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
- 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 – Where God Does Not Dwell.
☆ Witful Warmth# 84 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ Where God Does Not Dwell… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
The wrinkles on Kaleem Sahab’s face formed such a tangled script that it seemed written not by the ink of time, but by the collective rules and regulations of the city. Over sixty, he resembled the crumbling debris of what must have once been a magnificent mansion. In his hand, he held a transparent plastic bag containing two quarters of liquor and a water pouch. They clinked against each other like an old iron chain rattling against the wall of a deserted ruin in the gusts of wind.
It was already eleven at night. Fearing the police sirens, all the liquor vends in the city had pulled down their shutters. The vigilance of the law was such as if the entire crime of the world were locked inside that 180ml shard of glass. Kaleem Sahab’s knees were giving way, and his thirst? Thirst pricked his throat like a thorn, like a fish taking its final desperate gasps at the bottom of a dried-up well.
Just then, he reached the corner of the alley where the solitary tower of light stood in this dark and bitter city. It was a marble mosque whose minarets gleamed in the nocturnal moonlight as if God Himself had peeled silver leaf from the sky and pasted it there. Kaleem Sahab’s steps halted. His feet began moving toward that threshold where once the rich and the poor, the sinner and the virtuous, stood in the same row to bow in reverence.
Sitting on the platform there was the city’s most renowned Maulvi Sahab. His long white beard was groomed so meticulously that if one wished to find a single stray straw in it, they would fail. His kurta was so stiffly starched that if made to stand on its own, it would testify like a human being.
Clutching the trembling bag tightly against his chest, Kaleem Sahab stepped onto the stairs.
The Maulvi Sahab’s eyes fell upon Kaleem Sahab’s bag, and his eyebrows knit together as if someone had splattered black ink on a holy book. He lunged from his seat as if a scorpion had crawled under his wooden platform.
“Hey, hey! Oh Kaleem! Have you lost your mind? What is this impure thing you are holding in your hand as you walk toward the house of God? Shame on you for such shamelessness at this age! This is a mosque, the pure abode of God. This is the dwelling of angels, not for this handful of disgrace of yours.” The Maulvi’s voice echoed with the supreme custodianship of the entire religion.
There was a strange, cold silence in Kaleem Sahab’s eyes. He gripped the bag even tighter. His voice held no tremor of crying, but rather the sharp edge of a broken shard of glass. Looking straight into the Maulvi’s eyes, he spoke with very slow, trembling lips, “Sahab, I am exhausted. Life has squeezed me so dry that nothing but gunpowder is left inside. Just let me pour two sips down my throat sitting in some corner of this mosque. God is deeply merciful, isn’t He? He knows the innermost secrets of every heart; He will understand my helplessness too.”
“Repent, repent! Insolent, arrogant man!” The Maulvi waved his hand in the air as if shooing away a stray dog. “God is merciful, but He is not a helper of sinners. You don’t even possess the worth to set foot in this holy place in your impure state. Get out of here! God is present in every speck here; there is no corner for your filth.”
Kaleem Sahab’s back slumped. His condition had become like a torn envelope whose inner letter was lost long ago. He took a deep breath. Lifting his bag, he looked at the Maulvi and murmured the famous couplet:
“Zahid sharab peene de masjid mein baith kar…
Ya wo jagah bata de jahan par Khuda na ho.”
(O pious ritualist, let me drink wine sitting in the mosque…
Or show me a place where God does not exist.)
A sinister smile drifted across the Maulvi’s face. He pointed his finger toward the darkest, filthiest corner of the city, “Go! Go to that side. Where there is stench, where the gutter flows, where bodies are sold—go there. God does not dwell there. Do whatever you please there.”
Without a word, Kaleem Sahab turned back. He was panting, stumbling, and steadying himself. He did not go toward the gutter; instead, he turned toward the most affluent area of the city, lined with massive mansions. He stopped before one such mansion, where large letters on a marble nameplate read: ‘Kaleem Villa’.
This was Kaleem Sahab’s own home. The very house he had nurtured with the sweat and blood of his youth.
The sight inside was astonishing. Kaleem Sahab’s only son, known for his modern lifestyle and professional image, was hosting a grand party. The hall was filled with the city’s wealthy elite and government bureaucrats. Smoke, music, and rounds of expensive imported scotch were flowing freely.
When Kaleem Sahab entered the garden of his own house through the back door, he looked through the window and saw his son handing a thick envelope to the Maulvi Sahab—who had just arrived there from the mosque. The son was saying, “Sahab, this new project wouldn’t have been possible without ‘the blessings of the Almighty’. This is a small offering for your charity trust. Just pray that we bag the next tender as well.”
The Maulvi Sahab, who just ten minutes ago was preaching lessons of purity and impurity on the steps of the mosque, was now holding a glass of scotch in the very same hand. Smiling, he replied, “My dear, God is always with successful people like you.”
Kaleem Sahab sat down in that dark corner of his own lawn where he had once planted a sapling of hope. With trembling hands, he opened the cap of his cheap bottle. As the first sip went down his throat, the tears from his eyes fell straight into the liquor.
Inside, beneath the magnificent chandelier, ‘religion’ and ‘profit’ sat at the same table, celebrating together. Outside, in the darkness, sat that elderly father who had transferred his entire property and will to his son’s name just a few days ago, thinking his remaining days would pass in peace. But little did he know that the house in whose bricks he had buried his soul no longer had even a single chair left for him.
Gathering all his remaining strength, Kaleem Sahab took one last gulp. A smile surfaced on his lips—a smile in which the funeral of relationships and righteousness was taking place. He looked up at the sky, where the moon was hiding behind the clouds.
He murmured, “Maulvi Sahab… you spoke the truth. God was in the mosque, so I found no place there. And in this house… in this house, only a ‘transaction’ remains. When humanity itself is gone, how can God be here? I have found my place… where God does not dwell.”
The next moment, Kaleem Sahab’s head slumped to one side. The empty bottle slipped from his hand, crashed onto the marble floor, and shattered. Inside the room, the sounds of laughter and the counting of currency notes echoed on, while outside on the lawn, a father’s soul had departed forever, leaving behind one last, silent laugh in the face of this hypocritical world.
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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 ≈
