Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra, widely known in the world of satire by his pen name ‘Uratipt’, expresses his emotions and thoughts with profound honesty and depth. His multifaceted talent is evident in his contributions across various literary genres. He is not only a renowned satirist but also a poet and a children’s author.
His satirical writings have earned him a special place in the literary world. His satire, ‘Shikshak Ki Mout’, went massively viral on the Sahitya Aajtak channel, garnering over a million views and reads—a monumental achievement in the history of Hindi satire. His collection of satires, ‘Ek Tinka Ikyavan Aankhen’ (A Straw and Fifty-One Eyes), is also highly acclaimed and includes his timeless work, ‘Kitabon Ki Antim Yatra’ (The Last Journey of Books). Other celebrated collections include ‘Mayaan Ek, Talwar Anek’ (One Sheath, Many Swords), ‘Gapodi Adda’ (The Gossiper’s Den), and ‘Sab Rang Mein Mere Rang’ (My Colors in Every Hue). His satirical novel, ‘Idhar-Udhar Ke Beech Mein’ (In Between Here and There), is a unique and groundbreaking work focused on the third world.
His significant contributions to literature have been widely recognized. He was honored with the Best Young Creator Award, 2021 by the Telangana Hindi Academy and the Government of Telangana, an award presented by Chief Minister K. Chandrasekhar Rao. The Rajasthan Children’s Literature Academy also honored him for his children’s book, ‘Nanhon Ka Srijan Aasmaan’ (The Creative Sky of Little Ones). Additionally, he has received the Vyanga Yatra Ravindranath Tyagi Sopaan Samman and the Sahitya Srijan Samman from Prime Minister Narendra Modi.
Dr. Uratript has also played a pivotal role in writing, editing, and coordinating a total of 55 books for the Government of Telangana for primary school, college, and university levels. His work is included in university textbooks in Bihar, Chhattisgarh, and Telangana, where his satirical creations are part of the curriculum. This recognition underscores that young readers can identify and appreciate quality and impactful writing.
Key Accolades and Works
- Viral Satire: ‘Teacher’s Death’ (over 1 million views)
- Satire Collections: ‘Ek Tinka Ikyavan Aankhen’, ‘Mayaan Ek, Talwar Anek’, ‘Gapodi Adda’
- Unique Satirical Novel: ‘Idhar-Udar Ke Beech Mein’
- Awards: Shreshtha Navyuva Samman (Telangana), Sahitya Srijan Samman (PM Modi), and more.
- Educational Contribution: Authored and edited 55 books for the Telangana government.
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 Tricycle of Noble Hypocrisy.
☆ Witful Warmth# 124 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Tricycle of Noble Hypocrisy… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
Leaning against the damp, flaking wall of the town’s state-run Rehabilitation Center for the Disabled stood a battered, rusted tricycle—a relic from two decades ago, proudly sporting perished rubber tires and a crust of corrosion thick enough to double as armor. Once, its handlebar had absorbed the anxious, trembling sweat of children grappling with cerebral palsy; now, it served as a five-star motel for spiders and accumulated municipal dust.
Right below, perched on a crumbling brick plinth like an unwanted fixture of the architecture, sat old Somdatt every morning at seven sharp, anchored by his seasoned wooden cane. Draped in a torn khadi kurta and a weathered towel, the old man spent his days locked in an unblinking staring contest with the tricycle’s oxidized pedals.
Meanwhile, just beyond the veranda, the premises buzzed with the real festival: fleets of polished luxury sedans disgorging top-dollar neurologists, slick bureaucrats, and brand reps eager to showcase robotic wheelchairs, neuro-stimulation rigs, and therapies priced roughly per deep breath. Loudspeakers blasted thunderous sermonettes about “giving wings to the dreams of afflicted children.” Naturally, neither the suited dignitaries nor the modern clinicians spared a glance for the scrap heap rusting in the corridor.
Whenever Mangru, the peon, scurried past clutching his battered tea kettle, Somdatt would ask in a raspy, feeble voice: “Tell me, Mangru, on this glorious World Cerebral Palsy Day, has an official decree arrived to seat a stumbling child on these three wheels? Or are we strictly rationing out plastic rhetoric and hollow speeches from the podium again?” Mangru would merely lower his eyes, let out a well-rehearsed sigh, and vanish into the administrative haze.
