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 – The Republic of ‘Ghapla-Ganj’.
☆ Witful Warmth# 60 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Republic of ‘Ghapla-Ganj’… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
In the notorious district of ‘Ghapla-Ganj’, the roots of the Republic were exactly as deep as the potholes on its government-funded roads. On the eve of Republic Day, Munshiram ‘Makkhan’ (whose name literally meant ‘Butter’) was busy untangling the flagpole rope with the nervous desperation of a new son-in-law trying to navigate his in-laws’ egos.
Munshiram, a man whose professional career was built on licking the cream off state budgets, was so drowned in the fervor of the ‘Amrit Kaal’ (The Golden Era) that he had hired a painter famous for blackening the faces of opposition posters to whitewash the flagpole. Adjusting his glasses, Munshiram warned, “Listen, if the rope gets stuck tomorrow, consider your patriotism taxed under GST! The Constitution gave us rights, but the right to unfurl the flag belongs only to those whose files move over the table, not under it.”
Just then, Dharamveer ‘Dheeth’ (The Stubborn) appeared, hookah in hand. He kicked the flagpole to test its strength, much like a doctor checks a patient’s pulse—not to see if they are alive, but to gauge the depth of their pockets.
“Arre Munshi!” Dharamveer bellowed in his wooden-staff Haryanvi style. “Are you hosting a ceremony or a garage sale for democracy? This pole is wobbling more than a Chief Minister’s chair after a no-confidence motion. And that Book of Constitution you’ve displayed on the stage? Last time, you used its back pages to tally the tent-house bills! This Republic Day is for the high-rise villas; folks like us just stand below, waiting for a piece of Boondi Laddoo and shouting ‘Jai Hind’ to fill our stomachs.”
Munshiram sighed—a breath less full of patriotism and more of budgetary anxiety. “Dheeth brother, this is a festival. Don’t weigh it on the scales of logic. In this town, even those who hate the ‘Public’ and fear the ‘Republic’ sing the National Anthem.”
The Grand Farce
When Thakur Gajendra Singh ‘Ghasita’ took the stage, even his throat-clearing sounded like a Royal Proclamation. He pulled out a paper titled ‘The Meaning of Freedom,’ though it looked suspiciously like the back of an old ‘Eviction Notice’ file.
“Brothers!” the Thakur roared. “Today, our nation is free! Every citizen is a King!”
Dharamveer nudged his neighbor with a sharp elbow. “Hear that? We are all Kings, but our kingdom is limited to the length of the ration shop queue. The Thakur is preaching equality like a wolf giving a lecture on vegetarianism to a flock of sheep.”
Suddenly, Munshiram announced the climax: the ‘Gantantra Ratna’ (Jewel of the Republic) Award. “Mangal Singh!” he shouted.
The crowd went silent. Mangal Singh was the simple farmer whose land had been ‘swallowed’ last year by one of the Thakur’s cronies for a highway project. The crowd wondered: Was this the ‘Amrit Kaal’ of penance? Was the Thakur finally polishing his stained soul?
“Mangal Singh, come forward!” Munshiram yelled again. No one moved. The silence grew so heavy that even the crows circling the flag forgot to caw. Munshiram’s forehead began to sweat like a sudden ‘deficit’ in a government audit.
The Thakur grabbed the mic. “Perhaps Mangal Singh is overwhelmed with emotion. This award is for the sacrifice a common man makes for this great System!”
Dharamveer spat on the ground. “Sacrifice? Mangal Singh’s sacrifice was completed when your goons sacrificed his bullock cart and two bighas of land at the altar of ‘Development.’ This isn’t an award; it’s like putting a muffler on a corpse. The man you’re calling hasn’t been seen for three months; he either met God or got buried under the weight of your ‘Equality’.”
The Inheritance of Loss
After a panicked whisper from a clerk, Munshiram announced that Mangal Singh’s ten-year-old daughter would accept the award. She walked up—barefoot, but with eyes that could scorch through both khaki uniforms and khadi vests.
The Thakur flashed a cinematic smile for the cameras. “Smile, beta! It’s a Republic Day special shot!” He tried to pat her head, but she jerked away like a sovereign nation shaking off its shackles.
She stepped to the mic and uttered just four words that exploded like a grenade: “Where is my father?”
Munshiram tried to pivot. “Beta, your father is… practicing ‘penance’ at an undisclosed location for the nation’s progress. Here, take this envelope and go home.”
The girl opened the envelope. It wasn’t money. It was the same old auction notice for her land, now stamped: ‘Resolved Successfully.’
Two tears fell. She dropped the shiny trophy right at the Thakur’s polished boots.
“There it is!” Dharamveer’s voice cut through the air. “That’s your Republic! Erase the father, hand a shield to the daughter. Mangal Singh is buried in the very foundation of the Secretariat you’ve decorated with marigolds today. These aren’t sweets you’re distributing; it’s the wreckage of our conscience.”
The girl looked up at the tricolor, her voice trembling but clear: “The flag is high, Sir, but the humanity has fallen very low.”
The Thakur’s SUV sped away, sirens blaring. The flag continued to flutter, but in its shadow, Mangal Singh’s daughter walked back into the crowd, barefoot, leaving the ‘honor’ behind. Republic Day was over. And ‘Ghapla-Ganj’ began to crawl once again through its potholes, celebrating its ‘freedom.’
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© 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 ≈
