~ Where have all the crows gone? ~ Dr. Jailaxmi R Vinayak
Crows that were once upon a time in abundance and in persistent companionship of human beings are steadily diminishing like sparrows, parakeets, tigers and lions. Basically, it is because of the urbanisation and felling of trees. The dwindling green spots in the city life has taken a toll on common birds. In addition to this global warming, hazardous climatic changes, noise pollution, emission of harmful gases and insecticides are equally responsible. The crows need trees for nesting and neighborhood areas for foraging.
The grey necked crow also known as Ceylon or Colombo crow is of Asian origin. Their age limit is twenty or thirty years. They eat all that is edible and feed on refuge around human habitation, small reptiles, insects, small invertebrates, eggs, nestlings, plants, grain, fruit etc. The main reason why our garden is being harmfully raided by insects is mainly because there are no crows to thrive on them. Crows are also an indication of poor sanitary conditions. It was also considered inauspicious to be touched by crows.
Since five to six years crows were considered to be a menace. We were getting up with ‘caw caw’ sound. Some very famous songs have been composed on them like ‘jhooth bole kouva kaate’, and ‘bhor hote kaga pukare more ram’, just reinforcing that crows were an important part and parcel of our lives. Of course, in places like Worli of Mumbai, which is surrounded by densely foliaged trees, crows are daring to come in the flats of high-rise buildings and creating a menace.
On occasions of Shradh, a ceremony observed after the demise of ancestors, crows were fed to give peace to the departed Soul.
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 Tiny Rings, Big Weddings, Half a Garland Love.
☆ Witful Warmth# 45 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ Tiny Rings, Big Weddings, Half a Garland Love… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
That evening, there weren’t any clouds in the sky, but on the WhatsApp group of the neighborhood, an emotional monsoon was definitely pouring. The reason? A birthday party. But not just any party—this was the grand “Mini-Marriage Extravaganza” of Gupta ji’s granddaughter’s aunt’s sister-in-law’s daughter’s son. Yes, relationships in India are longer than wedding vows, and just as confusing.
On a tiny, glittering stage stood five-year-old Rahul and four-and-a-half-year-old Pinky—both with cheeks still stained from milk and cookie crumbs. One looked like a lost groom, the other like a soap opera heroine in miniature.
“Hold the flower!” commanded Pinky, her tone sharper than a reality show judge.
“No, not like that—gracefully! Like you mean it!”
The crowd laughed. Cameras clicked. And Sharma Aunty sobbed emotionally, whispering, “Today’s kids are so smart! Our daughter-in-law still doesn’t know what blouse fall is!”
This was no play. It was a national trailer—India’s future in two minutes and forty seconds, garnished with flowers and viral hashtags. When Rahul bent down to hand over the flower, clumsily copying the kneeling trope from Bollywood, the aunties clapped as though a new law had passed in Parliament—The Child Marriage (Cute Content) Act 2025.
As the garlands looped around tiny necks, nostalgia gripped the uncles.
“In our days, love arrived via postman,” mused Sharma ji, “Now it shows up in Instagram reels—with background music and slow motion!”
He sighed. A deep, worn-out sigh. The kind of sigh that said: “Even children are marrying now, and I’m still paying EMI for my second daughter-in-law’s bangles.”
If Parsai’s soul was lurking anywhere nearby, it would have been rolling in the aisle, chuckling at humanity’s need to commercialize even a child’s innocence. “I bet,” he’d whisper from beyond, “next time they’ll stage a cute divorce act—complete with tiny lawyers and an emotional breakup song.”
The party ended, but not the unease. As laddoos were served, a question quietly echoed: Are we turning our children into ‘content’ before they can even become children?
Garlands on one side, likes on the other… and in between—childhood, shrinking like that old frock your daughter once wore but can’t fit into anymore.
Earlier, girls used to marry dolls. Now they become dolls—for views and clout. And the boy? He simply does what he’s told—
“Hold the flower, beta!”
After the shoot, Rahul caught a cold, and Pinky went viral. Her mother proudly declared, “We should put her in acting school. She’s got that spark!”
Rahul’s father just stood silently. Then muttered, “He held the flower. Now I’ll bear the thorns forever.”
The satire met its most painful punch when Rahul’s little sister asked that night, “Papa, will I also get married tomorrow?”
And the mother, adjusting her sari and her sarcasm, replied, “Depends, sweetheart. If the video goes viral, then maybe. Start thinking of a hashtag—#LittleBrideBigHype.”
And so, a new ritual has emerged in our lanes and gallis: a corner at every party now has kids dressed up in wedding costumes, ready to ‘perform’ their innocence.
Parents hover with phones in hand, waiting to record the next viral gem, the next ‘adorable’ moment, the next “We are so blessed” caption.
This isn’t just satire. It’s a mirror we’d rather not look into. Everything is staged. Everyone’s a prop. And childhood? It’s just a clip—carefully curated, expertly edited, and widely forwarded.
Next time you come across a viral reel of two kids pretending to get married, don’t just hit ‘like’. Pause. Ask yourself—Is that smile really theirs, or just another rented emotion we forced them to wear for our entertainment?
And if you must cry—keep a tissue handy. You’re going to need it.
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. Today we present his satire The stomach judged, the rulers budged!.
☆ Witful Warmth# 44 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The stomach judged, the rulers budged!… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
Raghu’s entire life was spent in one queue or the other. First, the school queue. Then, the marriage queue. Then came the job queue. And now, in his twilight years, he was gloriously queued up for—hold your breath—ration! They say a man finally rests six feet under a line, but Raghu had managed to live in one, permanently. He’d wake up at 4 a.m. (bathing was optional), tie a half-hearted dhoti, and be in line before his wife could shout, “There’s no milk!” Milk? Raghu didn’t need milk. He needed wheat, rice, and a teaspoon of dignity. Ration queues, my friend, are the true melting pots of Indian democracy. Religion, caste, class—everything dissolves into one universal identity: “Please wait.” The government tone might as well be inspired by the ration shop’s eternal chorus.
“Last time I didn’t get salt,” Raghu mumbled. A cheeky teen behind him quipped, “Planning to make halwa this time, grandpa?” The shopkeeper, with the swagger of a TV anchor, stamped Raghu’s card and said, “You’ll get it when there’s leftovers. Move along, Baba!” It was the same every month—nothing left but leftover expectations. Ration has now become a seasonal blessing from the heavens, or more precisely, from the District Supply Office. Behind him, a girl shouted, “Give me rice, I feel like making daal today!” Raghu turned—she was around his granddaughter’s age but had a Smart Card. Raghu only had old memories and a fractured spine.
“Stay in line, old man!” The security guard’s voice had the softness of a hammer. Raghu stepped back. The words didn’t just strike his ears—they jabbed his soul. All his life he made sure his children stayed in line—school lines, fee lines, marriage bureaus. And today, here he was—an unregistered participant in the very line he had been loyal to. The women’s queue was longer, but their patience was even longer. “My bag’s torn!” a woman screamed. The shopkeeper chuckled, “Just like government promises—always bursting at the seams!”
Sweat ran down in streams. Raghu’s eyes leaked too—both victims of the merciless sun and merciless system. A kid asked innocently, “Grandpa, are you hungry?” Raghu smiled, “No, son. Hunger is no longer a feeling. It’s a habit now.” That was supposed to be a joke, but even the laughter trembled with weakness. When hunger becomes routine, a man doesn’t live—he simply performs the act of living.
Suddenly, a politician’s convoy zoomed past—AC cars like mobile glaciers in a desert. “Clear the way! The Hon’ble is coming!” the guard barked. Raghu’s face lit up, “Is he coming for ration too?” The crowd laughed—a hollow, stomach-growling laugh. Laughter in a ration line is a form of protest—it doesn’t lighten, it burns. Then came the cameras. Journalists took selfies with Raghu. “You look very inspirational, Dadaji!” one chirped. Raghu blinked—so hunger had now become an inspirational story!
He returned home with an empty bag and a full pocket—full of papers. One read: “Aadhaar not linked. Kindly visit the bank.” He showed it to his daughter-in-law. She sighed, “Leave it, Baba. We’ll just buy something from outside.” But Raghu knew—outside food comes with preservatives, not love. Home-made rotis, even without ghee, carried something else—dignity, belonging, soul.
The last time Raghu stood in the line, the guard said, “Why do you keep coming, Baba? You’re too old.” Raghu smiled, “The day I stop getting ration, son, I’ll stop breathing.” And so it happened. He collapsed in the line—without drama, without a scream. They brought water, but of course, there was no sugar in it. Just like his life—bitter, basic, and boiled down to survival.
Raghu left. Not just the queue, but the planet. Behind him, his torn cloth bag lay still. A perfect metaphor for every government scheme—too stretched, too fragile, and too empty. Bubbly, the girl from the back, was crying. The guard looked down. The shopkeeper, for the first time, didn’t crack a joke. And somewhere above, a final line was drawn—not on paper, but in memory. Ah… and the nation, still waiting in line, fell silent.
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. Today we present his satire The Progressive Ox and the Modern Plow.
☆ Witful Warmth# 43 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Progressive Ox and the Modern Plow… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
It was a lazy Sunday morning at the village square. Old Kaka, with his wrinkled wisdom and a perpetually lit pipe, sat under the giant banyan tree. His gaze was fixed on the horizon as he puffed out smoke circles that seemed to mock the monotony of life. The younger folks gathered around him—they had just returned from their city escapades and were brimming with stories of “modern solutions” and “startups.”
Kaka cleared his throat, “I hear progress is galloping ahead like a wild horse. But tell me, how do we hitch an ox to this modern plow?”
The youth laughed. “Kaka, oxen are outdated now. We’re talking drones for farming, AI for irrigation, and apps that tell you when the crops are thirsty!”
Kaka’s brows furrowed. “Ah, so we’ll teach the ox to download an app next? Or is progress about abandoning the ox and buying one that runs on batteries?”
The crowd chuckled, but Gopal, the self-proclaimed village intellectual, stepped forward. “Kaka, you’re missing the point! Progress is about replacing old methods with innovative technology. Think of it this way—farming 2.0!”
Kaka took a deep drag from his pipe and exhaled with a smile. “So, we make farming so expensive that a farmer has to sell his land to afford the progress? Progress has become a race where the ox is left behind, and the farmer is left chasing loans.”
“But Kaka,” Gopal retorted, “Technology is the future. The villagers must adapt or perish. It’s survival of the smartest!”
Kaka chuckled softly. “Yes, but remember, Gopal, even the smartest fox cannot grow crops. Progress that leaves the ox, the plow, and the farmer behind is just a balloon—beautiful to look at, but bursts at the first prick of reality.”
The conversation spiraled from drones to digital wallets, as the youth defended their newfound faith in technology. Kaka listened patiently, occasionally nodding, as his pipe smoke seemed to form questions they couldn’t answer.
Finally, he stood up, tapped his pipe against the tree trunk, and declared, “True progress is when the ox and the plow walk hand in hand with technology—not when one is sacrificed at the altar of the other.”
The village square erupted in laughter and applause, not because they fully agreed with Kaka, but because they saw in his words the humor and irony of their reality. And as he walked away, one of the youths whispered, “Maybe the old man isn’t so outdated after all.”
Do you seek happiness and well-being? Do you wish to flourish in life?
Happiness is the experience of joy, contentment, and positive well-being, combined with a deep sense that life is good, meaningful, and worthwhile.
People flourish when they find a balance of positive emotions, deep engagement with life, meaningful relationships, a sense of purpose, and the fulfilment of valued goals.
Here are five simple yet profound pathways to lasting happiness and a flourishing life:
ENGAGE DEEPLY
Immerse yourself in what you love. Go deeper and deeper. Master your skills and excel in your pursuits. Absorb yourself fully in the experience. You’ll discover the joy of flow.
WALK & EXERCISE
Rise early. Go for a long walk. Move your body—stretch, bend, squat, jump, turn, twist, whirl. Practise yoga. Breathe deeply. Meditate. Observe silence for a couple of hours after waking up. You’ll feel serene.