Enter Dr. Animesh Bhardwaj—the newly anointed Project Director dispatched straight from the capital’s elite Directorate of Social Welfare. Armed with an obsession for neuro-rehab orthodoxy and bureaucratic spit-and-polish, Dr. Bhardwaj considered anything not bearing a barcode or an imported brand tag an eyesore. Watching a tattered patriarch fold his hands daily before a heap of junk struck him as an assault on state decorum.
Once the inaugural session wrapped up and the VIPs retreated to the air-conditioned lounge to devour salted cashews and cashew-funded pleasantries, Dr. Bhardwaj marched over.
“Look here, old man,” the Director barked, puffing out his chest. “Why block the corridor every single day? If you want an old-age pension or a complimentary crutch, go file Form 47-B with the clerk inside. Staring at an obsolete contraption won’t magically realign the legs of this nation’s spastic youth.”
Somdatt folded his hands with infuriating serenity. “Director Sahib, I am not begging for free sticks or welfare crumbs. I am merely keeping vigil for the return of that lost support which was snatched from this very threshold years ago.”
Bhardwaj sneered at the riddle. “What lost support? The Ministry bleeds crores every year distributing state-of-the-art contraptions. What grand mystery does this junkyard relic hold?”
Pandit Kripashankar, the center’s pensioned-off physiotherapist who had witnessed forty years of suffering and state press releases, stepped forward. “Do not dismiss him as a lunatic, Director. Twenty years ago, when families shoved cerebral palsy patients into dark closets out of shame, this old man’s only son, Manas, stood in this exact corridor to wage war for their dignity.”
Bhardwaj raised an eyebrow. “And what miraculous feat did this Manas pull off?”
“He was the state’s brightest occupational therapist,” Kripashankar recalled with a heavy sigh. “While private nursing homes squeezed destitute families dry, Manas pooled his own meager pennies, hired a village blacksmith and a carpenter, and welded this very tricycle so paralyzed children could learn to pedal on their own dignity. He planted it here, swearing he would never bend the knee to predatory medical cartels until the last impoverished child was granted free mobility.”
Somdatt ran a trembling finger over the rusted pedal. “Yes, Sahib. My boy stood right here and declared: ‘Bapu, this isn’t just scrap metal; it’s a chariot for stumbling childhoods.’ He promised that the day he secured the National Board’s mega-grant for universal, free rehabilitation, he would return, paint this carriage afresh, and seat me as the guest of honor on the nation’s grandest philanthropic stage.”
Spurred by bureaucratic intrigue, Dr. Bhardwaj stormed into the archives to exhume the twenty-year-old project dossier. Flipping through yellowed confidential memoranda, the ground crumbled beneath his polished oxfords.
The file told an all-too-modern fable: decades ago, when Manas’s grassroots crusade began rattling the market, a multinational syndicate peddling robotic mobility rigs and predatory therapy packages stepped in. Rather than fight him, they simply wrote a check. They handed the young crusader the title of Managing Director, a covert twenty-five percent equity stake, and an invitation to join the cartel.
Manas hadn’t freed the afflicted; he had merely cashed in on them.
Tossing his vows into the paper shredder, the messiah reinvented himself into the country’s premier billionaire neuro-rehab baron. Today, he presided over glass-and-steel healthcare empires that unceremoniously evicted the destitute at the gate while billing the elite twenty thousand rupees an hour to let their children breathe sterile clinic air.
Pale and visibly nauseated, Dr. Bhardwaj trudged back to the porch. “Old man…” he stammered, his bureaucratic swagger completely liquidated, “your heroic son didn’t save the vulnerable. He became their most ruthless auctioneer.”
Tears trickled down Somdatt’s wrinkled cheeks, though his voice bore no shock.
“I always knew my boy was bought and paid for, Sahib,” the father whispered softly. “I only come here every day to check a simple thing: when our decorated dignitaries sit on stages weeping theatrical tears for paralyzed children—while hawking their own fathers’ ideals and profiting off every faltering breath—can this deaf society finally smell the stench of monetization, or are the cashews in the VIP lounge simply too fragrant?”
Dr. Bhardwaj froze, tongue-tied, staring blankly at the dust-cloaked tricycle. For once, the entire pompous rehabilitation pavilion fell dead silent, thoroughly humiliated by the crushing weight of a father’s quiet grief.
****
© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com
≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈
