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 Dance You Can’t, Blame the Floor’s Slant.
☆ Witful Warmth# 47 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ Dance You Can’t, Blame the Floor’s Slant… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
It was the fourth consecutive year that Master Ji was elected as the Chairman of the Local Development Committee—a man whose achievements could be summarized in three bullet points: once rang the school bell without being told, once refused to be a “murga” (punishment pose), and once mistook the drain cover for a chessboard. The whole neighborhood sang in chorus: “If you can’t dance, don’t blame the courtyard!” But Master Ji? He blamed everything but himself. “Potholes? That’s monsoon policy. Choked drains? Blame global warming. No water in the taps? Solar initiative!” In Master Ji’s dictionary, ‘logic’ came after ‘laziness’.
Master Ji’s talent lay in his gymnastics of blame. Like a trained magician, he pulled out excuses faster than one could say “sanitation drive.” Roads had more pits than a battlefield, but he proudly proclaimed, “We are promoting rainwater harvesting—naturally!” A kid once tripped in a gutter and called it “Ganga Snaan with flavor.” And the public? They were too tired of his slogans: “Digital Future!”—ironically printed on ration card paper. The best line? “Where IQ is low, foundation stones grow.”
No other leader could drag an entire community backwards like Master Ji. He announced: “Manual drain cleaning is back! Why? Because machines steal jobs!” Poor Sattu Bhaiya, the local snack seller, replied: “Bhai, if we must clean by hand, at least provide nose clips!” But Master Ji smiled like a Buddha statue and said, “This is real employment.” The punchline echoed: “When the job is shit and the hope is holy, revolution smells like bleach.”
One fine day, he proudly unfurled a new plan—“Digital Neighborhood.” It meant: “Send your complaints via WhatsApp. Solutions, we’ll imagine.” An old man stood up: “Beta, I don’t have a phone.” Master Ji snapped, “Exactly! That’s why I said—Go Digital!” The people’s eyes welled up. Their only water source—a tank built in 2007—still had no water. But the children made drums out of it. And Master Ji? “See! Cultural development is booming!” Punchline? “If your project gives rhythm, but not relief—it’s not development, it’s deception.”
Elections came again. And again, the committee re-elected Master Ji because “no one else wanted to ruin their peace.” The few who opposed had kids in his school—so, silence. The air reeked of old Gulab Jamuns and newer betrayals. A new plan was unveiled: “Dream Scheme”—symbolized by an old photocopy of a bus pass presented as a “blueprint.” Punchline of the year? “In the land of the blind, even a fake certificate is vision.”
Then came the “Smart Light” promise. Lights would be installed. Bulbs, you’d buy. Wiring? Your headache. Bill? Also yours. People asked: “So what will the government provide?” Master Ji replied with a grin: “Inspiration.” A boy laughed—till he fell in an unlit ditch. His leg broke. Master Ji declared: “It was a voluntary yoga pose. He wanted to connect to the grassroots.” The crowd gasped. Punchline? “When words are healing but deeds are hemorrhage, pain becomes tradition.”
The park, once used for morning walks, was now a ‘Yoga Kendra’ with banners screaming “Together for Master Ji!” Breathing exercises amidst stinking drains became symbolic. One youth dared to ask: “What have you even done?” Master Ji replied, “By doing nothing, we ensured no mistakes.” The punchline hurt: “When inaction becomes policy, history becomes obituary.” And yet, no one resisted. Resistance was taxed—emotionally.
Finally, an old lady, revered voter number one, whispered: “I may be half-blind now, but Master Ji’s face still shines the clearest—maybe because he’s always in the front row… with no one else daring to join.” The final farewell came when Master Ji “resigned” (read: retired hurt). No one cried. Except the walls, maybe, who bore his posters for too long. A final banner said: “If we don’t change now, history will rewrite us… in red ink.”
That old man who fell in the ditch? His 13th-day memorial was silent. No one brought flowers. Master Ji showed up, whispered, “I’m deeply sensitive.” A child muttered, “Then why did it feel like apathy dressed in empathy?” Last punchline, the hardest one: “They promised development; we got drama. Now we breathe, not air—but ache.”
And from that day on, in that neighborhood, whenever someone did something foolish, the elders would chuckle and say:
“Don’t grow up to be Master Ji, beta… even history won’t footnote you.”
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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
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