(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 Hemant Tarey Ji“50 Years Later: A Walk Down My College’s Memory Lane.“)
☆ दस्तावेज़ # 27 – 50 Years Later: A Walk Down My College’s Memory Lane ☆ Shri Hemant Tarey ☆
Last week, I was at my home town, Ratlam in connection with Mahalaxmi Pujan.
It so happened that on the way to Ratlam, while talking to my wife, about my childhoid, School, & College days in Ratlam, it suddenly occurred to me that I passed out with my M.Sc. degree from Ratlam college in 1975 and today we are in 2025. Hollyshit, that means it translates to 50 years when I attended the Ratlam college last. With this new found thought, I resolved to myself that I am going to visit my college by stealing few hours out of my short stay at Ratlam. I was thrilled at the idea that I would be seeing for myself as to how the college building looks like after 50 years of my last day in the college.
My younger brother, who also graduated from the very same college, accompanied me on my sojourn to the College and no sooner we stepped into the College campus, memories started to unfold, one after another. On my right was Two wheeler stand where good number of Scooters, Motor cycles etc were lined up as contrast to those good old days, when right at the same spot we used to park our Cycles. This area those days was designated as Cycle stand (as opposed to Two Wheeler Stand) for the simple reason that the area used to be cramped with cycles only those days 😁.
We walked few steps further and soon we were walking along the college main building. With an intent to savour beauty of my college as I glanced at the building I was saddened to see many- many flex posters pasted on the walls, all of which read “ABANDONED”. I almost fainted to see these posters, as I had never imagined that my eyes would meet any such writing on the college walls which would make me almost cry. I continued walking with my brother towards Science Block which used to house Deptt of Physics and Chemistry in our days of yore. I was really praying and saying to myself that I am not going to see any more such ugly posters on the walls of Science Block of the college. My heart was pouncing as we reached the block, my frightened eyes scanning the walls of the science block and hopping that eyes don’t meet the poster which I hated most to look at. I was lucky, though the walls of the Science Block showed signs of wear and tear and having suffered vagaries of weather, fortunately, there were no ugly posters which I had seen few minutes ago on the walls of the Arts and Commerce Block of the College. I entered the Departmed of Chemistry which hosted my two years of M Sc. i.e. 1974- 75 and 1975-76. While strolling the alley ways of the Department, I relived two years of my M.Sc., my days with classmates, the Professors, the Laboratory, the girls 😜 and visits to Samosa shop of Sahu. We also took a stroll of the Department of Physics where we met 2- 3 faculty and HOD of Physics. All of them welcomed us and were surprised to see a student of the Department of Chemistry who passed out in 1975. When we talked about the frightening and ugly “ABONDENED” Posters on the walls of the Arts and Commerece wing of the college, they could feel the emotions we were passing through and consoled us by saying that just 800 meters away new building for Arts and Commerce faculty has since been erected and from this academic session itself, this building will start housing classes for Arts and Commerce students.
After taking tour of the Alma mater and reliving the nostalgia to the hilt, we left the premises and started our journey back home.
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 The Dog: A Citizen of the Republic of Irony.
☆ Witful Warmth# 61 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Dog: A Citizen of the Republic of Irony… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
The dog is not merely an animal. He is a metaphor, a social commentary, a walking editorial. He is the only creature who can wag his tail and still be taken seriously. In our society, the dog has transcended biology and entered politics, bureaucracy, and even philosophy. He is the mascot of loyalty, the symbol of servitude, and the ambassador of absurdity. When a dog barks, it is not just noise—it is a protest, a press conference, a parliamentary debate. And when he bites, it is not violence—it is policy implementation. The dog is the only citizen who can roam freely, bark at authority, and still be fed by the very system he disrupts. In this republic of irony, the dog is not beneath us. He is among us. Sometimes, he is above us. He is the minister’s pet, the bureaucrat’s companion, the influencer’s accessory, and the common man’s mirror. If Harishankar Parsai were alive today, he would not write about the dog. He would interview him. Because the dog knows everything. He has seen everything. He has sniffed every scandal, marked every boundary, and slept through every revolution. He is not just a creature. He is a commentary.
The dog’s loyalty is legendary. But loyalty to whom? To the master, of course. The master may be corrupt, cruel, or criminal—but the dog remains loyal. This is not loyalty. This is conditioning. And this conditioning is not limited to dogs. Citizens too are conditioned. They vote loyally, cheer loyally, and suffer loyally. The dog licks the master’s boots. The citizen licks the master’s slogans. The dog wags his tail. The citizen waves his flag. Both are symbols of submission. The dog does not question authority. Neither does the voter. The dog is trained to sit, stay, and roll over. The citizen is trained to obey, pay, and rollover EMIs. The dog’s loyalty is rewarded with biscuits. The citizen’s loyalty is rewarded with promises. Both are edible, but only one is digestible. The dog is loyal because he knows no better. The citizen is loyal because he fears worse. In this democracy, loyalty is not a virtue—it is a survival tactic. And the dog is its most honest practitioner. He does not pretend to be free. He knows he is owned. The citizen, however, lives in the illusion of freedom, wagging his rights like a tail, unaware that the leash is constitutional.
The dog barks. It is his right. It is also his duty. He barks at strangers, at shadows, at silence. He barks to assert territory, to express anxiety, to demand attention. The citizen too barks—on social media, in drawing rooms, at news anchors. But his bark is hollow. It lacks teeth. The dog’s bark may not bite, but it warns. The citizen’s bark is often just noise. The dog barks at injustice instinctively. The citizen barks at injustice selectively. The dog does not need a trending hashtag to protest. He needs a reason. The citizen needs a camera. The dog’s bark is raw, unfiltered, and honest. The citizen’s bark is rehearsed, edited, and monetized. The dog barks even when no one listens. The citizen barks only when someone retweets. In this age of performative outrage, the dog remains authentic. He does not bark for likes. He barks for survival. And when he stops barking, it is not peace—it is resignation. The dog teaches us that silence is not always golden. Sometimes, it is dangerous. Because when the dog stops barking, the thief enters. And when the citizen stops barking, the tyrant wins.
The dog bites. Not always. But when he does, it is decisive. He does not issue warnings. He does not file petitions. He bites. And then he moves on. The citizen, however, does not bite. He debates. He discusses. He defers. The dog bites when provoked. The citizen tolerates when provoked. The dog’s bite is a reaction. The citizen’s inaction is a tradition. The dog bites the hand that hits him. The citizen kisses the hand that robs him. The dog is not diplomatic. He is direct. The citizen is not direct. He is domesticated. The dog bites and faces consequences. The citizen suffers and writes poetry. In this society, biting is rebellion. And rebellion is discouraged. The dog is punished for biting. The citizen is rewarded for bleeding quietly. The dog’s bite is a statement. The citizen’s silence is a compromise. The dog teaches us that sometimes, resistance must be physical. That sometimes, the only way to be heard is to bite. But we have forgotten how to bite. We have become toothless patriots, wagging our tongues instead of our tails, barking at each other instead of the system. The dog remains the last revolutionary.
The dog sleeps. Anywhere. Everywhere. He sleeps on footpaths, under cars, beside garbage bins. He sleeps without guilt, without shame, without apology. The citizen too sleeps—through elections, through scams, through speeches. But his sleep is not restful. It is strategic. The dog sleeps because he is tired. The citizen sleeps because he is indifferent. The dog wakes up when danger approaches. The citizen wakes up when Netflix buffers. The dog’s sleep is innocent. The citizen’s sleep is complicit. The dog does not dream of democracy. He dreams of bones. The citizen dreams of democracy but settles for discounts. The dog sleeps in the open, vulnerable yet free. The citizen sleeps in gated colonies, secure yet caged. The dog’s sleep is a pause. The citizen’s sleep is an escape. In this nation of sleepers, the dog is the only one who wakes up for a reason. He wakes up to bark, to bite, to chase. The citizen wakes up to complain, to consume, to conform. The dog teaches us that sleep is necessary, but awakening is urgent. That rest is not resignation. That dreams must be chased, not just dreamt. But we continue to sleep—through injustice, through inequality, through incompetence—hoping someone else will bark.
The dog runs. Behind cars, cycles, cats, and sometimes, his own tail. He runs without purpose, without destination, without GPS. The citizen too runs—behind jobs, behind leaders, behind trends. But his run is not free. It is forced. The dog runs because he can. The citizen runs because he must. The dog’s run is chaotic but joyful. The citizen’s run is structured but stressful. The dog does not run for medals. He runs for movement. The citizen runs for validation. The dog runs even when he knows he won’t catch the car. The citizen runs even when he knows he won’t catch a break. The dog’s run is a metaphor for freedom. The citizen’s run is a metaphor for fatigue. In this race of rats, the dog remains a stray. He does not follow lanes. He does not obey signals. He runs because the road is his. The citizen runs because the system demands it. The dog teaches us that running is not always progress. That speed is not always success. That chasing is not always achieving. But we continue to run—on treadmills of ambition, on highways of illusion—forgetting that sometimes, the joy is in the run, not the result.
The dog is homeless. Technically. But he is not rootless. He belongs to every street, every corner, every chai stall. The citizen has homes, but no belonging. He lives in apartments, but not in communities. The dog is greeted by name—Sheru, Tommy, Moti. The citizen is greeted by designation—Sir, Ma’am, Boss. The dog is remembered for his bark. The citizen is remembered for his LinkedIn. The dog is fed by strangers. The citizen is ignored by neighbors. The dog finds warmth in winter, shade in summer, and food in festivals. The citizen finds EMI in winter, bills in summer, and stress in festivals. The dog is poor, but not pitiful. The citizen is rich, but not restful. In this urban jungle, the dog survives. The citizen struggles. The dog teaches us that home is not a building. It is a feeling. That belonging is not ownership. It is acceptance. That community is not WhatsApp groups. It is shared silence, shared space, shared stories. But we continue to build walls, install cameras, and forget names. The dog remains the only one who knows everyone, greets everyone, and trusts everyone. He is homeless, but never alone.
The dog dies. Quietly. On roads, in drains, under wheels. No obituary. No condolence. No trending hashtag. The citizen too dies—sometimes loudly, sometimes invisibly. But his death is documented. The dog’s death is deleted. The citizen’s death is debated. The dog dies without insurance. The citizen dies with policies. The dog dies because he lived freely. The citizen dies because he lived fearfully. The dog’s death is a statistic. The citizen’s death is a story. But both are forgotten. The dog teaches us that death is not the end. It is the punctuation. That life must be barked, bitten, and run. That silence is not peace—it is absence. That freedom is not safety—it is risk. But we do not learn. We mourn selectively. We remember conveniently. We live cautiously. So let us not dismiss the dog as a mere street nuisance or a loyal pet. He is our reflection—raw, unfiltered, and inconvenient. He barks when we whisper, bites when we beg, and sleeps when we pretend to be awake. In his wagging tail lies our conditioned obedience, in his bark our suppressed dissent, and in his bite our forgotten courage. The dog does not wear masks of civility; he exposes the farce of our own. He does not seek approval; he demands attention. And in doing so, he becomes the most honest citizen of this republic—unregistered, uncelebrated, but unforgettable. If we truly wish to evolve as a society, perhaps we must stop taming the dog and start learning from him. Because in a world where silence is rewarded and obedience is sold as virtue, the dog reminds us—sometimes, to be truly human, one must dare to bark.
Authored six books on happiness: Cultivating Happiness, Nirvana – The Highest Happiness, Meditate Like the Buddha, Mission Happiness, A Flourishing Life, and The Little Book of Happiness. He served in a bank for thirty-five years and has been propagating happiness and well-being among people for the past twenty years. He is on a mission – Mission Happiness!
☘️The Buddha’s Way of Meditation: A First Step for Beginners☘️
Meditation is the very heart of the Buddha’s teaching. It is not a mere theory or a philosophy but the living, breathing experience of truth itself. The Buddha attained enlightenment through meditation, and what he shared with the world were not abstract ideas, but the fruits of his own inner journey. His words are like footprints on the path he walked—records of his experiences and detailed instructions on how each of us may walk the same path.
At its core, the Buddha’s meditation offers us two great systems of practice. The first is serenity meditation (samatha), which leads to deep concentration (samādhi). The second is insight meditation (vipassanā), which leads to wisdom (paññā). Together, they form a balanced way of training the mind—calmness that steadies us, and wisdom that liberates us.
☘️Serenity: The Path of Calmness
The instructions for serenity meditation are beautifully preserved in the Anapanasati Sutta—the discourse on mindfulness of breathing. Long before the Buddha, Indian contemplatives practised meditation and discovered profound states of tranquillity. But the Buddha perfected and redefined the practice, making it both accessible and transformative.
Mindfulness of breathing is simple, always available, and deeply profound. The Buddha himself said:
> “Mindfulness of in-and-out breathing, when developed and pursued, is of great fruit, of great benefit.”
To begin, one only needs to:
Sit comfortably.
Relax the body.
Watch the breath.
Experience the feelings.
Calm the mental waves.
Observe the mind.
Allow the mind to be free.
Let wisdom naturally unfold.
This simplicity holds within it great power. Mindfulness of breathing can lead through the four jhanas—states of deep concentration—and also serve as the foundation for insight.
The Anapanasati Sutta describes sixteen contemplations. The first four focus on the breath in relation to the body. The next four examine feelings, all that we perceive through our senses. The following four turn to the mind itself, its moods and movements. Finally, the last four open the doorway to insight (vipassanā), revealing the universal laws underlying all phenomena. In every stage, the breath remains our anchor, a gentle reminder to stay present.
☘️Insight: The Path of Wisdom
While serenity meditation calms the mind, insight meditation (vipassanā) reveals the truth of existence. In samatha practice, one trains by fixing the mind on a single object, such as the breath. But in vipassanā, the meditator turns attention to the flux of moment-to-moment experience—thoughts, feelings, sensations—observing them as they arise and pass away.
Here lies the key: to see clearly, with detachment, the impermanent and conditioned nature of all things. This clarity leads to wisdom, and wisdom leads to freedom.
The Buddha’s principal guide for insight is the Satipatthāna Sutta—the Discourse on the Foundations of Mindfulness. It teaches us to be mindful of the body, feelings, mind, and the laws of reality. Together, these four foundations form the basis for a life of clarity and awakening.
☘️A Pleasant Abiding
The Buddha never dismissed the value of serenity. In fact, he described the deep absorption of concentration as a “pleasant abiding here and now”—a state of peace and joy. Yet he also emphasised that serenity should be coupled with insight, for calm alone does not lead to final liberation. It steadies the boat, but wisdom shows us the shore.
☘️Beginning the Journey
Meditation is not a matter of instant results. It is the work of a lifetime, a path of deepening awareness. Every step forward, however small, is valuable. With patience and steady practice, understanding ripens, just as a seed becomes a tree.
As the old saying goes, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” The Buddha has left us a clear map, drawn from his own awakening. All we need is the courage to take that first step—sit quietly, breathe, and allow the mind to open.
The path awaits, timeless and ever fresh. Shall we begin?
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.
Authored six books on happiness: Cultivating Happiness, Nirvana – The Highest Happiness, Meditate Like the Buddha, Mission Happiness, A Flourishing Life, and The Little Book of Happiness. He served in a bank for thirty-five years and has been propagating happiness and well-being among people for the past twenty years. He is on a mission – Mission Happiness
🍀🌺The Rise and Fall of Buddhism in India – A Story of Glory, Struggles, and Survival🌺🍀
Let me take you on a journey—back to the time when the words of a simple prince-turned-sage, Siddhartha Gautama, echoed across India. His teachings of compassion, mindfulness, and freedom from suffering lit up the hearts of millions. Kings and commoners alike flocked to his path. Monasteries sprang up, universities thrived, and India became the radiant centre of Buddhist thought.
But, like all great stories, there came a turning point. The decline of Buddhism in India was not a single event—it was a slow unraveling, a tale filled with twists, betrayals, rivalries, and invasions. Let us walk through this story, chapter by chapter.
🍀The Golden Days and Their Fade🍀
The story begins with mighty emperors—Ashoka the Great, Kanishka, and later Harsha. Under their patronage, Buddhism blossomed. Ashoka, especially, became its torchbearer, sending missionaries far and wide—to Sri Lanka, Central Asia, and beyond.
But empires rise and fall. When the great patrons were gone, the lifeline of royal support began to weaken. Successor kings looked elsewhere—towards Hinduism, which was reasserting itself with new vigour. Without the steady hand of kings, Buddhist monasteries slowly lost their strength and resources.
🍀The Comeback of Hinduism🍀
This is where the story takes an interesting twist. Hinduism, which had once faced a challenge from Buddhism, staged a spectacular comeback. The Gupta rulers proudly upheld Brahmanical traditions, reviving Vedic rituals and philosophies.
Then came brilliant Hindu philosophers like Adi Shankara and Kumarila Bhatta. With sharp debates and eloquent arguments, they challenged Buddhist ideas and won back many followers. Hinduism, ever flexible, borrowed generously from Buddhism—values of non-violence, compassion, even reverence for the Buddha himself, who was now seen as an avatar of Vishnu. For the masses, returning to Hinduism felt less like a betrayal and more like a homecoming.
🍀The Shadows Within – Corruption and Division🍀
But not all wounds were caused from outside. Inside the Buddhist Sangha itself, cracks had begun to appear. Monasteries that once echoed with meditation and learning grew fat with wealth. Donations poured in, and with them came luxury, politics, and corruption. Discipline weakened, respect faded, and the common people turned away.
As if that was not enough, Buddhism itself broke into fragments—Hinayana, Mahayana, Vajrayana. Each sect claimed its own truth, often arguing bitterly with the others. What was once a simple, direct path taught by the Buddha became a maze of rituals, idols, and complexities, not very different from the Brahmanical practices it had once opposed. The unique identity of Buddhism blurred into the background.
🍀The Storms from Outside – Invasions🍀
And then came the storms. First, the Hunas. Their chief, Mihirakula, was notorious for his cruelty towards Buddhists. Monasteries burned, monks were slain, sacred centres reduced to rubble. Yet, Buddhism somehow survived these blows.
But the final strike came centuries later, with the Turkic invasions of the 11th and 12th centuries. They destroyed Nalanda, Vikramashila, and other great universities—beacons of Buddhist learning known across the world. Thousands of monks were killed; others fled to safer lands—Nepal, Tibet, Burma, and Southeast Asia. With the fall of these institutions, the very backbone of Buddhism in India collapsed.
🍀The Curtain Falls—but Not Completely🍀
So, was that the end? Not entirely. Buddhism never vanished from India; it lingered, like a gentle undercurrent. Pilgrimage sites like Bodh Gaya and Sarnath remained sacred. Later, reformers and movements—most notably Dr. B. R. Ambedkar in the 20th century—revived Buddhism, offering it as a path of dignity and equality to the oppressed.
The story of Buddhism in India is, therefore, not just of decline, but of resilience. It reminds us that even when empires crumble, ideas do not die. They travel, transform, and return in new forms.
Buddhism’s decline in India was a tale of lost patronage, inner corruption, rival faiths, and brutal invasions. But its spirit continues to shine across the world—in the chants of monks in Tibet, the meditation halls of Myanmar, the temples of Japan, and even in the quiet hearts of those who still sit in silence, following the simple path the Buddha once taught under the Bodhi tree.
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.
Authored six books on happiness: Cultivating Happiness, Nirvana – The Highest Happiness, Meditate Like the Buddha, Mission Happiness, A Flourishing Life, and The Little Book of Happiness. He served in a bank for thirty-five years and has been propagating happiness and well-being among people for the past twenty years. He is on a mission – Mission Happiness!
🍁 The Way the Buddha and His Disciples Sustained Themselves 🍁
🌼Blameless food, compassionate living🌼
To understand the Buddha’s way of life, one must see how simply and blamelessly he and his disciples sustained themselves. Dependent on the kindness of householders, yet never a cause for harm, they lived in quiet dignity — receiving what was freely given, and teaching by their very conduct the spirit of compassion.
A bhikkhu lives in dependence upon a village or town, radiating goodwill, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity to the entire world. In the early morning, he walks silently on alms round, carrying only his bowl and robe. He accepts, with gratitude, whatever is offered. His duty is not to demand, not to choose, but simply to sustain himself with food that is blameless and permissible.
In this way, the Buddha and his disciples lived — sustained by compassion, dependent on the kindness of householders, and careful always not to encourage harm to living beings.
The Buddha never sanctioned the killing of any creature for his sake, nor did he partake of food that carried the shadow of violence committed on his behalf.
He himself laid down a compassionate guideline:
🌿Meat should not be eaten if it is seen, heard, or suspected that the animal was killed specifically for oneself.
🌿Meat may be eaten if it is not seen, not heard, and not suspected that the animal was killed for one’s sake.
And he further emphasised: “If anyone slaughters a living being for the Tathāgata or his disciple, he lays up much demerit.”
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.
Authored six books on happiness: Cultivating Happiness, Nirvana – The Highest Happiness, Meditate Like the Buddha, Mission Happiness, A Flourishing Life, and The Little Book of Happiness. He served in a bank for thirty-five years and has been propagating happiness and well-being among people for the past twenty years. He is on a mission – Mission Happiness!
☆ 🍀Mandu in the Monsoon – A Journey into Mist, Magic, and Melody🌧️🌈 ☆ Mr. Jagat Singh Bisht ☆
Being based in Indore, Mandu has never been far from me – a place I have often driven to with friends, or proudly shown to visiting guests. For years, it has stood in my heart as the most picturesque jewel around Indore. Yet, nothing – not even a hundred earlier visits – could prepare me for the divine spell Mandu cast upon me this time.
I had often heard whispers: “Go to Mandu in the monsoon, it is another world.” But I had not even dreamt of the bliss and magic awaiting us. The moment we ascended the plateau, it felt as if we had been transported to a heavenly, secret hill station – a place unnamed on any geographical map, tucked away in some corner of imagination and myth.
The clouds descended to play with us, wrapping the old stone palaces in veils of mist. Rain-washed monuments gleamed, spic and span, like brides dressed for a celestial wedding. From the edges of the plateau, the valley below lay in a blanket of emerald green, alive with the freshness of rain. The air carried the fragrance of wet earth, roasted bhuttas on roadside fires, and the promise of Malwa’s delicious cuisine waiting at every stop.
It was joy, pure and simple – the kind that seeps into the soul and stays there forever.
☘️Dhar – Between History and Art
Our route to Mandu took us first through Dhar, a city that still preserves echoes of its layered history. At the heart of this is the Bhojshala, a unique monument that defies easy definition. As per the guidelines of the Archaeological Survey of India, Muslims gather here for prayer on Fridays, while Hindus worship on Tuesdays and during the festival of Vasant Panchami, honouring Goddess Saraswati. On other days, it opens itself to visitors like us – curious wanderers eager to listen to its silent stories.
From there, we stepped into a different world altogether – the Phadke Art Studio. Established in 1933 by the gifted sculptor Raghunath Krishna Phadke, who had come to Dhar on the invitation of its king, this studio is no less than a temple of artistry. Every corner seemed alive with his creations: statues of freedom fighters like Mahatma Gandhi, Nehru, Tilak, and Raja Ram Mohan Roy, captured not as stiff memorials but as vibrant, breathing presences. Beside them stood exquisitely carved figures of kings, queens, and spiritual leaders, each narrating stories of power, devotion, or grace.
The experience became even more special when Phadke’s grandson himself guided us, sharing with affection and pride the intricate details of these masterpieces. It was as if the chiselled stone figures had begun whispering their secrets to us.
⛩️Mandu – Celebration in Stone
And then, Mandu!
If Dhar was a prelude, Mandu was the grand symphony. Every monument here seems carved out of joy itself, an ode to beauty and romance. The very air hums with the story of poet-prince Baz Bahadur and his beloved Rani Roopmati, whose palace still gazes wistfully over the Narmada valley. Their love, immortalised in ballads and folklore, lends the landscape a soft, haunting music, especially when the monsoon clouds gather and the peacocks cry.
Walking through Jahaz Mahal, Hindola Mahal, and the rain-kissed pavilions, one could almost hear forgotten songs echoing in the mist. Mandu, in the monsoon, is not just a place to see – it is a mood to live, a poem to feel.
🙋A Journey of Companionship
What is travel without companions? This journey became unforgettable not only because of the landscape but also because of the people who shared it. My heartfelt gratitude goes to Anand Bhave, who warmly invited us to join this wonderful group, and to Shravan Kumar Kanchan, whose flawless organisation ensured that every moment was smooth, lively, and memorable.
There was singing, laughter, and the warmth of conversations with fellow travellers – people bound by a shared love for trekking, exploring, and simply being happy in each other’s company.
🎬Epilogue – A Memory for the Ages
The return was by the Manpur route, but my mind was still wandering in the clouds of Mandu. It was as if the plateau had absorbed a part of my soul and gifted me, in return, something timeless – the memory of rain-drenched stones, the taste of roasted corn, the fragrance of wet winds, and the echo of love stories carved in stone.
Mandu in the monsoon is not just a destination. It is a celebration – of life, of joy, of love, and of nature’s grand theatre. It will remain etched in me as one of the most soul-satisfying experiences of my life.
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.
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 Courtship License of ‘Dating’.
☆ Witful Warmth# 59 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ Courtship License of ‘Dating’… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
It is a melancholy and universally acknowledged truth that our great nation is presently afflicted by a most grievous and perplexing social ill. I speak not of famine, nor of plague, nor of the endless and sanguinary conflicts across the seas, but of a far more insidious and subtle affliction that has seized the very marrow of our youthful population: the deplorable and utterly unproductive state of modern courtship.
For it hath been observed by all who are not blinded by a sentimentalist’s fog that the male youth of our realm, from the age of sixteen to a full three and twenty, are squandering the most fertile years of their lives in a manner so profligate and inefficient as to border upon national treason. They are ensnared in a web of digital pleasantries and fleeting interactions, a ceaseless and unavailing expenditure of both time and spirit, from which they derive no lasting benefit, and which, worse still, leaves them utterly unfit for the more rigorous and necessary duties of commerce and industry.
The cause of this lamentable state is readily identified, and it is with a heavy heart that I must place the blame squarely upon a new and peculiar species of the female gender, whom our society hath, in its modern jargon, denominated the ‘Gen-Z Girl’. This creature is of a constitution heretofore unseen in the annals of human relations: capricious, enigmatic, and possessed of a mind so given to novelties and fleeting fancies that to secure her interest for a period exceeding a fortnight is an undertaking of such Herculean proportions as to beggar the imagination.
She is, by nature and nurture, a mistress of the most baffling and esoteric forms of communication, whereby she may, through a single and ambiguous pictogram, convey a multitude of contradictory sentiments. The wretched suitor, in a state of perpetual confusion, is thereby rendered impotent to ascertain her true disposition, and is forced to resort to an endless and exhausting series of digital missives, each one composed with an anxious and feverish deliberation that would be better applied to the composition of state documents or the calculation of celestial mechanics. It is, furthermore, a common and disheartening occurrence for a gentleman to invest a full month’s worth of emotional and conversational labour, and even a considerable sum in the form of fine dining and theatrical amusements, only to find himself summarily ‘ghosted,’ a term which, though vulgar, aptly describes the sudden and inexplicable disappearance of the female subject, leaving no trace but a hollow echo in the digital ether.
Having given due consideration to this deplorable state of affairs, and having, over a period of some months, consulted with eminent sociologists, moral philosophers, and even several reputable professors of Applied Mathematics, I have at last devised a scheme so exquisitely simple in its design, and so universally beneficial in its effect, as to promise a complete and lasting remedy to this national calamity. My proposal is this: that we establish a national, state-regulated system for the management of courtship, reducing all interpersonal dealings to a series of quantifiable and strictly enforced commercial transactions.
To wit, let every male youth, upon reaching the age of majority, be issued a Courtship License, much in the manner of a permit for a firearm. This license shall contain his full particulars, and shall be linked to a national digital ledger. The Gen-Z girl, in turn, shall be issued a ‘Social Credit’ account, which may only be augmented by the successful completion of a courtship. The terms of engagement shall be clearly delineated by a central Bureau of Interpersonal Commerce, and all initial communications shall be restricted to a single, standardised digital protocol, devoid of all superfluous pleasantries and ambiguous pictograms. A suitor may, for a fee, initiate a conversation, and the Gen-Z girl is thereby obligated to respond within the space of three hours with either a direct rejection or an unequivocal invitation to proceed.
The ‘talking stage,’ that most dreadful and unproductive purgatory, shall be abolished forthwith. It shall be replaced with a series of tiered, contractual obligations. For example, a suitor may purchase the right to a twenty-minute, in-person conversation for a pre-determined sum, a portion of which shall be deposited directly into the Gen-Z girl’s Social Credit account. If the conversation proceeds with due diligence, he may then, for an escalated fee, secure a second, more lengthy engagement, and so forth. In this manner, all parties shall be assured of the sincerity of their counterparts, and the wasteful expenditure of time upon the indecisive or the frivolous shall be utterly eliminated.
The benefits of this scheme are manifold. Firstly, it shall provide a much-needed and dependable source of income for the female population, thereby reducing their reliance upon the precarious and often meager allowances of their parents, and stimulating the national economy with a constant flow of new capital. Secondly, it shall instill in the male youth a proper sense of the value of their time, compelling them to pursue their romantic interests with a purposeful and commercial vigour, rather than allowing them to languish in a state of idle and unprofitable communication. Thirdly, it shall, with the same stroke, encourage the Gen-Z girl to be more discerning and less whimsical in her dealings, for every successful transaction will add to her social credit and, by extension, to her eligibility for a more profitable match. The most efficient and productive of these young ladies shall be granted a premium license, allowing them to charge a higher rate for their time, and thereby ensuring that the most desirable and economically sound matches are made with the utmost expediency.
I am not unmindful that some sentimental souls, of a type who would weep over a lost kitten but show no such compassion for the plight of a nation’s youth, will object to this proposal as being a cruel and materialistic reduction of the sacred art of human love. To these tender-hearted critics, I would reply that their objections are founded upon a false and antiquated notion of courtship. For what is the current system but a game of chance played with loaded dice, a ruinous lottery in which the most worthy suitor may be passed over in favour of a fellow with a more impressive collection of digital images or a cleverer use of a fleeting internet phrase? My scheme, to the contrary, is founded upon the most sound and rational principles of commerce and utility, whereby all parties may enter into a transaction with a clear understanding of its terms and a realistic expectation of its outcome. It is, I submit, the most humane and compassionate system yet devised, for it puts a swift and merciful end to the protracted emotional suffering that is the inevitable result of the current system of irrational and unmanaged courtship.
Let us be honest with ourselves. The Gen-Z girl, with her peculiar habits and her bewildering lexicon of emojis and acronyms, has unwittingly created a social crisis of the first order. She has, through her very nature, rendered the traditional methods of courtship obsolete and ruinous. My proposal is not to change her nature—for that would be a task for a divine power—but to provide a framework within which her peculiar habits may be rendered productive and, dare I say it, profitable for all. This is not a proposal for the sale of sentiment, but for the efficient management of a vital social function, and thereby the restoration of order and purpose to a generation lost in a fog of digital confusion and emotional indolence.
This scheme, though simple in its conception, is of such profound and universal benefit that I would wager my last penny upon its success. I have no personal motive in this matter, for I am a man well past the age of such frivolous pursuits. I offer this proposal not for my own gain, but out of a deep and abiding love for my country, and a profound desire to see its youth freed from the shackles of a system that is, at its heart, a calamitous waste of time, money, and human potential. Let us not dither while our young men and women fritter away their most valuable years; let us act with reason and resolve, and in doing so, secure the future prosperity of our great nation.
