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 – Oh, What a Fate!
☆ Witful Warmth# 85 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ Oh, What a Fate!… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
In that ruthless smoke rising from the teacup, life seemed just as entangled as an old earphone cable lying in some corner of a drawer the more you try to untangle it, the tighter the knots become. Across the table she sat, maintaining a safe distance behind her gleaming screen, while on this side was I, scattered like free advice that nobody needed over the debris of my crumbling existence. A terrifying silence stretched between us, the kind that only exists in a house where people count the final breaths of an elder on a ventilator while waiting to sign the pages of a will.
Was she talking to me, or perhaps donating her laughter to some other reflection rendering on her screen? Her fingers danced on the keyboard with such ruthlessness and speed, like an experienced butcher skinning a goat, or a close relative poking at your most painful nerve. Suddenly, flashing a digital torch-like light into my eyes, she said, “You have changed.” A sharp laugh escaped me. When you have to rely on your national identity card photos just to find your own face standing in front of a mirror, such an accusation from the person opposite feels as beautiful as sweet poison. We are all walking mirrors. She was looking at me, I was searching for my lost conscience in her, and she was re-imagining herself through the lens of likes and heart-filled comments from a third, unknown person. Who knows who looks at whom, and where! The entire universe had become like cheap CCTV footage where no one belonged to anyone.
She looked up. There was a strange mystery in her eyes—cold, deep, and just as hollow as the emptiness of an unclaimed suitcase left behind at a railway station. Like the rusted door of a locked basement where the grain inside has rotted, but a signboard of good news hangs outside. She took the trouble to smile, but that smile died right at the corners of her lips, just like a second-hand scooter sputtering to a halt at a crowded intersection without petrol.
“You overthink too much,” she replied curtly, stuffing her phone into her bag like a thief hiding stolen goods. This is the most velvety sarcasm of the twenty-first century. When a person is suffocating, the world says the weather is bad. When the soul is bleeding inside and admitted to the ICU, people put a hand on your shoulder and dole out wisdom: ‘Chill bro, you are just a victim of deep thinking.’
We stepped out of that cold hypocrisy of the cafe. Raindrops were trickling from the sky, but in that suffocating evening of Delhi, the rain was not a shower of relief; instead, it oozed like clarified butter being poured onto a burning funeral pyre. She was walking two steps ahead, her shadow floating in the dirty water spread across the road. Crushing that shadow, I dragged myself behind her. A strange thrill crawled inside me, a mystery that was racing my heartbeat like the climax of a murder mystery. I could clearly feel that something massive was going to break today—an old illusion, a misconception, or perhaps my own spine.
Suddenly, she froze in front of the colossal glass pane of a massive showroom. That glass was so clean, so transparent, that standing before it, you could see the blemishes on your face and all the flaws of your soul with absolute clarity. She admired herself in that gleaming glass, fixing her messy hair the way one grooms oneself before draping a shroud, and then suddenly turned toward me. There was water in her eyes no, tears, which were perhaps the most genuine and expensive thing in this artificial city.
Panicking, and gathering my remaining sensitivity, I asked, “What happened? Any problem?”
From her jeans pocket, she pulled out a crumpled, sobbing piece of paper and placed it on my palm, much like a defeated gambler surrendering his final breath. Her hands at that moment were colder than ice, as if death had just shaken hands with them very leisurely and said, ‘Just wait two minutes, let me watch your entire show.’ Without uttering a word, without wasting a single moment, she turned and vanished into the blind crowd like the smoke of a crematorium fading into the air. I kept calling out to her, but my voice choked and collapsed right there amidst the honking of vehicles and the noise of onlookers.
My hands were shaking the way they shake when lifting the bier of a loved one for the first time. My heart was desperate to break free from the cage of my chest and leap out. As I unfolded that crumpled paper, a cold shudder ran through my soul. I was absolutely certain it would contain a cinematic farewell note, a complaint of betrayal, or the name and address of a third wealthy suitor who had a bigger salary package than mine.
But alas, there was no poetry on that paper, no accusation. It was a prescription from a neurologist. On it, in large letters, the doctor’s ink screamed: ‘Advanced Stage Alzheimer’s (Memory Loss). The patient has completely lost the ability to recognize faces and relationships. She makes suicidal attempts to find her lost identity only in mirrors and shiny surfaces, perceiving the living person standing in front of her as merely a lifeless reflection, a shadow.’
The ground slipped beneath my feet like a multi-story building constructed by a big builder collapsing like a deck of cards. A torrent of tears burst from my eyes, the likes of which even the clouds wouldn’t have expected. Oh God! She wasn’t looking at me at all. She was looking for that mirror, that reflection which I was pretending to be for her fading mind. Every day, she came to meet me in the cafe just so that amidst the debris of her dying memory, she could see her own existence alive for a fleeting moment. What I had dismissed as her modern loneliness, her attitude, and her obsession with the screen, mocking her for it, was actually her silent, screaming final plea amidst the fading lights of her brain.
Cars continued to race down the road as usual; people celebrating the weekend were bursting into laughter. Standing there in the middle of the mud and rain, I was laughing and crying like a madman. What a bizarre spectacle this wretched life is! Our entire lives, we search for our face and our existence in the eyes of others, without knowing that the other person’s eyes have already gone bankrupt of their own light and memories. A deep ache arose from my chest, a sigh escaped that broke all the grammar of words and shattered Oh, what a fate! You made me weep with such a deep and poisonous irony that even the wretched soul crying would envy his own misfortune, while the world claps and says, ‘What a brilliant climax!’
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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
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