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 Funeral of the Blue Light.
☆ Witful Warmth# 64 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Funeral of the Blue Light… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
The great fast began not with a government decree, nor a terrorist’s plot, but with a universal, existential shudder—the light on the router simply turned blue, then stopped. It was a digital sannyas, a sudden retreat from the world of incessant pings and instant validation. The Internet, that ubiquitous, invisible deity to whom we had outsourced our memory, our opinions, and our very breath, simply decided it was tired. The nation, having outsourced its consciousness to this shimmering glass, found itself staring blankly at its own reflection. The shock was clinical, profound, and deeply ridiculous. People gathered on the streets, holding their dead smartphones aloft like sacrificial offerings, their thumbs mechanically swiping at thin air, a nervous tic of the modern age. The profound sadness was not due to the loss of connectivity, but the horrifying realization that without the Internet, they had no alibi for their existence. Who were they, if not a curated feed of opinions and filtered selfies? The collective depression that followed was not the noble melancholy of philosophy, but the panic of a clerk who has lost the only key to his filing cabinet. We had become a society of sophisticated puppets, and the strings were now slack, leaving us in a heap of technological debris and existential angst. The mind, trained only for immediate notification, found the silence a cruel and deafening judgment.
The ensuing depression was not the poetic, melancholic kind that inspires great art; it was a practical, bureaucratic, and deeply humiliating despair. The first great institution to crumble was the nuclear family, which suddenly found itself staring across the dinner table at its cohabitants. Husbands and wives, previously connected by 4G, were now confronted by the terrifying analog reality of shared silence. “What do you think about…?” one would start, only to realize the other had no instant, shareable, politically correct opinion downloaded from a reputable source. The children, those tiny, digital natives, began weeping, not from hunger, but from the inability to confirm their existence via a stream of “likes.” Their self-worth, calculated in engagement metrics, plummeted to zero. They were statues awaiting their dedication plaque. Without the Internet to maintain their carefully constructed online personalities, the nation’s citizens shed their curated skins like old snakes, revealing the frightened, insecure animal beneath. The true tragedy was not the economic ruin, but the fact that nobody had practiced being a person in real life for over a decade. The mind, deprived of its daily dose of external affirmation, turned inward, only to find the interior decorated with cobwebs and the faint, unsettling echo of their original, unedited self.
Bureaucracy, that ancient, mold-covered deity of the Indian landscape, staged a magnificent, vengeful comeback. With email defunct and video conferencing a mythical memory, the government was forced to communicate using the methods of its ancestors: handwritten chits, slow-moving peons, and the devastating power of the unverified rumor. The neighborhood gossip broker, long relegated to the status of a social pariah, suddenly became the most powerful source of information, a human news aggregator. Facts, starved of the oxygen of instant verification, mutated into spectacular fictions. A local power outage became an alien invasion, and a minister’s slight cough became a national health emergency. This proved a profound truth: we crave information not for its veracity, but for its transmission. The inefficiency was glorious to behold. Transactions were done with shaky hands and doubtful ledgers. The stock market devolved into men shouting numbers at each other, their faces contorted by the effort of genuine calculation. We discovered that our great, streamlined system was merely a complex house of cards, held together by nothing more than the constant availability of Wi-Fi. The national sorrow was amplified by the sheer, staggering ineptitude of having to operate machinery with one’s own untrained hands.
The Agony of Memory inflicted a unique form of torment upon the population. People found they could not recall the simplest detail—a recipe, a phone number, the name of a distant relative—without the umbilical cord of the search engine. Our brains, like retired civil servants, had forgotten how to perform their basic duties, having delegated all functions to the cloud. Creativity, too, suffered a debilitating stroke. The modern artist, accustomed to generating ideas by endlessly scrolling through a visual database of existing art, suddenly found their well dry. They were left only with their own, meager, un-collated thoughts. The writers, deprived of their plagiarism checkers and instant synonym finders, struggled to string together two original sentences, their hands trembling over the blank paper. This demonstrated a cruel irony: we had created a device that promised infinite knowledge, yet it had rendered us collectively illiterate and forgetful. The sadness here was the realization that our intelligence was merely a function of our broadband speed. To be forced to think, truly think, without the aid of an external prompt, was a humiliation the modern mind was simply not equipped to bear. We cried genuine tears for the loss of our digital crutches.