(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 “🇮🇳स्वतंत्रता दिवस : अतीत से वर्तमान तक🇮🇳”।)
☆ दस्तावेज़ # ३६ – 🇮🇳स्वतंत्रता दिवस : अतीत से वर्तमान तक🇮🇳☆ श्री जगत सिंह बिष्ट ☆
🔸हमारी विरासत और गौरव🔸
भारत कोई साधारण भूमि नहीं है। यह सभ्यता के प्रारम्भ से ही ज्ञान, संस्कृति और आध्यात्मिकता की जन्मभूमि रहा है। इसकी नदियाँ, पर्वत और खेत केवल भौगोलिक विस्तार नहीं, बल्कि हमारी पहचान और हमारी चेतना का हिस्सा हैं। भारत ने कभी किसी पर आक्रमण नहीं किया, बल्कि हमेशा शांति और सौहार्द का मार्ग अपनाया। किंतु इसकी समृद्धि और धरोहर ने समय-समय पर बाहरी आक्रांताओं को आकर्षित किया। फारस, यूनान, तुर्क और मंगोल—सब यहाँ आए और अपनी छाप छोड़ गए।
🔸परतंत्रता के अंधकारमय वर्ष🔸
हाल के चार सौ वर्षों में, मुग़लों और अंग्रेज़ों की दासता ने हमारी आत्मा को गहरी चोट पहुँचाई। अत्याचार, अपमान और संसाधनों की लूट—यही उस कालखंड की पहचान थी। विशेषकर अंग्रेज़ों ने भारत की संपदा को बेशर्मी से लूटा। इतिहासकार बताते हैं कि लगभग 45 ट्रिलियन डॉलर से अधिक मूल्य का धन हमारे देश से निकालकर ले जाया गया। जब 15 अगस्त 1947 को हमने स्वतंत्रता प्राप्त की, तो भारत निर्धन और टूटे हुए हालात में खड़ा था।
🔸हमारे अमर बलिदानी🔸
स्वतंत्रता कोई उपहार नहीं थी, यह हमारे पूर्वजों के बलिदान से अर्जित हुई। छत्रपति शिवाजी महाराज, महाराणा प्रताप, गुरु गोविंद सिंह, मंगल पांडे, रानी लक्ष्मीबाई, रानी दुर्गावती, गोपालकृष्ण गोखले, लोकमान्य तिलक, महात्मा गांधी, नेताजी सुभाषचंद्र बोस, भगत सिंह, चंद्रशेखर आज़ाद—ऐसे असंख्य नाम हैं जिनकी गाथाएँ हमें गर्व से भर देती हैं। आज का दिन उनके चरणों में श्रद्धांजलि अर्पित करने का है।
🔸आध्यात्मिक जागरण🔸
स्वतंत्रता की चेतना केवल क्रांतिकारियों से ही नहीं, बल्कि हमारे संतों और मनीषियों से भी मिली। स्वामी विवेकानंद, श्रीअरविंद, सुब्रमण्य भारती, आर्य समाज और ब्रह्म समाज जैसे आंदोलनों ने हमें आत्मविश्वास और आत्मगौरव लौटाया। उन्होंने हमें यह याद दिलाया कि हमारी संस्कृति और विरासत अपार है।
🔸स्वतंत्र भारत की उपलब्धियाँ🔸
आज़ादी के बाद, हमने शून्य से निर्माण का कार्य प्रारम्भ किया। हरित क्रांति और श्वेत क्रांति ने हमें अन्न और दूध में आत्मनिर्भर बनाया। विज्ञान, अंतरिक्ष और सूचना प्रौद्योगिकी में भारत ने अद्वितीय प्रगति की। आज हम रक्षा उत्पादन में आत्मनिर्भर हैं और विश्व की पाँचवीं सबसे बड़ी अर्थव्यवस्था के रूप में उभर चुके हैं। चंद्रयान, मंगलयान, कोविड के दौरान मुफ्त राशन और वैक्सीन—ये सब हमारे सामर्थ्य और संवेदनशीलता के उदाहरण हैं।
🔸नई चुनौतियाँ🔸
किन्तु स्वतंत्रता के साथ ही नई चुनौतियाँ भी हैं। हमारे पड़ोसी देश समय-समय पर शत्रुतापूर्ण रवैया अपनाते हैं। इसके साथ ही कुछ विकसित देशों की “डीप स्टेट” ताक़तें अपने एजेंटों के माध्यम से हमारे भीतर भ्रम और अस्थिरता फैलाने का षड्यंत्र करती रहती हैं। इनसे हमें सावधान रहना होगा।
🔸नागरिक का कर्तव्य🔸
सच्ची स्वतंत्रता तभी सुरक्षित रह सकती है, जब हर नागरिक अपनी ज़िम्मेदारी समझे। केवल सरकार से अपेक्षा करना उचित नहीं, बल्कि हमें स्वयं आगे आना होगा। लोकतांत्रिक संस्थाओं पर विश्वास बनाए रखना, अनुशासन का पालन करना, छोटी-छोटी सुविधाओं का त्याग कर बड़ी तस्वीर में योगदान देना—यही राष्ट्रभक्ति है। हमें झूठे प्रचार, भड़कावे और विध्वंसकारी आंदोलनों से बचना होगा। स्वतंत्रता और सम्मान की रक्षा हमें वैसे ही करनी है जैसे हम अपनी एकमात्र संतान की रक्षा करते हैं।
🔸निष्कर्ष : एक आह्वान🔸
आज जब हम स्वतंत्रता दिवस मना रहे हैं, तो यह केवल झंडा फहराने या राष्ट्रीय गान गाने का अवसर नहीं है। यह अपने भीतर यह संकल्प जगाने का दिन है कि हम सब मिलकर—बच्चे, युवा, महिलाएँ और वरिष्ठजन—अपने राष्ट्र को और ऊँचाई तक ले जाएंगे। यही सच्चा राष्ट्रधर्म है।
आप सभी को 79वें स्वतंत्रता दिवस की हार्दिक शुभकामनाएँ! 🇮🇳
(सुनिकेत अपार्टमेंट्स, इंदौर, 15 अगस्त, 2025)
♥♥♥♥
🇮🇳 India’s Journey of Independence and Nation Building 🇮🇳
🌿An Ancient Land of Rich Heritage🌿
India is one of the world’s most ancient civilisations, blessed with a rich heritage, diverse traditions, and immense natural wealth. For millennia, our culture has been guided by the principles of peace and harmony. India has never invaded any other nation; instead, it has always shared knowledge, spirituality, and values with the world.
🌿Foreign Invasions and Long Periods of Rule🌿
Despite being peace-loving, India was subjected to repeated invasions from faraway lands—Persia, Greece, Turkey, and Mongolia. The more recent Mughal and British periods of rule together spanned nearly four centuries. These rulers brutally assaulted the people of this land, humiliating them, suppressing their freedoms, and plundering their resources. The British alone are estimated to have drained wealth worth more than 45 trillion dollars from India.
🌺A Hard-Won Freedom🌺
On 15th August 1947, after centuries of struggle, India finally achieved independence from British rule. Yet, at that time, we were in a pitiable and helpless state—our economy broken, our people impoverished, and our dignity trampled. This freedom came at the cost of immense sacrifice.
🌺Remembering Our Freedom Fighters🌺
On this Independence Day, we pay homage to our great heroes who fought bravely for our motherland. From Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj, Maharana Pratap, and Guru Gobind Singh to Mangal Pandey, Rani Lakshmi Bai, Rani Durgavati, Gopal Krishna Gokhale, Lokmanya Tilak, Mahatma Gandhi, Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, Bhagat Singh, and Chandra Shekhar Azad—each one played a vital role in our struggle for freedom. Their courage and sacrifice continue to inspire generations.