RELAX
Relax your body and mind. Sleep well. Take short breaks during the day. Rest adequately. Practise Yoga Nidra regularly for complete physical, mental, and emotional relaxation. You’ll feel stress-free.
BE INTIMATE
Nurture strong relationships with family, friends, and even strangers. Be warm and tender. Recognise that other people are the richest source of happiness in life. Be genuinely intimate with your partner, children, siblings, and parents. You’ll feel deeply loved.
BE SPIRITUAL
Be kind. Be generous. Be full of compassion. Never harm anyone—through words or deeds. Wish well, from your heart, for all beings. Dissolve into something meaningful and larger than yourself. You’ll find profound peace.
A Pathway to Authentic Happiness, Well-Being & A Fulfilling Life! We teach skills to lead a healthy, happy and meaningful life.
The Science of Happiness (Positive Psychology), Meditation, Yoga, Spirituality and Laughter Yoga. We conduct talks, seminars, workshops, retreats and training.
(This is an effort to preserve old invaluable and historical memories through e-abhivyakti’s“दस्तावेज़” series. In the words of Shri Jagat Singh Bisht Ji – “The present is being recorded on the Internet in some form or the other. But some earlier memories related to parents, grandparents, their lifetime achievements are slowly fading and getting forgotten. It is our responsibility to document them in time. Our generation can do this else nobody will know the history and everything will be forgotten.”
In the next part of this series, we present a memoir by Shri Jagat Singh Bisht Ji “Through the Eyes of Gratitude: A Vision Reborn.“)
☆ दस्तावेज़ # 23 – Through the Eyes of Gratitude: A Vision Reborn ☆ Shri Jagat Singh Bisht ☆
A New Dawn of Clarity
It was early morning, the day after my cataract surgery. As I sat on my balcony, the world before me shimmered with an ethereal glow. My newly restored eyesight was not just a medical marvel—it was a gift, a revelation. The neem tree stood before me, more radiant and distinct than I had ever seen. Its nascent green and purple leaves danced joyfully in the soft embrace of the breeze, basking in the golden-red hues of the rising sun. Beyond, the vast blue sky stretched endlessly like a divine canopy, serene and infinite. The birds, perched on delicate branches, filled the air with a symphony of chirps, their melodies weaving magic into the morning. I felt a joy so pure, so unfiltered—it was as if I had been gifted the exuberance of a fifteen-year-old once again.
The Hands That Heal:
As my heart absorbed the beauty around me, it overflowed with gratitude for the man who had made this transformation possible—Dr Mahesh Agrawal. To say he is a skilled ophthalmic surgeon would be an understatement. He is a healer in the truest sense—one who blends precision with compassion, expertise with empathy. The doctor-patient relationship, at its best, is never just a transaction. It is a sacred connection, built on trust, care, and understanding.
A patient arrives at the doorstep of a doctor with not just a physical ailment but also an emotional burden—anxiety, fear, and uncertainty. The true healer alleviates not just the illness but also the worries that accompany it. A doctor can be a messenger of hope, transforming pain into relief, darkness into light, despair into faith. Dr Agrawal embodies this philosophy with effortless grace. His skill is matched only by his humility, his knowledge tempered by his humanity.
The Twilight of Vision, the Dawn of Hope:
Aging brings with it a gradual dimming—of energy, of faculties, of the senses. The knees ache, hearing wanes, and teeth weaken. But when the eyes, the windows to the world, begin to fail, it feels as though the very essence of life dims. To be able to restore sight, even in the later years, is nothing short of a blessing. And for that, we must thank not only the skilled surgeons but also the brilliant minds that have advanced medical science from the era of Extra Capsular Cataract Extraction to today’s modern, painless, precise techniques.
Yet, despite the advancements, my own journey to surgery was not straightforward. An unexpected health complication, undetected for years, delayed the procedure by more than three years. The uncertainty weighed on me, compounded by well-meaning but disheartening advice: “Cataract surgery is not an emergency; you can wait.” But waiting meant enduring a world that was slowly blurring, a reality that was becoming increasingly elusive.
It was during this phase of doubt and desperation that I found solace in Dr Agrawal’s wisdom. He reassured me with words that resonated deeply: “I have always seen you as a happy person. You bring joy to others. I would never want you to take unnecessary risks. Have patience—we will find a way.” His confidence, his belief in a solution, became my anchor. And, by divine grace, a solution did emerge, allowing me to finally move forward with the surgery.
A Master’s Touch:
The procedure itself was nothing short of extraordinary. Dr Agrawal, trained at the prestigious Shankar Netralaya in Chennai and Arvind Eye Hospital in Madurai, performed the surgery with a finesse that can only be described as artistry. The Micro Incision Cataract Surgery—painless, patchless, punctureless, pinhole—was executed with a seamless flow, a rhythm that spoke of years of dedication. Inside the operation theatre, he was calm, precise, and ever mindful of the patient. His reassuring voice guided me through the process, transforming what could have been an anxious experience into one of absolute trust and surrender.
The hospital he has built, Shree Ganesh Netralaya in Indore, is a testament to his commitment. It is no mere medical institution—it radiates warmth and care. His team of optometrists, operation theatre technicians, nurses, and support staff work with a quiet efficiency, their smiles making the journey smoother. Perhaps it is no coincidence that Dr Agrawal trained at ‘Shankar’ Netralaya, named his own hospital ‘Ganesh’ Netralaya, and bears the name ‘Mahesh’—Lord Shankar, Lord Ganesh, and Lord Mahesh, revered in Hindu mythology, known for their wisdom and benevolence. There is a divinity in the air at his hospital, a sense of sacred purpose.
A World Rekindled:
Today, as I step out with my newly restored vision, the world appears reborn. My eyesight is now 6/6, N6—sharper and clearer than I have ever known it to be. I regret not having undergone the surgery sooner, but regret is fleeting. What remains is immense joy, an insatiable curiosity to rediscover life’s wonders. Books have regained their charm, television is more engaging, distant landscapes are more vivid. The world, in its entirety, is brighter, more beautiful, more alive. I feel unshackled, as if I could take flight like a bird, kissing the sky with newfound freedom.
