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
- Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
- 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.
- Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
- Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
- Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.
Today we present his satire The Wedding That Lagged Out: When Love Timed Out On Wi‑Fit.
☆ Witful Warmth# 64 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Wedding That Lagged Out: When Love Timed Out On Wi‑Fi… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
At the very first hearing, the whole city sobbed—on the court’s streaming screen, the judge’s face froze into polite squares, and the bride and groom’s love jammed at “Reconnecting… Retrying…,” like a dying harmonium wheezing for breath. The boy pleaded, “My Lord, we upgraded the data plan,” the girl confessed, “I placed the router near the basil plant and waved incense,” and yet the seven firewalls of matrimony vanished into packet loss. The priest had sent mantras as voice notes; rice emojis showered like confetti; the garland fell, not on necks, but into a server’s hungry cache. Witnesses lived inside a WhatsApp group; someone typed “Jai!” a hundred and eight times, someone pasted “Om” like cheap wallpaper, but the priest’s last “Sampannam” burned to ash in buffering. Love these days is like signal strength—five bars displayed, call still drops. The court ruled: “Where seven steps were promised, seven kilobytes did not move—marriage annulled.” The attempt of affection rides a hotspot; the sacrament sulks in airplane mode. The clerks stamped a PDF, the registry hiccupped, and two families learned that romance has a progress bar now, and it spins longest when hearts are most afraid to look at each other.
Mourning happened through memes. Grandma sighed, “In our time, the hearth lit the rounds; now even the hearth is smart—ask Alexa to blow and it learns your sorrow.” The groom’s uncle lifted a jalebi like a philosophical question: “When the net fails, bonds fail; when it works, relations jump the railing and land in the DM.” The lights twitched on the shamiana, the DJ pounded drums like a debt collector, and the beat broke exactly where the bride’s netted sari snagged on a button of fate. This is the new society: mangalsutras weighed in cloud storage, vermillion calibrated by user interface, tenderness filtered to match the venue lighting. Autocorrect turns “in‑laws” into “in‑lows.” An old villager said, “Good it ended; at least no loans piled up.” A city boy whispered, “Bad Wi‑Fi bricked my heart.” Hearts, ah—upgraded to devices, never catching the route, only stuck in routing. Children asked, “Grandma, what is love?” She shut the phone and said, “That which connects even without signal. That.” Outside, a florist tied petals into silence. Inside, two mothers waited for the next notification: grief.
Government studied the crisis systematically; a committee rose like a damp monsoon: The National Commission for Marital Connectivity. Conclusions were visionary: replace seven circumambulations with seven backup networks—two telecoms, two wifis, a neighbor’s password, a brother‑in‑law’s hotspot, and the temple’s free bandwidth as holy prasad. New curriculum for priests: Chanting With Latency, Blessings Under Low Bandwidth, and Handshake Protocols For Shy Routers. Dowry modernized: mesh routers, signal boosters, surge protectors for in‑law tempers. A muhurat app blinked: “Your karma is 5G; your Mars affliction reduced to 2.4 GHz.” Behold the reconsecration: relationships tested by ping; lifelong commitment rebranded as speed test. Will the first night be Netflix And Marriage? Or will bandwidth, like virtue, return to buffering at the decisive moment? The aunties formed a focus group: what’s the right incense for packet loss? The uncles formed a panel: whose terrace gets the external antenna? Reform marches on: priests get boom mics, brides get ring lights, and grooms get tutorials on holding eye contact without checking the chat. The great question of civilization is now a small cogwheel: will it ever stop spinning?
Harishankar Parsai would have chuckled and stabbed: “We modernized marriage so thoroughly that the human inside it went obsolete.” Now, the temperature of love is printed on the router’s heat sink. The shoulders that carried society have been replaced by a plastic pillar with a blinking green confession light; in that soft pulse, we hung our trust. The dharma of bonding lives inside the terms and conditions—all scroll, all accept, none read—like a groom nodding yes without hearing the vow’s grammar. This era does not want truth; it wants signal. Not even honest signal—just the illusion, those proud, lying bars. A good day is when all bars glow, and a bad day is when the soul realizes a full‑bar lie still drops when the room goes quiet. The tragedy is basic: where conversation breaks, the first death is not Wi‑Fi but truth. After truth, humor. After humor, patience. Then, in the rubble, a toy—plastic, blinking—pretends to be hope. And the city buys three of them, one for each floor, so that disappointment can sync.