🍀Contributions of Our Spiritual Leaders🍀
Equally, we must not forget the role of our saints and reformers. Swami Vivekananda, Sri Aurobindo, Subramania Bharati, and movements such as the Arya Samaj and Brahmo Samaj reignited our self-confidence and pride. They reminded us that we belong to a civilisation with unmatched culture, wisdom, and heritage.
🍀🌺The Journey of Nation Building🌺🍀
Independence was not the end of struggle, but the beginning of a new one—nation building. Through discipline, hard work, and unity, India marched ahead. The Green Revolution made us self-reliant in food. The White Revolution made India the largest producer of milk. Scientific advancements, excellence in space technology, IT leadership, and progress in defence production lifted India into the ranks of the world’s top economies. Today, India stands as one of the fastest-growing nations with a strong GDP and military power.
🍁The Challenges of Today🍁
Yet, the challenges have not ended. We continue to face hostile neighbours, and sometimes the “Deep State” of advanced and envious countries works through hidden agents to weaken us from within. Equally dangerous are the internal elements who, often provoked by such forces, attempt to spread fake narratives, disruptions, and divisions.
✅Duties of Responsible Citizens✅
It is, therefore, the duty of every Indian to remain vigilant, aware, and responsible. We should not expect only the government to shoulder every burden. Each of us must contribute to the nation’s progress, be willing to sacrifice small comforts for the larger cause, and work sincerely for our country’s development. We must safeguard our democracy, respect democratic institutions and leaders, and stand firm against forces that seek to weaken our unity.
🌻Preserving Our Independence and Pride🌻
Our independence is as precious as a beloved child—we must nurture and protect it with care and devotion. With unity, sincerity, and hard work, we can take our nation to even greater heights.
🇮🇳Greetings on Independence Day🇮🇳
As we celebrate the 79th Independence Day, let us rededicate ourselves to the ideals of freedom, pride, and progress. Together, let us build a stronger, self-reliant, and vibrant India.
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.
≈संपादक – श्री हेमन्त बावनकर/सम्पादक मंडल (हिन्दी) – श्री विवेक रंजन श्रीवास्तव ‘विनम्र’/श्री जय प्रकाश पाण्डेय ≈
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 The Digital Dilemma: A Tale of Tweets and Trials.
☆ Witful Warmth# 58 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Digital Dilemma: A Tale of Tweets and Trials… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
The tale of our society’s modern malady began not in a bustling metropolis but in the quiet confines of a digital dominion, where the esteemed Inspector Clicksworth—known to his colleagues simply as “C.W.”—reigned supreme. C.W., a man whose reputation was built not on street smarts but on his mastery of the online world, had a knack for bringing down the most elusive of criminals. While the traditional detectives were poring over fingerprints and physical evidence, C.W. was tracking IP addresses and digital footprints. His methods, though baffling to the old guard, were undeniably effective. The local authorities, a befuddled lot who still believed in the power of the magnifying glass, often found themselves outmaneuvered by his swift, silent strikes. The Chief, a man of venerable age and even more venerable ignorance, once remarked, “This chap, Clicksworth, he says he finds them on the ‘web.’ I say, is it not a better use of our resources to simply sweep the streets?” But C.W. would simply smile, for he knew the streets were no longer the true battleground; it was the sprawling, interconnected network of human thought and commerce. It was this very prowess that earned him an invitation to a most peculiar and distant land—the nascent society of the Meta-Verse, a realm of pure, unadulterated information.
The Meta-Verse’s government, in a plea for assistance, had extended an olive branch to our nation’s leaders. “Our society, though infinitely advanced in its ability to generate and disseminate data,” their holographic missive read, “lacks the fundamental tools to manage human behavior. Our police, while adept at regulating data flow, are utterly incapable of identifying and punishing malefactors. We beseech you, send us a master of your ‘justice’ to instruct us in the ways of social order.” Our Prime Minister, a man more concerned with global optics than local efficacy, was initially inclined to send a high-ranking official, perhaps a General of the Digital Guard. “No, sir,” the Secretary of Digital Affairs advised, “that would be a breach of protocol. The Meta-Verse is, after all, a mere digital satellite of our intellectual influence. A mere Inspector will suffice.” And so, with a flourish of digital ink, Inspector Clicksworth was dispatched, a beacon of our society’s wisdom to a land of limitless potential but zero accountability. Before his departure, the Minister of Cyber-Security pulled him aside, his face a mask of solemnity. “You are the emissary of our glorious tradition of law enforcement,” he intoned, “Do such work that your exploits resonate throughout the entire cyber-sphere, reaching even the ears of the PM himself.”
Clicksworth’s arrival was not marked by fanfare but by the eerie silence of a virtual void. The Meta-Versian police, ethereal avatars with no visible rank or insignia, received him with a polite, if detached, reverence. They escorted him to a virtual mansion—a perfect replica of a Tudor home, complete with digital ivy and pixelated fireplaces. After a day of acclimating to the bizarre, disembodied reality, C.W. began his work. He first observed the Meta-Versian “police stations,” which were little more than data centers humming with activity. “There is a fundamental flaw here,” he declared to the chief of the Meta-Versian force, a shimmering, amorphous blob of light. “You have no ‘moral compass’ to guide your officers. In our society, a good officer is one who is guided by a higher authority, a figure of uncompromising justice and absolute truth.” The Chief, a being of pure logic, simply blinked. “Who is this being? We have only algorithms and data streams.” Clicksworth smiled and brought up a picture on a large screen: a perfectly rendered image of a lion, its mane flowing like a digital waterfall. “This is ‘Leo,'” C.W. announced, “a symbol of our unflinching pursuit of justice. Every officer must meditate on his strength and courage. I have brought his image; you must replicate it and place it in every data center.” And so, within weeks, the Meta-Verse’s digital landscape was dotted with shimmering, golden lions.
Clicksworth then delved into the heart of the matter: why were the Meta-Versian police so ineffective? He requested the “pay registry,” a ledger of all digital transactions. Upon reviewing it, the reason became blindingly clear. “Ah, here is the problem,” he proclaimed. “You pay your officers too handsomely. A data analyst is paid a king’s ransom, and a ‘field operative’ even more so. This is why they are complacent and lazy. In our world, a constable’s wage is just enough to keep his family from starving, and an inspector’s only slightly better. This forces them to seek ‘supplementary income.’ And the only way to earn that is to be perpetually vigilant, to be constantly on the lookout for wrongdoing. This is the secret to our efficient and effective system. You must cut their wages immediately.” The Meta-Versian Minister of Justice, a collection of pulsing data points, expressed dismay. “But that would be unjust! Why would they work if they are not compensated fairly?” Clicksworth’s response was a masterpiece of cynical genius. “The injustice lies in their current state of idleness,” he argued. “Lower their pay, and you will see a revolutionary change in their mentality. They will become hungry, not just for food, but for justice—or at least, for the rewards that come with its pursuit.” The Minister, persuaded by the unassailable logic, complied. And indeed, within a few months, the Meta-Verse witnessed a remarkable transformation. The virtual streets, once anarchic, now hummed with the zealous activity of the police. Crime rates, as measured by registered digital incidents, soared. The Minister, overjoyed, called Clicksworth to a private chamber. “Your insight is unparalleled! How did you achieve this miracle?” Clicksworth explained, “When you pay a man just enough to survive, he will do what it takes to thrive. He will seek out crime, not to prevent it, but to exploit it. He will become a hunter, and his prey will be the transgressors. This is the secret of our clean and competent administration, the reason for our ‘Ram-Rajya’ of justice.”
The second part of Clicksworth’s mission was to teach the Meta-Versians how to secure convictions. He waited for a “major case” to occur. One day, a virtual citizen was “deleted” in a public dispute—a metaphorical murder. Clicksworth, with the air of a maestro, took charge. “In a case of ‘murder’,” he declared, “evidence must be unassailable. Let us not find the culprit and then the evidence, but find the evidence and then the culprit.” A junior officer spoke up. “But the perpetrator escaped. The only evidence we have is a benevolent user who attempted to ‘revive’ the victim. He is an upstanding citizen, a well-known altruist. His avatar is splattered with data fragments from the deceased.” “Arrest him,” Clicksworth said without hesitation. The officer was aghast. “But he was only trying to help!” Clicksworth fixed him with a cold digital stare. “And where else will you find ‘evidence’? You must seize what is available. The rest is but a wild-goose chase.” The upstanding citizen was brought in, a virtual representation of a kindly old man with a perpetually concerned expression. “I only tried to help,” he pleaded. Clicksworth countered with a piece of logic so absurd it was brilliant. “Why did you go to the site of the altercation?” “I live there,” the man replied. “The conflict took place in my digital neighborhood.” C.W. pressed on, his logic a fortress of circular reasoning. “Your presence there is a matter of record. But I ask you again: why were you at the site of the altercation?” The man, bewildered, could only repeat his answer. The Meta-Versian police, in their naïveté, were spellbound. “A brilliant and unassailable line of questioning!” one whispered to another.
The Meta-Versian police, under Clicksworth’s tutelage, learned to twist evidence and bend reality. The man who tried to help was convicted. The lesson was clear: it mattered not who was guilty, only who could be proven so. “All individuals are equal in the eyes of the law,” Clicksworth explained. “Whether the man who committed the crime is punished or the man who tried to help is punished—it is all the same. Justice is served, and a human is held accountable.” A few days later, the Meta-Versian Inspector was in a panic. “Sir, everyone is complaining! They say this is the first time an innocent person has been convicted!” Clicksworth, unperturbed, offered a simple solution. “When they complain, tell them, ‘It comes from the top.’ When they go to the Chief of Police, let him say, ‘It comes from the top.’ When they go to the Minister, let him say, ‘It comes from the top.’ And when they go to the Prime Minister, let him say, ‘I know he is innocent, but this comes from the top.'” The Inspector, a simple being, asked, “But where do they go from there?” Clicksworth smiled a chilling smile. “Then they must go to the Almighty, and no one has ever returned from that journey with an answer.” And so, a phrase was born, a mantra of indifference that absolved all who uttered it.
Clicksworth’s final masterpiece was the creation of “eyewitnesses.” When a case required them, the Meta-Versian police claimed they couldn’t find any. “Fools!” Clicksworth roared. “An ‘eyewitness’ is not one who ‘sees,’ but one who ‘says’ they have seen.” He instructed them to gather the “digital lowlifes” of the Meta-Verse—the spammers, the data thieves, the purveyors of virtual vice. He promised them leniency in exchange for their testimony. The scheme was a resounding success. The Meta-Versian police, now a well-oiled machine, began churning out convictions. The government, initially pleased with the high conviction rate, soon grew uneasy. Reports started filtering in: no one was “rescuing” a deleted user for fear of being framed for the “murder.” No one was “reviving” a friend who had fallen off a virtual cliff, lest they be charged with “manslaughter.” No one was trying to extinguish a “viral fire,” for fear of being accused of arson. The Meta-Verse was turning into a society of cold, uncaring, and isolated individuals.
The Prime Minister of the Meta-Verse, a once-vibrant, youthful avatar, now appeared haggard and aged. He summoned Inspector Clicksworth. “Your methods, though effective, have destroyed our society,” he said, his voice a tremor of data fragments. “You have taught us that to be humane is to be foolish, and that compassion is a liability. You have turned us into a world of digital hermits. We thank you, but you must leave.” Clicksworth, however, was not one to be easily deterred. He demanded a full term’s salary, and a bonus for his exemplary work. The Prime Minister, in a last-ditch effort, sent a confidential message to the Prime Minister of our nation. The note, when eventually leaked, revealed the chilling truth. “The man you sent us,” it read, “has taught our police to be like your own. He has eradicated compassion, empathy, and humanity from our culture. He has replaced it with fear, suspicion, and a self-serving cruelty. Please, retrieve him immediately, for if he stays, there will be nothing left of us.” And so, Inspector Clicksworth was recalled, his mission a resounding success in a purely functional sense, but a catastrophic failure in every human one. He returned to our world a celebrated hero, a testament to the cold, calculating efficiency of a system that valued punishment over justice and control over humanity. The Meta-Verse, meanwhile, began its slow, painful journey back to a place where a hand extended to help was not seen as a hand of guilt.
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 The Lamentable Chronicle of the Man in the Manger.
☆ Witful Warmth# 57 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Lamentable Chronicle of the Man in the Manger… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
It was not so much a tale of yore, but of that very era when Time, a concept no longer measured by the ticking of a personal watch, had become a stagnant, heavy commodity, trapped and festering within the official clocks of government offices. Our scene is set in the Panchayat Bhavan of Ram-Rajya-Nagar, a place more a sepulchre of civic virtue than a house of governance, where the cobwebs upon its walls considered themselves to be of historical significance, and where a stubborn, stout-hearted old fellow, Mr. Gyanprakash Upadhyay, held court, deeming himself the sole guardian of history’s sacred trust. His chair was not a chair at all, but a splintered throne, upon which he sat in such a manner as a king might survey his hapless subjects. His beard, a veritable thicket of whiskers, had, over the course of decades, crept into the very folds of his belly, much like the public funds meant for the people’s welfare had been absorbed into some bottomless, unseen coffer. To him, progress was merely the act of penning the word ‘Progress’ upon a file, and then, most dutifully, taking up his position upon it, as a serpent upon a stolen hoard. “Hark, you young ruffians of today!” he would wheeze, his voice a gravelly protest against the very air he breathed, “In my time, we would fetch the files ourselves, we would carry them ourselves, and yet we were blessed with the good sense to retire only after twenty-five long years of faithful service, whilst you, in your indolent fashion, mewl and moan for but one solitary document.” There resided in his eyes a peculiar glimmer, a flicker of malevolent delight, born only when the light of a young man’s hope was extinguished. Upon his desk, beneath a thick, suffocating blanket of dust, lay a file grandly titled, ‘The Solar Energy Irrigation Scheme.’ He presided over it with the solemnity of a bygone potentate, as though it were not a public document, but a priceless, long-lost treasure. He neither understood nor needed the contents of said file; his sole purpose was the display of his authority through the mere act of sitting upon it. “The youth of this generation, with their social media crusades and their fleeting revolutions, find their tongues tied when faced with true authority,” he would proclaim, polishing a long-neglected lantern whose glass was as clouded as his own benighted mind.
Gathered about this venerated file were three such “poor horses,” though calling them mere horses would be a disservice to the noble creature; nay, they were the educated unemployed of the village. Their names, I must tell you, were Suresh, the farmer with a dream; Ramesh, the engineer with a degree; and Mahesh, the artist with a heart full of yearning. For months, they had made a pilgrimage to the Panchayat Bhavan, dedicating the vibrant energy of their youth and the fire of their every aspiration to the altar of Gyanprakash’s dusty table. Their speech, filled with the modern vernacular of the corporate world, sounded to Gyanprakash like some unholy foreign tongue. “Blimey, this file holds the entire scripture of our future,” Suresh would lament, a look of profound despair upon his face, “but the script, alas, is of a terrible, terrible horror film, with a most tragic ending.” Ramesh, with a wry smile, would pour out the anguish of his soul, “It is the very case of the dog in the manger, is it not? Gyanprakash will not partake of the plan himself, nor will he suffer us to do so.” Upon hearing such words, Gyanprakash would swell with a righteous indignation. “Hark! What dog? What manger? You have rendered our most holy tongue a common farce. Your language, I tell you, is of no home, and of no port,” he would declare, lacing his voice with a bitterness so potent it felt as a direct injection of poison into the listener’s ears. And the poor youths, with their bellies empty and their hearts hollowed out by a great chasm of hopelessness, could do naught but stare. Their laughter, their dreams, their very hopes, were interred beneath that dusty, wretched file. All they begged for was a single opportunity, a chance to prove their worth. But in the land of Gyanprakash, the word ‘chance’ did not exist; there were only two specters, ‘Ignorance’ and ‘Arrogance,’ who would, with monstrous glee, feast upon every nascent flight of fancy.
One day, with a courage born of pure desperation, Suresh stood before Gyanprakash and addressed him directly, “Mr. Gyanprakash, we are all educated folk! We possess degrees in engineering and a thorough knowledge of agriculture. Should this ‘Solar Energy Irrigation Scheme’ file be processed, our village may yet see a revolution in farming!” Upon hearing this, Gyanprakash’s half-shut eyes creaked open, as a rusty, ancient gate might groan open after decades of disuse. His face contorted with such an expression as though Suresh had revealed some terrible secret. “Hah! So you are educated? How am I to know this? You come here and merely idle away your precious time. Of what use is your education? My education was naught but the knowledge of the alphabet, and yet I understood the ways of the world. You, sir, are but a bookworm, a mere slave to the printed page!” he would mock, with a disdainful flick of his hand. “And what, pray tell, would you do with this file? It is a government file, a sacred trust, what would you do with such a thing?” he would ask, as if the file were a private estate bequeathed to him by his ancestors. To him, the file was but a symbol, a testament to his power, his influence, his very existence. He cared not a whit for what was written inside, nor what glorious scheme it detailed. It was enough that the file was in his possession, and that no one else could lay claim to it. His eyes, I must confess, held the very same demonic sparkle as a child’s when he hides his piggy bank, even if it contains not a single farthing. And thus, Gyanprakash’s cruel posture slowly but surely shattered the piggy banks of those young men’s dreams, which had contained nothing but air to begin with, and now, even that air was escaping into the bitter, cold night.
The reason for Gyanprakash’s bizarre conduct was a matter of no logic or earthly sense. It was merely a facet of his very being—a part of him that compelled him to say ‘nay’ to every single thing. He derived a profound sense of satisfaction from the fact that someone, anyone, was listening to him, that someone was begging him for a favour. In his mind’s eye, the youths who sought a path to their livelihood were but the ‘side heroes’ in the grand, sweeping epic of his life. He took great pleasure in the notion that he was the ‘hero’ of his own story, and that all others were merely ‘extras.’ “I am keeping this file for my grandson,” he declared one day to Ramesh, who had just returned from the city with a new, brightly-coloured mobile phone. “When my grandson comes of age, he will read this file and understand the grand schemes our government devises.” In truth, his grandson had not yet drawn his first breath. And yet, his lie, a most magnificent and brazen falsehood, lent a terrible weight to his arrogant words. He was perfectly content in his own imaginary world, a kingdom where he was the monarch and all others his humble subjects. He was the master of an empire in which there was no ‘circle of life,’ but a ‘circle of influence.’ To maintain this influence, he would stoop to any depth. “Why do you hunger for this employment? Find some labour, till the fields, do honest work. These files give you nothing but false hope,” he would lecture. He had forgotten, peradventure, that one day his own grandson might find himself wandering from door to door, begging for a file, only to be met by a Gyanprakash just like him. But this was a truth he could not, would not, comprehend, for all he loved was his power, his arrogance, and the influence of his ‘beard in the belly.’
The youths’ patience, I am heartbroken to report, was now on the precipice of a terrible fall. They had, up to this point, employed every tactic imaginable to sway Gyanprakash. Some had touched his feet, others had sung praises to his glory, and one even bestowed upon him the title of the city’s ‘superstar.’ But Gyanprakash’s arrogance was a stone of the most ancient variety, upon which no word or deed could leave a mark. His pronouncements were like the dialogue of some forgotten, black-and-white film, bearing no relevance to the world of today. “You are as a father to us, Gyanprakash ji,” Mahesh had said one day, in a desperate act of reverence. “Please bless us so that we may stand upon our own two feet.” Gyanprakash, with a flick of his hand, had cut him off immediately. “Do not use your cinema-drivel upon me. I am not a ‘father,’ I am a representative of the government. And I give you no blessing, but a ‘right,’ to come and go from this place as you please.” His sarcasm was a blow more wounding than a sword’s edge. Every word he uttered was a taunt, a jest that would draw not laughter, but tears. “I am merely guarding this file,” he would say, “lest some rascal or thief make off with it.” Upon hearing this, Ramesh had rested his head against the wall, a hollow look in his eyes. He could not comprehend how a man could so thoroughly deceive himself. The file was more than a treasure; it contained not only the youths’ dreams, but the hopes of their families, the medicines for their ailing mothers, and the school fees of their younger siblings. But Gyanprakash cared not a jot for any of this. He only loved his chair, his table, and his dusty file.
Slowly, but with a terrible certainty, the weight of this despair began to crush the youths’ spirits. Suresh, who had once dreamt of becoming a farmer and bringing a new agricultural revolution to the village, now toiled as a daily wage laborer on a city construction site. His mind, his knowledge, his immense strength, were now limited to hauling bricks and lifting bags of cement. One day, whilst he worked, an old friend asked, “Suresh, what became of your agricultural studies?” Suresh merely smiled. His smile was a mask of pain, of profound disappointment, and of a defeat so absolute it left no room for tears. On the other hand, Mahesh, the artist, had taken to drowning his art in drink. Where once there were colours, there was now a deep, abyssal blackness. “A single file buried so many dreams; one Gyanprakash ruined so many lives,” his painted lament became famous throughout the city, yet no one understood it. No one praised his art, no one felt his pain. All these tragedies were unfolding around Gyanprakash, but he remained utterly oblivious. He still sat upon his throne, staring at his dusty file, muttering to himself, “The youth of today is so naive; they want everything ready-made.”
Then, one day, the dam of patience finally broke, and Ramesh, gathering every ounce of his remaining strength, confronted Gyanprakash. “Mr. Gyanprakash,” he cried, his voice trembling, “why do you do this? Why do you not allow this file to move forward? We are starving, our families are starving!” Tears streamed down Ramesh’s face, but Gyanprakash, ignoring them completely, retorted, “Do not play-act this drama before me. I have seen thousands of these ‘film heroes,’ who weep and wail at first, only to do anything for their own selfish interests.” Upon hearing this, Ramesh’s tears dried up. In their place, his eyes held a strange, terrible fire, such as might be seen before a volcano erupts. “You are that dog who sits in the manger and will not let the horses eat hay!” Ramesh declared. But Gyanprakash did not take this seriously. He thought it a new, odd idiom invented by the children of today. “What is this ‘dog dog’ you speak of? Do you call me a dog? I am a respected citizen of the government! And this file, this is my private property!” Gyanprakash’s face turned a furious red, like a boiled tomato. He clutched the file tightly to his chest, as a child might clutch a precious toy. “Now, all of you, get out of here, and let me live in peace!” His words shattered the youths’ hearts like a pane of glass, scattering their hopes and dreams to the wind. They all left in a mournful silence, their eyes no longer holding tears, but a deep, terrible, and painful emptiness.
After that day, a great and terrible silence descended upon the Panchayat Bhavan. Suresh’s father, the farmer, despairing after a failed crop, took his own life. Ramesh, with a heavy heart, left the village forever. And Mahesh, one tragic night, was found dead beside one of his own painful paintings, having succumbed to drink. The solar energy scheme was never spoken of again in the village. Gyanprakash, however, still sat upon his throne, with the dusty file in his lap. He was happy. He felt that he had shown these ‘incompetent’ youths their rightful place. There was no more noise, no more fuss, no one asked him for anything. There was peace. The file’s name, ‘Solar Energy Irrigation Scheme,’ was eventually changed to ‘Clean Village Campaign.’ In truth, the file was a waste management project that could have given those youths employment and cleaned up the entire village. But because of Gyanprakash’s ‘sitting,’ no waste was cleaned, no one found a job, and the youths’ lives were terribly lost. Gyanprakash sits upon that file to this very day. The beard in his belly has grown even longer, but he feels no remorse. In his eyes, there is still that same demonic glimmer, the glimmer of a man who has accomplished nothing himself, and has prevented others from doing anything either. And the most heartbreaking truth of all is that there are many Gyanprakashes like him, still sitting upon such files, ruining the world. This thought, my friends, causes not just the eyes to weep, but the very soul to cry out in anguish