Perhaps the most “tear-rolling” aspect of the Digital Fast was the forced confrontation with self-reliance, a concept as terrifying as eternal darkness to the modern urban dweller. People were suddenly faced with the necessity of solving problems that had once been trivial: reading a physical map, talking to a stranger for directions, or, God forbid, having a hobby that did not require a subscription or a rechargeable battery. The simple act of waiting became an ordeal. Queues formed not for resources, but for the comforting sensation of being told what to do next. When the traffic signals failed, the chaos was not due to mechanical error, but to the drivers’ inability to proceed without a turn-by-turn navigation voice dictating their movement. We had become so dependent on the external script that our internal navigational systems had atrophied entirely. This vulnerability, this profound helplessness in the face of simple reality, was truly “mindblowing.” It was a collective admission of failure, proving that we were not masters of technology, but its pathetic, utterly dependent pets, mewling for our digital milk. The true tragedy was the discovery that the simplest elements of human autonomy had been sold off for the price of convenience.
The economic collapse was aesthetically pleasing in its swiftness. Money, which had long existed as a purely digital hallucination, evaporated instantly. The great, gleaming towers of finance became mausoleums of useless hardware. The only thing of value was what one could physically hold: water, rice, and the grudging patience of one’s neighbor. The nation briefly regressed to a system of localized, emotionally charged barter, trading a slightly dented transistor radio for a week’s supply of lentils. The rich, whose wealth was merely a massive, unattainable number in a distant, unreachable server, found themselves as penniless as the peasant, proving that true poverty is the loss of function, not the lack of zeros. The profound sadness here was the recognition that the entire structure of the modern world was an elaborate shared fantasy, a communal agreement sustained only by electricity and fiber optic cable. When the light went out, the fantasy died, leaving everyone shivering in the cold, hard realism of immediate, manual survival. The tears were for the lost convenience, the vanished ease of purchasing instant comfort with a tap; a heartbreaking discovery that nothing was real.
The government, in its infinite and predictable wisdom, decided the national depression was not a result of technological withdrawal, but a “failure of patriotic spirit.” They launched a massive, analog propaganda campaign urging citizens to “Connect with Your Soil, Not Your Screen!” The messages, delivered by actors wearing historically inaccurate national dress, were broadcast over antique radio frequencies and physically painted onto large, wooden billboards—a monumental feat of manual labor. The irony, of course, was spectacular: the government was using the most archaic, inefficient methods to scold the populace for relying on efficiency. The political class, however, thrived magnificently. With no social media to fact-check their every utterance or record their blatant hypocrisy, they became majestic, unassailable orators once more. Their lies, broadcast unchallenged, took on the gravity of divine scripture. The Digital Fast had, accidentally, created the perfect environment for political regression, proving that the tools of liberation, when removed, leave behind only the familiar, sturdy infrastructure of control and self-serving falsehood, dusted off and used with renewed vigor. The people, in their despair, had no platform to complain.
And then, with the gentle flicker of a green light, the fast ended. The Internet returned, not with a fanfare, but with the quiet, addictive hum of a constant need being fulfilled. The national depression lifted instantly, replaced by a frenzied, desperate rush back to the screens. No one rushed to rebuild the financial system; they rushed to check their missed notifications and compare the tragic events of the last week with the perfectly curated tragedy posts of their friends. The brief, terrifying glimpse of an analog life—the awkward conversations, the rediscovered books, the profound silence—was instantly scrubbed from the collective memory. The great lesson had been offered and immediately rejected. We had proved that we were not merely addicted to the Internet; we were fundamentally defined by it, and without it, we were nothing. The nation’s tears had dried the moment the blue light returned, revealing the true, heartbreaking emptiness beneath. We did not cry for the world we lost; we cried for the feeds we missed. The funeral of the blue light was immediately canceled, replaced by the eternal, unthinking worship of its glow. We are empty, and the screen is our perfect container, sealing our fate.
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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
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