A Heartfelt Salute:
Dr Mahesh Agrawal, with his unparalleled skill, humility, and kindness, has not just restored my vision—he has rekindled my spirit. He has turned what seemed like a closing chapter into a fresh beginning. For this, I shall remain forever grateful. His wisdom, patience, and humaneness have touched me in ways beyond words. To him, I offer my heartfelt thanks. May he continue to bring light into the lives of many more, guiding them from the shadows of uncertainty into the brilliance of clarity and hope.
The world is beautiful again—and I owe it all to him.
A Pathway to Authentic Happiness, Well-Being & A Fulfilling Life! We teach skills to lead a healthy, happy and meaningful life.
The Science of Happiness (Positive Psychology), Meditation, Yoga, Spirituality and Laughter Yoga. We conduct talks, seminars, workshops, retreats and training.
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. Today we present his satire The Great Deceiver Maya, Our Mistress.
☆ Witful Warmth# 42 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Great Deceiver Maya, Our Mistress… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
So, dear friends, the story begins on that fateful day when the greatest con artist of all—the human mind—decided to play its grandest trick on me. I woke up in the morning, rubbing my eyes, thinking, “Today, I’ll do something big, something that’ll go down in history!” But history? I couldn’t even cross my doorstep before Maya threw her first punch. “Beta, make some tea!” came my mother’s voice. Now, making tea isn’t exactly a grand feat, but Maya wove such a web around it that it wasn’t just tea—it squeezed the life out of me. No sugar, curdled milk, empty gas cylinder—and there I was, standing on the street with a pot in hand, singing like an unemployed poet, “Oh life, what have you given me?” Maya laughed, “This is just the trailer, the movie’s yet to come!” And trust me, the movie was so intense that even Shah Rukh’s films would pale in comparison. The shopkeeper said, “Cylinder will come tomorrow, cook on a stove today.” A stove? Is this 2025 or 1825? But behold Maya’s game—she turned me into a poet even while I hauled wood: “Life’s a stove, all smoke, no glow.” Neighbors laughed, “You’re quite the craftsman!” There was pain in that laughter, but who sees the tears in my eyes? Maya whispered, “Don’t cry, the day’s just begun.” And I, the fool, believed her and stepped out to embrace the day. Embrace? More like I got choked.
The sun rose higher, and I thought, let’s hunt for a job. I grabbed my resume, polished my shoes, and set off—“There are more destinations to conquer!” But Maya had already written the script. I boarded the bus, reached for my pocket—my wallet was gone. The driver barked, “Ticket or get off!” I pleaded, “Brother, adjust a little, I’m jobless.” He laughed, “Then this isn’t a bus, it’s a train straight to Footpath Station!” The crowd clapped, and I stepped off—not as a hero, but as a villain. Standing on the road, I wondered, “Is this Maya or my fate mocking me?” Just then, a beggar approached, “Sir, spare two rupees.” I said, “Brother, I’m a beggar myself, you give me some.” He laughed, “You’re worse off than me!” Maya cackled, “See, I’ve made you the king of the streets!” King? Yes, without a crown, without a kingdom. My shoes were worn out, my stomach growled, and Maya shouted, “The interview’s still left!” Interview? That became a distant dream because by the time I reached the office, it was night.
Evening fell, and I thought, let’s meet some friends—maybe my heart will feel lighter. But Maya outdid herself here too. My friend said, “Good you came, I’m broke, lend me some money.” I replied, “Brother, my pocket’s full of air—and that’s polluted too!” He said, “No worries, sit, I’ll get tea.” Tea arrived, I started sipping, and the dhaba owner yelled, “Who’s paying?” My friend vanished, and I was trapped. The owner said, “Wash the dishes, then leave.” Now witness Maya’s magic—my day began making tea, and ended washing dishes. Hands covered in soap, eyes brimming with tears, and a single question in my mind—“Is this life or a punishment?” Maya placed her hand on my shoulder, “Not punishment, my art.” Art? This isn’t art, it’s cruelty! But who can reason with Maya? She just kept laughing, and I, like an empty vessel, kept sobbing. My friend called later, “Sorry, I was joking.” Joking? My life’s become a joke, and Maya’s sitting in the director’s chair, clapping away.
Night arrived, and I returned home. Mom said, “Where were you? The food’s cold.” I replied, “Mom, I’ve gone cold from life itself.” I ate, but where was the taste? Maya had stolen that too. I tried to sleep, but Maya had kidnapped my sleep. Lying in the dark, I wondered, “What did I do wrong?” Maya answered, “Wrong? You were born—that’s your mistake!” And then her laughter echoed—ha ha ha! I buried my face in the pillow, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Outside, a dog was barking—perhaps another victim of Maya. “Brother, are you crying too?” I asked. The dog fell silent, maybe Maya scolded him too. I survived the night, morning came, and Maya was ready again—“New day, new drama!” I pleaded, “Enough, Maya! I can’t take it anymore.” But she said, “You’ll have to, because I’m Maya, the Great Deceiver!” And I, like a puppet, got entangled in her game again.
Morning followed the same routine. I made tea, but this time Maya added a new twist—she swapped the sugar with salt. Mom shouted, “What is this?” I said, “Mom, this is the taste of my life—salty tears!” She snapped, “Stop the nonsense, go get milk.” I went, but the shopkeeper said, “Money first, milk later.” Empty pockets, teary eyes. I returned, and Mom taunted, “You’ll always be useless.” Useless? Yes, Maya had made me the emperor of the useless. The day progressed, and the phone rang. The electricity guy said, “Pay the bill, or we’ll cut the power.” I said, “Brother, my life’s already cut off, what’s electricity?” He laughed, “Then cry in the dark!” Darkness? It’s become my friend. Maya said, “See, I’ve shown you every shade—black, white, salty!” And I, without electricity, sat with a candle, talking to my shadow—“You’re better than me, at least Maya doesn’t toy with you.”
Noon arrived, and a neighbor came by, “I hear crying from your house.” I said, “Brother, that’s my life, clinging to me and weeping.” He asked, “Some girl trouble?” I laughed, “Yes, a girl named Maya!” He didn’t understand and left. Then the postman arrived with a letter. I opened it—a job rejection: “You’re unfit.” Unfit? Maya taunted, “See, you’re unfit even for my game!” I tore the letter and screamed, “Maya, you’ve won!” But she said, “Won? The real fun of defeat is yet to come.” That evening, the power was cut. Sitting in the dark, I wondered, “What’s left?” Then water dripped from the ceiling—rain had started. Maya laughed, “I’ve summoned your tears from the sky!” I got drenched, and Maya danced.
The night deepened, and I had a dream. Maya stood before me, saying, “You think I’m cruel? I’m your teacher.” I asked, “What have you taught me? To cry?” She said, “No, to endure!” Endure? Yes, Maya had turned me into an endurance machine. I woke up, my pillow soaked. The rain had stopped outside, but the storm inside me raged on. Mom said, “Get up, do something.” I replied, “Mom, what can a man defeated by Maya do?” She stayed silent—perhaps she sensed Maya’s presence. The day began, but for me, every day was the same—Maya’s game, Maya’s trap. I looked at the sky, “Oh Maya, you’ve taken everything, what’s left?” She said, “Your tears are left—I’ll squeeze those too!” And she did, while I kept crying.
In the end, I was sitting on the street. A child approached, “Uncle, why are you crying?” I said, “Son, what else can a man defeated by Maya do?” He asked, “Who’s Maya?” I laughed, “The guest who’ll soon visit your life!” The child left, and I sat there. Maya came to me, “Game over, now go.” I asked, “Where?” She said, “Back where you came from.” I thought, maybe it’s time to die. But Maya threw her final punch, “I won’t even let you die—keep living!” And I, like a living corpse, lay on the street. The crowd watched—some laughed, some cried. But Maya? She moved on, hunting for her next prey. My tears dried, but a sigh escaped my heart—“Oh Maya, you’ll always be the Great Deceiver!” And reader, if you’re crying too, know this—Maya has already arrived at your doorstep.
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. Today we present his satire The Universal Truth.
☆ Witful Warmth# 41 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Universal Truth… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
It is a truth universally acknowledged (though seldom admitted by those who ought to know it), that in our modern metropolis—in which industrial mechanizations, fraudulent schemes, and the ever-expanding folly of commerce preoccupy the hours of both the diligent and the idle—the art of common sense has been, by degrees, effaced by the artful incompetence of modern industry. In this spirit, I now present to you a tale—half mirthful, half mournful—a chronicle of the curious misadventures of Mr. Bartholomew Gudgeon and his motley assembly of compatriots, who in their blind pursuit of profit, have rendered themselves as veritable marionettes to the inane puppetry of economic absurdity.
Mr. Gudgeon, a man of no small ambition and even less common sense, had risen from the squalid bowels of the lower quarters to preside, however insignificantly, over an establishment known simply as “Gudgeon & Sons, Importers of All That Glitters.” This establishment, rather than being a beacon of integrity and industrious labour, had become a veritable repository of every modern contrivance that promised to convert common superstition into extraordinary profit. Gudgeon’s offices, festooned with gaudy advertisements extolling “The Miracle of Modern Mechanisms,” bore witness to the grand delusion that all problems might, indeed, be solved by mere acronyms and flashy slogans. “Efficiency”—that once noble ideal of honest labour—is now a word bandied about by corpulent managers in carbuncles of greed, each one eager to see society reduced to a series of figures balanced in monstrous ledgers. And so it came to pass that Mr. Gudgeon, amidst a veritable circus of accounting fiascoes and misappropriated funds, set forth a series of “innovative” directives, which, while promising to cut expenditures and inflate profits, only served to exacerbate the endemic foolishness that had long infested his establishment.
In the bustling thoroughfares beyond the precincts of Gudgeon’s offices, one might observe the common folk scuffling about in an array of colourful garments and broken dreams, all the while subjected to the whims of a modern aristocracy whose passion for waste often knew no bounds. Mrs. Prudence Tickler, a matron of some repute among the local trade unions, once declared, in a tone as mournful as it was melodious, “The world is a stage where folly and greed are worn as badges of honour, while the blood and sweat of good men are used to grease the wheels of avarice.” Her words, though steeped in despair, carried with them an undercurrent of hope—that human decency might yet triumph over the impersonal tyranny of profit and procedure. Alas, such sentiments fell upon ears as deaf as those of the proverbial mariner, who, lost amid the cacophony of modern ventures, would not pause to consider the lamentations of his fellow travellers.
Meanwhile, in the somber parlours of civic administration, a cadre of officials—more concerned with the latest fashions in bureaucratic jargon than with the corporeal well-being of their constituents—laboured under the illusion that life’s complexities could be distilled into neat sections and subsections of policy. It is a truth, indeed, that the pen is mightier than the sword; yet in these modern times, the pen appears oft to be wielded by those who have never seen the sharp edge of human hardship. A memo issued one fateful morning proclaimed, with all the gravity of a schoolmaster’s reprimand, that henceforth all public complaints were to be reduced to strictly formatted inquiries, to be answered with the precision of a clock’s tick and the mercy of a ledger’s arithmetic. This, dear reader, was not the tongue of compassion nor the voice of understanding—it was the cold, unyielding sound of mechanized jargon, designed to stifle the heartbeat of a nation in distress.
Yet among the throng of such recondite administrators, there existed an oddity—a mild, almost comical figure, by the name of Mr. Chesterfield Pumblechook. Mr. Pumblechook, though neither stout nor particularly resplendent, possessed a curious talent for navigating the labyrinthine corridors of government offices with a jaunty air of misplaced confidence. With his threadbare waistcoat and spectacles perpetually askew, he laboured under the delusion that every bureaucratic form was but an unwritten love letter to reason, and every stamped document a token of his own importance. “By Jove,” he would exclaim amidst piles of unsorted files, “if this is not the apex of administrative genius, then I am a lowly clerk in the realm of ignorance!” His proclamations, laced with the irony of fate and a wit as dry as the arid plains of misfortune, were received with a blend of amusement and pity by those who understood that very few possessed the subtle grace to laugh at one’s own absurdity.
