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 Bread In The Sky, Moon In The Plate.
☆ Witful Warmth# 50 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ Bread In The Sky, Moon In The Plate… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
If ever the heavens rained bread and the moon found residence in a steel plate, it would be in the absurd republic we call modern India—where petrol rides higher than hope and the unemployed carry their pride like worn-out socks, threadbare but essential. Imagine, dear reader, a citizen wandering through the labyrinthine digital corridors of the Education Department, only to be met with the soul-shattering pop-up: “No vacancies available. Kindly try again.” Try again! As if life were a polite web page and not the snarling belly of capitalism. I, a humble supplicant armed with degrees and delusions, stood before a bureaucrat who ogled me as though I had proposed elopement with his daughter. “No experience,” he spat, as if hunger were not the most seasoned tutor. For is not the gurgling of an empty belly a more eloquent bell than any cathedral can ring?
And so I wandered with the last surviving rupee in my digital wallet, only to have it vanish like Gandhiji’s promise of village utopia. In this brave new world of QR codes and failed OTPs, even coins prefer to commit digital suicide. On the iron bench of a station, with PayTM as bankrupt as my ambition, I contemplated inventing a new IRCTC category: ‘Bhookh Tatkal’. Just then, a rustic messiah arrived in the form of a melon-bearing farmer. With the grace of a Mughal noble, he handed me two slices and said, “Brother, these are sweet as sugar.” And lo! I beheld sugar in its purest, most unscam-like form. I devoured those slices as one binges on forbidden shows, grateful not just for sustenance, but for proof that humanity had not fully migrated to the cloud.
Employment did arrive—at a government school in Jabalpur—though the salary marched slower than a sleepy snail. Without ticket or tact, I clambered aboard a train with dreams, books, and a rolled-up sense of self-worth. A cook, as saintly as any cardinal, whispered, “Crawl under the seat, the inspector is too busy texting memes.” And thus I learned the first true lesson of employment: that compassion runs on data packs. When the salary finally dropped—not into my account but straight into mortality—my father died. I wished to post an Instagram story: #FirstSalaryVibes, but fate had scheduled a funeral instead. The currency, so warm and awaited, paid for flames and flowers. “Where did your first salary go?” asked relatives. I replied, “To secure Papa a Provident Fund in the afterlife.”
Then came my sister’s wedding, where the guest list exceeded the budget, and the groom’s expectations surpassed GDP growth. At a dingy station, fate stole my wallet, phone, and identity; all I had left was her trust. A priest offered me tea and potatoes and a cryptic prophecy: “Let us find our path by electricity’s gleam.” We reached our village like lovers meeting on a first date—unsure, excited, but alive. The wedding happened, not by luxury but by resilience, and we celebrated it like bureaucrats who cleared UPSC by some divine clerical error. I began writing satire not when likes poured in, but when tears refused to come. I wrote for those who smile through their despair, lest the world mock them with memes. Humor, once my hobby, became my sword. Unable to fight systems with fists, I trained my words in martial arts. Satire became not laughter, but an encrypted cry for justice.
Politics beckoned, its siren song promising reform. I fantasized about addressing the Rajya Sabha on educational overhaul, only to be shoved aside by a tsunami of ‘recommendation letters’ and ‘network referrals’. In the bureaucratic sea of politics, your résumé is but flotsam unless buoyed by nepotism. A month I languished in a queue where hopes were stapled and dreams photocopied. A doorman, drunk on protocol, declared, “No entry without influence.” It was then I realized that the Constitution is but a myth we recite on Republic Day, while power winks at networking cocktails. Today, my words appear calm on paper, but their journey has been more turbulent than the Yamuna after a monsoon. I write jokes with bleeding fingers and compose laughter with tear-stained ink. Satire has become a PDF file of sorrow—formatted, compressed, but never deleted.
Now, I consider branding my misfortunes for digital consumption. Perhaps my struggles can trend with the right filter, the correct angle, and a trending hashtag. Let every hunger become a reel, every insult a YouTube short. Let me say to the world, “Here, take my downfall in HD—like, share, subscribe.” For isn’t that the final mockery of our times? That even tragedy must pass through an editing app before it’s believed. Thus ends my tale—not with resolution, but with a smile filtered just right, and tears cropped just off-screen. Jonathan Swift might have railed against the cruelties of his age, but I merely upload mine to the cloud and hope for a few sympathetic comments before the algorithm moves on.
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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
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≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈
