The Tragic Tale of a Desire
For the past ten days, I have been lying in the trash bin in the corner of the minister’s office. Piles of my helpless sisters, along with countless abandoned brothers in the form of recommendation letters, invitations, greetings, and petitions, have fallen on me. I am buried under them, struggling to breathe. The garbage collector hasn’t come for two days either.
My last wish is to at least escape this suffocating pile and reach a recycling plant, where I might be of some use to the country.
It would have been better if I had been thrown on the street. At least a scrap dealer could have sold me as waste paper. I might have become a plate for a street vendor’s samosas or a child’s paper boat floating in a puddle for a little while.
But no! You, foolish human, thought you could walk into the minister’s office empty-handed, waving a mere “desire” written by an MLA? Do you have any sense? Even when you got the MLA to write me, he kept repeating, “Brother, I have no power in this matter.” Still, he wrote it because you insisted. Couldn’t you understand what he was really saying? He meant that without an incentive, this letter was worthless. But who would explain that to you? You walked in with me, thinking you had conquered a fortress, while I already knew my fate.
Your own father couldn’t get his son’s work done without bribing officials, and you thought you, an ordinary voter, could get it done with a mere letter?
Your memory is short—you will forget everything in five years. That’s your typical voter mentality. Right now, the MLA still acknowledges you because you control 100 votes in your community. But give it some time, and you won’t even be allowed near his office gate.
Before elections, the MLA treated your entire family like relatives—calling someone an uncle, someone a grandfather, someone a sister. Your grandfather even dug up old favors to make the MLA bow before him. But the MLA is smart—his nose is made of steel; it doesn’t get worn out from all the bowing. Now your time is over. The MLA’s time has begun, fool!
I have seen so many “desires” come in, flaunting their glossy envelopes, their bulging bellies clearly showing how “weighty” they are. The MLA kisses them, hands them over to his secretary, who carefully files them away. And me? Do you remember what happened to me? The minister tossed me aside as if I were a poisonous snake.
You are obsessed with not paying bribes, aren’t you? You’ve made the MLA’s life miserable for months—getting calls made from council members, party officials, and local leaders, all begging on your behalf. Do you know how many lies they had to tell just to get rid of you? The chairman had to pretend he was in Delhi one day, Jaipur the next.
Remember that party worker you used to mock, calling him a mere cleaner? Well, as soon as the MLA won, that very worker became his personal assistant. And what did he do? The moment you left after submitting your “desire,” he whispered into the MLA’s ear, and within minutes, a phone call reached the minister: Ignore this one.
Even if you spent seven generations trying to understand the MLA’s cunning smile, you wouldn’t get it. You kept sending calls through distant relatives, through people the MLA doesn’t even like. You’ve been camping at the MLA’s house for ten days, stuffing yourself with free tea and snacks, while he blocked your number long ago.
And now, here you are, standing outside the minister’s office, being told for the tenth day in a row that “the minister is in the bathroom.” You just don’t get it, do you? The minister hasn’t just been in the bathroom—he hasn’t bathed, hasn’t done anything else for ten straight hours! And you think you can question that? You’re not even important enough to be a security guard at the minister’s door, let alone someone who deserves answers.
The truth is, the minister conducts his most important affairs in the bathroom. Deals with powerful figures, secret plots against opponents, planning corruption schemes—all happen there. The bathroom is soundproof, the last safe place away from sting operations and rival party spies. It’s the perfect place to wash away the stains of scams and corruption.
And what about me? My fate was sealed the moment you dropped me here. I’m not alone—I have thousands of sisters lying here with me. This is our destiny. Not everyone can be a clever, resourceful voter who knows how to get things done.
People like you—who consider themselves intellectuals—are worth nothing more than a single vote in this democracy.
Writer: Dr. Mukesh Aseemit
📧 Email: [email protected]
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मेरी व्यंग्यात्मक पुस्तकें खरीदने के लिए लिंक पर क्लिक करें – “Girne Mein Kya Harz Hai” और “Roses and Thorns”
Notion Press –Roses and Thorns