In the marketplace of ideas—a marketplace as corrupted by the stain of greed as any bazaar of trifles—there stirred a movement, nascent yet resolute, composed of thinkers, writers, and reformers who dared to challenge the prevailing superstitions of progress. They gathered in dimly lit taverns, under the flickering light of gas lamps, to debate with fervour the impending collapse of a society governed not by wisdom but by the sterile pursuit of fiscal advantage. “The spirit of man is not for sale,” they declaimed, with a passion that stirred the soul even as it mocked the inanity of those who would have it otherwise. Yet their voices, though potent in their candour, were drowned out by the roar of machines and the clangor of coin, for the modern era had, in its relentless march toward mechanized desolation, forgotten the warmth of a genuine human heart.
Thus, in the great theater of modern existence, where each act is scripted by the architects of commerce and every scene orchestrated by those who profit from our folly, we are left to ponder the true cost of progress. It is a cost measured not merely in pennies or pounds, but in the lost hours of youthful exuberance, in the shriveled dreams of those once luminous with hope, and in the silent laments of a people made to feel insignificant amid the towering edifices of ambition. For what is progress but a fevered dream, a grand illusion that dances on the edge of despair? And what, dear friends, is the role of the individual but to bear witness to this tragic comedy and perhaps, if fortune favours, to inject a measure of sanity into the ceaseless machinery of avarice?
In the final analysis, it behooves us to remain vigilant against the encroachment of unthinking conformity and the cold tyranny of the profit motive. Let us raise our voices, however faintly, against the tidal wave of absurdity that threatens to wash away the delicate filigree of human decency. For in every petty misadventure and every bureaucratic blunder lies a lesson—a reminder, perhaps, that while the gears of industry might grind on relentlessly, the human spirit, with all its quirks and contradictions, remains the true engine of our existence. And so, in the spirit of resolve and reflection, let us not forget that the parody of our modern age, though wrapped in the garb of progress, is, in truth, a lamentable spectacle of self-inflicted imbecility.
May the echo of our protests be as enduring as the clamor of the mills, and may we, with courage and wit, continue to challenge the follies of our time. Thus, I leave you with this thought: if our era is to be judged by the measure of its contradictions, let us at least choose to pen our destiny with the quill of conscience rather than the blunt instrument of greed.
(ई-अभिव्यक्ति के “दस्तावेज़” श्रृंखला के माध्यम से पुरानी अमूल्य और ऐतिहासिक यादें सहेजने का प्रयास है। श्री जगत सिंह बिष्ट जी (Master Teacher: Happiness & Well-Being, Laughter Yoga Master Trainer, Author, Blogger, Educator, and Speaker) के शब्दों में “वर्तमान तो किसी न किसी रूप में इंटरनेट पर दर्ज हो रहा है। लेकिन कुछ पहले की बातें, माता पिता, दादा दादी, नाना नानी, उनके जीवनकाल से जुड़ी बातें धीमे धीमे लुप्त और विस्मृत होती जा रही हैं। इनका दस्तावेज़ समय रहते तैयार करने का दायित्व हमारा है। हमारी पीढ़ी यह कर सकती है। फिर किसी को कुछ पता नहीं होगा। सब कुछ भूल जाएंगे।”
दस्तावेज़ में ऐसी ऐतिहासिक दास्तानों को स्थान देने में आप सभी का सहयोग अपेक्षित है। इस शृंखला की अगली कड़ी में प्रस्तुत है श्री जगत सिंह बिष्ट जी का एक ऐतिहासिक दस्तावेज़ “मैहर में एक दिव्य संगीतमयी संध्या/A Night of Divine Music in Maihar“।)
☆ दस्तावेज़ # 20 – मैहर में एक दिव्य संगीतमयी संध्या/A Night of Divine Music in Maihar☆ श्री जगत सिंह बिष्ट ☆
वह शाम किसी और शाम जैसी नहीं थी। वह एक ऐसी शाम थी जब समय ठहर गया था और संगीत ने सांसारिक सीमाओं को पार कर दिया था। आज भी, जब मैं अपनी आँखें बंद करता हूँ, तो सितार और सरोद की स्वरलहरियाँ मेरी स्मृतियों में गूंज उठती हैं, तबले की थापों के साथ, जो मैहर की पवित्र हवा में गूंज रही थीं।
यादगार यात्रा
यह मार्च 1983 की बात है, जब हम जबलपुर से मैहर के लिए निकले थे। यह एक छोटा सा तीर्थ नगर है, लेकिन हिंदुस्तानी शास्त्रीय संगीत में इसकी विरासत अपार है। यही वह स्थान है, जहाँ महान उस्ताद अलाउद्दीन खान ने अपना जीवन संगीत को समर्पित किया और मैहर घराने को नई ऊँचाइयों तक पहुँचाया। इस यात्रा का उद्देश्य अलाउद्दीन खान संगीत समारोह में भाग लेना था, जो हर वर्ष उनकी स्मृति में आयोजित किया जाता है। यहाँ हिंदुस्तानी शास्त्रीय संगीत के महान कलाकार अपनी कला को गुरुदक्षिणा स्वरूप अर्पित करते हैं।
मेरे साथ मेरा बचपन का मित्र ओमेन थॉमस और मेरे सहकर्मी सरदार सरन सिंह सलूजा तथा तिजारे साहब थे। हम ट्रेन से मैहर पहुँचे, यह सोचकर कि यह एक और सुंदर संगीतमयी शाम होगी। लेकिन हमें क्या पता था कि हम जीवन की सबसे अविस्मरणीय संध्या में प्रवेश कर रहे थे।
संगीतमयी संध्या का शुभारंभ
कार्यक्रम की शुरुआत पंडित जितेंद्र अभिषेकी के भक्तिपूर्ण भजनों से हुई, जिनकी सुमधुर आवाज़ में गहरा आध्यात्मिक भाव था। हम मंत्रमुग्ध होकर उन्हें सुनते रहे। इसके बाद प्रसिद्ध कथक नृत्यांगना सितारा देवी का अभूतपूर्व प्रदर्शन हुआ। उनकी मोहक मुद्राएँ, तीव्र गति के कदम, और गहरी भावनाएँ हमें किसी और ही लोक में ले गईं।
लेकिन असली जादू तब शुरू हुआ जब चार महान संगीत सम्राट मंच पर उतरे—सितार पर पंडित रविशंकर, सरोद पर उस्ताद अली अकबर खान, और तबले पर पिता-पुत्र की जोड़ी—उस्ताद अल्ला रक्खा और उस्ताद ज़ाकिर हुसैन। उनके मंच पर आते ही पूरा सभा स्थल तालियों की गड़गड़ाहट से गूंज उठा।
एक स्वप्निल संगीत यात्रा
रात्रि का आरंभ राग यमन कल्याण से हुआ, जिसका विस्तृत आलाप और जटिल बंदिशें हमें एक अनोखी यात्रा पर ले गईं। यह प्रस्तुति एक घंटे से भी अधिक समय तक चली, और जब इसकी मधुर तान समाप्त हुई, तब रात आधी बीत चुकी थी।
इसके बाद राग मालकौंस की गहरी और आध्यात्मिक स्वर लहरियाँ बहने लगीं, फिर राग सोहिनी ने वातावरण को अलौकिक बना दिया। फिर जो हुआ, वह किसी जादू से कम नहीं था—
पहले पंडित रविशंकर और उस्ताद अली अकबर खान के बीच एक दिव्य जुगलबंदी हुई, जहाँ सितार और सरोद ने मानो एक संवाद छेड़ दिया। फिर सितार और तबले के बीच अद्भुत संगति हुई, उसके बाद सरोद और तबले की झंकार ने सबको रोमांचित कर दिया। लेकिन असली चमत्कार तब हुआ जब तबले की जुगलबंदी शुरू हुई—पिता-पुत्र उस्ताद अल्ला रक्खा और उस्ताद ज़ाकिर हुसैन के बीच।
जहाँ एक ओर पिता की परिपक्वता थी, वहीं पुत्र की युवा ऊर्जा। उनकी उंगलियों से निकलते स्वर जादू की तरह बहने लगे। एक लयबद्ध प्रतिस्पर्धा में उस्ताद ज़ाकिर हुसैन ने अपने पिता को चुनौती दी, और उस्ताद अल्ला रक्खा ने अपनी अनुभवी थापों से जवाब दिया। सभागार तालियों और वाह-वाह से गूंज उठा, और यह सिलसिला कुछ देर तक यूँ ही चलता रहा।
भैरवी के साथ सूर्योदय का स्वागत
जैसे-जैसे रात्रि समाप्ति की ओर बढ़ी, कलाकारों ने अंतिम प्रस्तुति दी—राग भैरवी। इसे सुबह की रागिनी कहा जाता है, और जब सितार, सरोद और तबले की मीठी स्वर लहरियाँ गूंजने लगीं, तो ऐसा लगा मानो यह पूरी रात की साधना की अंतिम आहुति हो।
हम सभी सम्मोहित थे, समय मानो ठहर गया था। और जब अंतिम सुर भी हवा में विलीन हुआ, तब एहसास हुआ कि हम एक अद्वितीय संगीतमयी यात्रा से गुज़र चुके थे। सूरज की पहली किरणें हम पर पड़ रही थीं जब हम मैहर रेलवे स्टेशन की ओर लौट रहे थे, अपने हृदयों में इस अनमोल रात की यादें संजोए हुए।
एक दुर्लभ सौभाग्य
मैंने अपने जीवन में अनगिनत संगीत समारोह देखे हैं, किंतु मैहर की वह रात सबसे अलग थी। शायद ऐसी घटनाएँ केवल भाग्य से ही मिलती हैं।
पंडित रविशंकर, उस्ताद अली अकबर खान, उस्ताद अल्ला रक्खा और उस्ताद ज़ाकिर हुसैन—ये चारों एक साथ मंच पर हों, यह दृश्य ही अपने आप में दुर्लभ था। आज भी, जब मैं ओमेन थॉमस से मिलता हूँ, तो हम उस रात को याद कर मुस्कुरा उठते हैं। वह स्वर, वह लय, वह जादू—सबकुछ आज भी जीवंत लगता है।
ऐसी प्रस्तुतियाँ कभी-कभार ही होती हैं, और जब होती हैं, तो वे आत्मा पर एक अमिट छाप छोड़ जाती हैं। वह रात केवल एक संगीत सभा नहीं थी, वह एक दिव्य अर्पण थी—संगीत के माध्यम से ईश्वर की आराधना। और इस अनमोल अनुभव के लिए मैं सदैव आभारी रहूँगा।
☆ A Night of Divine Music in Maihar ☆
It was a night like no other, a night where time stood still, and music transcended the earthly plane. Even today, as I close my eyes, I can hear the notes of the sitar and sarod weaving a tapestry of celestial beauty, accompanied by the rhythmic beats of the tabla that echoed through the sacred air of Maihar.
A Journey to Remember
It was the month of March in 1983 when we set off from Jabalpur to Maihar, a small temple town with a towering legacy in Hindustani classical music. Maihar was the home of the legendary Ustad Allauddin Khan, a man who reshaped the Maihar Gharana and mentored some of the greatest musicians of our time. The occasion was the annual Allauddin Khan Sangeet Samaroh, a festival dedicated to his memory, where maestros of Indian classical music gathered to offer their art as a tribute.
Accompanied by my childhood friend, Oommen Thomas, and my colleagues Sardar Saran Singh Saluja and Tijare Sahab, we took the train to Maihar, eager to witness an unforgettable musical soiree. We had attended many concerts before, but little did we know that this night would be etched in our souls forever.
The Evening Unfolds
The concert began with the soulful bhajans of Pandit Jitendra Abhisheki, whose voice carried a devotional fervour that left us spellbound. This was followed by a breathtaking Kathak performance by the legendary Sitara Devi. Her footwork, her expressions, and the sheer grace with which she moved transported us to another realm.
But the true magic began when the four greatest stalwarts of Indian classical music stepped onto the stage—Pandit Ravi Shankar on the sitar, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan on the sarod, accompanied by the father-son duo, Ustad Alla Rakha and Ustad Zakir Hussain, on the tabla. The moment they appeared, the entire audience rose in a thunderous ovation.
A Night of Musical Enchantment
The performance began with Raga Yaman Kalyan, a majestic piece that stretched over an hour, drawing us into its hypnotic embrace. By the time the notes settled into silence, it was already midnight.
Then came Raga Malkauns, a deeply meditative raga, followed by Raga Sohini, which filled the air with an ethereal quality. What followed next was sheer brilliance—a jugalbandi (duet) between Pandit Ravi Shankar and Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, their instruments conversing in a divine dialogue. This was followed by an interplay between sitar and tabla, then sarod and tabla. Each transition was seamless, each note more mesmerizing than the last.
And then came the moment that left us all breathless—the jugalbandi between the father and son, Ustad Alla Rakha and Ustad Zakir Hussain. The seasoned mastery of the father met the youthful brilliance of the son in an electrifying exchange of rhythms. The beats rained down like a celestial symphony, leaving the audience in rapturous applause that refused to die down.
The Dawn of Bhairavi
As dawn began to break, the maestros offered their final piece—Raga Bhairavi, the queen of morning ragas. The melody was like a prayer, a soulful farewell that lingered in the cool morning air. We sat there, transfixed, unwilling to break the spell.
It was only when the final note dissolved into silence that we realized how deep a trance we had been in. The first light of the morning sun greeted us as we made our way to the railway station, our hearts full and our souls touched by something divine.
A Once-in-a-Lifetime Experience
I have attended countless classical music performances, but nothing has ever come close to that night in Maihar. Perhaps such experiences are not just a matter of chance but destiny. To witness Pandit Ravi Shankar, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, Ustad Alla Rakha, and Ustad Zakir Hussain together on one stage was nothing short of a blessing. Even today, when I meet Oommen Thomas, we reminisce about that magical night, each note still alive in our memories.
Such renditions happen rarely, and when they do, they leave an imprint on the soul. That night in Maihar was more than just a concert—it was a divine offering, a moment in time where music touched eternity. And for that, I will forever be grateful.
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≈संपादक – श्री हेमन्त बावनकर/सम्पादक (हिन्दी) – श्री विवेक रंजन श्रीवास्तव ‘विनम्र’ ≈
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. Today we present his satire- The Accidental Death of Honesty, Hope, and Hunger.
☆ Witful Warmth# 40 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Accidental Death of Honesty, Hope, and Hunger… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
It was an ordinary day in the Republic of Promises, where potholes were deeper than policies, and citizens were mere statistics waiting to be updated. At a deserted bus stop in a remote village—where election banners arrived more frequently than electricity—three coffins lay silently. Inside them rested an old farmer, a young graduate, and an honest officer. Their deaths were accidents, of course. The farmer accidentally mistook a rope for a government loan, the graduate mistakenly believed in merit, and the officer, well, he simply forgot that honesty was an outdated currency.
The villagers watched with silent reverence, for these three had achieved something extraordinary—they had managed to make the system notice them, albeit as corpses.
Ramprasad, the farmer, had a legacy of debt that grew faster than his crops. Every election season, a man in a white kurta would arrive, promising “Farmer Welfare” with one hand while holding a bank foreclosure notice in the other. One day, exhausted from running in circles between government offices, he decided to apply for a farming assistance scheme. The clerk smiled, took a bribe, and rejected his application in the same breath. That evening, Ramprasad found an easier government scheme—hanging from a tree. His suicide note was the only paper the authorities ever approved. It read: “I have cleared my debt. Will you?”
The next morning, politicians arrived for a quick photo session. They announced an investigation, formed a committee, and drove off in their air-conditioned cars. The village remained unchanged—thirsty, bankrupt, and ready to produce another Ramprasad for the next election cycle.
A few miles away, Abhishek, a young man with more degrees than his father’s entire generation, had spent years chasing a government job that the minister’s nephew secured in a single afternoon. He had memorized every motivational quote about perseverance but found no chapter on how to survive without a salary. Every time a job vacancy was announced, a convenient court case postponed the recruitment indefinitely. His father, once proud of his son’s education, now suggested, “Son, why don’t you start a small shop?”
But Abhishek was stubborn. He had sworn to serve his country, unaware that in this country, dreams belonged only to those who could afford them. His lifeless body was found near the railway tracks, clutching an old newspaper with the headline: “India’s Youth: The Future of the Nation!” The irony was poetic—the future had just thrown itself in front of a speeding train.
Meanwhile, Shivnath, an engineer who foolishly believed in the power of honesty, made the mistake of exposing corruption. His colleagues warned him, “Don’t fight the system. It’s older than you.” But Shivnath was honest, which, in his profession, was more dangerous than being a criminal. When he refused to approve a fraudulent contract, he unknowingly signed his own death certificate.
A few weeks later, he met with a “tragic accident”—his motorcycle mysteriously lost control on a dry, empty road. The police called it “death due to reckless driving,” the newspapers labeled it “an unfortunate incident,” and the system wrote him off as just another man who didn’t understand how things worked. His wife pleaded for justice, his son knocked on every door, but all they got was “We are investigating.” Investigation, after all, was just another word for waiting until people forgot.
Back at the bus stop, life continued around the coffins. The tea vendor poured another cup of tea, the shopkeeper discussed cricket, and a politician’s convoy sped past, not even slowing down. A journalist arrived but left quickly—there was bigger news in town. A celebrity had just bought a pet dog worth ₹5 lakh.
As the sun set, the villagers whispered, “Who’s next?”
No one knew the answer, but they all understood the game.
The system did not kill people. It simply created the circumstances for them to die.
And so, the nation moved forward, marching proudly toward progress—stepping over the graves of honesty, hope, and hunger.
~ Where have all the crows gone? ~ 
Dr. Jailaxmi R Vinayak 