A counselor appeared with the tone of a rainstorm promising a harvest. “Virtual marriages do not fail because of technology,” he claimed, “but because the social design forgot the spinal cord of intimacy.” Quite right. We extracted the marrow of selfhood and turned union into content. Rounds became “status,” henna a “story,” vermillion a filter that stains nothing but the memory card. The sin was never a dropped line; the failing was that two minds had been offline for months—performing together, speaking alone. Seven vows turned into seven slides—Our Journey, Our Pets, Our Sunset, Our Sponsors. The QR code trembled under the weight of laddus. In a one‑second lag, a thousand days of planning folded like a cheap canopy. The bride didn’t lose kohl; the cloud drive leaked. The groom did not change conviction; he changed passwords. Parsai’s question stings: “After slicing love into pixels, how dare we file a complaint that the image came out blurry?” If a vow echoes only into a microphone, the god of acoustics, not conscience, officiates.
The judgment was both historic and clownish. “Unstable net, unstable knot,” wrote the law, tucking morality into a side drawer and spooning the warm body of technology for comfort. Courts go live; life is recorded. The bench inquired, “Did you try alternate connections?” The counsel argued, “My Lord, we had premium romance subscription.” Observe the cartography: love once spent centuries mapping a garden; now it is confused with tariff slabs. The champa of memory has been replaced by the blue of “connecting,” not tears but a screen that refuses to learn the taste of salt. Still, in this absurdity glints a splinter of sense: when a bond is perched on a signal alone, justice turns into a traffic light for data packets. The human stands at red until the joint venture of telecom and fate flips to green. That wait is not justice; it is queueing theory performed on a heart. And in the queue, every polite citizen grows old, then civilized, then slightly cruel.
Families, veteran improvisers, kneaded sorrow into discounts. Relatives sought a refund under the “Net‑Fellowship Package.” The caterer offered sweet diplomacy: “Hot milk jalebi—your sadness will caramelize.” The photographer smiled without mercy: “No classic candids, sir, but many candid errors—memes guaranteed.” Bridesmaids formed a parliament; verdict: “Men who live in airplane mode will one day actually take off.” A mother wiped her daughter’s face with the end of a future and said, “Find the Wi‑Fi of the mind, child—the one that crosses rooms without a router.” That sentence was a loaf of compassion and a pinch of satire, baked for a hungry generation that mistakes speed for promise. Society, measuring its most private ritual with bandwidth, will suffocate its vows like lungs learning to be modest in a polluted city. We will hunt for chargers during ceremonies where ancestors hunted for courage. And every socket will be already occupied by the decorations.
Solutions? Parsai’s needle pricks where it heals: don’t replace devices; replace habits. Two lessons for the couple: first, thirty minutes of talking without screens; second, lift a complaint only after looking directly into the other’s eyes. Let the rounds happen, but in the temple of the chest: seven offline vows—listen, speak, pause, hold, yield, change, keep. Priests should lace mantras with four pockets of silence—where the soul, not the signal, answers. Build a “slow lane” into the celebration where cameras are blind and memory has the room to grow tall. Even the state can legislate poetry: “Where laughter resonates, keep the speakers fewer; where conversation is true, microphones are redundant.” Bake patience into the menu; print humility on the invite. Make one friend the keeper of gossip, whose only duty is to let it starve. And plant basil next to the router if it pleases the elders—but water the basil more.
And if, in spite of goodwill, the net falls again and the courts chant that old chorus—annulled—remember this: love is not the court’s clerk. It does not stamp, staple, and file; it reads pulses like a musician listens to rain. Bonds that collapse when a router sneezes were never engineered to withstand weather. Bonds that sit together after the outage keep a quiet backup on the threshold of the mind. Let tears go where they must—they mourn not the loss of network but the loss of nerve. One day, when the sun sketches a gentle geometry on a sari’s edge, a knock will happen—no OTP, no login—and someone will ask, “Sit?” That is where the real marriage begins, with a blue circle that says “understanding,” not “connecting,” and with signals that come from chairs pulled closer, not towers pushed higher.
A last small note to society: stop turning weddings into tech support. The priest is not an IT helpdesk; the bride and groom are not customers; the family is not a call center. And love is not a data plan. Love is either unlimited, or it is counterfeit. Today’s annulments “due to poor Wi‑Fi” are case studies of our inner low coverage—where the towers of trust, restraint, and dialogue have collapsed. Raise them again—not brick by brick, but shoulder by shoulder. Then watch the weakest signal work wonders, because sitting near and speaking softly still performs the miracle that seven rounds once promised. If someone asks, “Got net?” smile and say, “Got heart.” That is the only password worth remembering, the only prasad that doesn’t expire, the only plan that never throttles at midnight when the house grows honest.
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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com
≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈
