.” The segment then seamlessly cut to a commercial break for a new, “stress-free” online tutoring service. The debate on the news channels was not about the pressures on students, but about whether the student’s demise was a political conspiracy or a case of poor parenting. Experts with impressive-sounding degrees were brought in to pontificate on the psychology of failure, while the student’s actual humanity was completely lost in the noise. His life story was edited, polished, and packaged for maximum viewership, stripped of all its complexity and emotional truth. He was no longer a person who had suffered, but a media product to be consumed and discussed for a week before the next sensational story replaced him. The public, for its part, absorbed the drama and moved on, their collective conscience soothed by the brief, performative act of “caring.”

In a final act of grotesque absurdity, the school decided to posthumously award Student Number 16 with the “Pinnacle of Academic Dedication” medal. The principal, addressing a solemn assembly, praised the student’s “unwavering commitment to the pursuit of excellence, a commitment so profound that he was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the sanctity of the academic system.” The medal, a shiny, circular piece of metal, was accepted by his parents who, for the first time, smiled. Their son had finally brought them something of value—a shiny token and a fleeting moment of social prestige. The school also announced the establishment of a new “Student Demise Prevention Cell,” but the official notice for the cell’s inauguration was printed on the same page as a full-page advertisement for the school’s new, advanced robotics lab. The cell’s first act was to issue a new, comprehensive set of forms for students to fill out regarding their mental state, a bureaucratic solution to a human problem.

The demise of Student Number 16, in the end, was not a sad event. It was, instead, a logistical success. The school’s reputation was saved, the government had created a new department, the parents had received a consolation prize, and the media had a week’s worth of content. His story became a footnote in the grand, unfeeling ledger of the education system, a small, inconsequential line item in the column marked “Failed Experiments.” His memory was preserved not as a person who had dreamed, struggled, and fallen, but as a statistical object lesson for the next generation of students. He was a martyr to a cause that didn’t care about him, a sacrifice offered on the altar of a system that demanded perfection but offered no grace. The system had won. The demise of the student was a small price to pay for the smooth, uninterrupted functioning of the machine.

And so, life went on. The school bell rang, the students crammed for their exams, and the parents continued to invest in a future of predictable returns. The story of Student Number 16 was filed away in a drawer, alongside other irrelevant documents. The irony of it all was that his demise, which should have served as a wake-up call, had instead been absorbed by the very system it was a symptom of. His quiet exit had become just another part of the noise. And somewhere, another student, with tired eyes and a mind full of impossible expectations, was calculating their own odds of survival. The cycle had been completed, the lesson had been taught, and the machine, well-oiled by apathy and ambition, was ready for its next meal.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

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

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

Some precious moments of life

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

Today we present his satire The Dog: A Citizen of the Republic of Irony.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 61 ☆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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