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. Today we present his satire The Trials of Truth: A Modern-Day Journalism.
☆ Witful Warmth# 37 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Grand Gala of Honors and the Spectacle of Jugaad… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
The scene was nothing short of a grand theatrical performance from an old, overplayed movie. A lavish stage adorned with garlands, a microphone crackling with exaggerated enthusiasm, and the host—oh, the host! —spitting words with the practiced precision of a broken-down radio announcer.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I call upon the legendary author, Mr. So-and-So, who has devoted a lifetime to the service of literature!” The phrase was repeated so often that one felt as though an old gramophone needle had gotten stuck in the grooves.
On either side of the stage, glittering trophies wrapped in satin sheets awaited their recipients like dormant artifacts in a museum. The organizers, standing smugly behind them, looked like landlords watching their peasants toiling in the fields for free, basking in the pleasure of borrowed grandeur.
Now, let us cast our eyes upon the esteemed guests. These were authors whose books were so rare that if you walked into a bookstore and asked for them, the shopkeeper would likely ask, “Sir, did you print this yourself?” Yet, their faces frequently graced newspapers—usually in snapshots from literature festivals where tea and samosas flowed more freely than literary discussions.
The moment they received their trophies, their faces lit up as if they had just won an Olympic gold medal. And yet, if you strolled through their neighborhood and inquired, “Do you know Mr. So-and-So, the famous writer?” the local grocer would likely scratch his head and reply, “Oh, you mean the fellow who still owes me money for last month’s lentils?”
But the real charm of these grand literary gatherings was not literature—it was a sophisticated excuse to meet long-lost acquaintances from Delhi or Mumbai. “I am attending a literary conference,” they would announce at home, while secretly rejoicing at the prospect of an all-expenses-paid trip, a fancy hotel stay, and, most importantly, a new invitation to another event where even more free food awaited. The system was simple: buy your own bus ticket, and the rest would be taken care of by the generous organizers. A perfect example of “You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.”
The elderly writers in attendance adhered to a sacred ritual: reciting the same weary proclamation at every event. “Literature is in grave danger. The younger generation does not read anymore. We must act!” This speech had become the unofficial national anthem of literary symposiums. But the moment they spotted a tray of hot samosas and sweet jalebis, their grave concerns for literature were promptly replaced by concerns about securing a second helping before the plates ran empty.
It was a beautiful contradiction—on one hand, solemn discussions on the decline of literary taste, and on the other, a desperate scramble for the last piece of gulab jamun.
The whole spectacle often reminded one of a vegetable market. The writers stood in neat rows, much like potatoes, cabbages, and pumpkins, waiting to be picked, packed, and honored. Some authors found themselves peeled like bananas on stage, while others floated like water chestnuts, drifting from one event to another. A select few played the role of ever-present tomatoes, appearing in every literary salad, garnishing every discussion.
Trophies were awarded, photographs clicked, social media flooded with posts, and before the last echoes of applause faded, plans for the next grand event were already in motion.
And yet, curiously enough, amidst all this grandeur, literature itself remained nowhere to be found. Those who truly wrote masterpieces rarely attended these farcical gatherings. And those who did attend—well, for them, literature was merely the bait, while the real game was the great, never-ending trade of honors.
It was an enterprise where the product held no value, but the packaging was so dazzling that the customers never stopped applauding.
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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
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≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈
