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 सतिरे The Last Respect: A Tale of Timeless Wisdom….
☆ Witful Warmth# 33 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Last Respect: A Tale of Timeless Wisdom… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
Old age, in the great Indian context, is nothing short of sainthood—a peculiar sainthood bestowed without ceremony, robes, or the courtesy of silence. Instead, it comes with a gift box of expectations and ironic reverence. Our protagonist, Jagannath Sharma, an 82-year-old patriarch from Kanpur, found himself the unwilling recipient of this divine status.
Jagannath, with knees creaking louder than his conscience and a back bent like society’s moral compass, spent his days on a hand-me-down wooden chair—his throne of wisdom. His kingdom? A chaotic two-bedroom flat shared with three generations who respected him enough to ignore him. After all, nothing says “I care” like pretending your grandfather is part of the furniture.
“The greatest gift you can give your elders is your absence,” his grandson Keshav often declared, texting furiously on a phone that cost more than Jagannath’s lifetime savings. Keshav’s moral compass was an app, and it hadn’t been updated since his last semester break. “Old age is sacred,” Keshav added, “but so is Netflix, and I only have time for one.”
Jagannath’s plight wasn’t unique; it was a collective national treasure. In a land where the Vedas preach respect for elders, modern families practice it like yoga: occasionally and only for Instagram likes. His son, Prakash, nodded solemnly whenever someone mentioned “family values” but kept his father on a strict diet of leftover chapatis and indifference. “Papa, respect isn’t about actions. It’s about intentions, and mine are great,” Prakash explained, offering Jagannath the day-old tea he couldn’t finish. The tea was symbolic—a metaphor for life, steeped too long and utterly flavorless. “Bitter tea builds character,” Prakash said, ignoring the fact that his father’s character was already built and crumbling.
Indian culture, of course, takes pride in its multigenerational households. This pride is mostly expressed in speeches at weddings, while the elderly are left babysitting toddlers who mistake them for statues. “Grandpa is like the Taj Mahal,” Keshav’s younger sister Riya said. “Beautiful but best admired from a distance.” The irony wasn’t lost on Jagannath, who, like the Taj Mahal, felt abandoned, overpriced, and surrounded by clueless tourists. “If I’m a monument,” he muttered, “why do I have to pay rent?”
One fine Sunday, the family decided to organize a “Respect Your Elders” Day. The plan was simple: ignore Jagannath’s suggestions, serve him spicy food his stomach couldn’t handle, and post photos with heartfelt captions. “Hashtag gratitude,” Riya wrote, uploading a picture of Jagannath staring at a plate of chhole he hadn’t asked for. The food was a metaphor too: rich, colorful, and entirely unsuitable for the occasion. “Old people love spice,” Riya claimed, mistaking her grandfather for a Bollywood plotline.
As the day unfolded, Jagannath found himself the star of a circus he hadn’t signed up for. Prakash delivered a speech about the sacrifices of elders, conveniently omitting the part where he sold Jagannath’s ancestral land to buy an SUV. “Sacrifices must be honored,” Prakash declared, as his father silently sacrificed his appetite for the burnt dal served with extra smugness. “Family is everything,” Prakash continued, ignoring the WhatsApp notification from his lawyer about contesting his father’s pension rights.
The neighbors arrived to pay their respects, bringing sweets too sugary for Jagannath’s diabetes. “Elders are a treasure,” said Mrs. Gupta, who had previously complained about Jagannath sitting on the building’s shared bench. “Their wisdom is priceless,” she added, while Googling retirement homes for her own father. “It’s all about balance,” said Mr. Gupta, whose idea of balance involved keeping his father-in-law and the TV remote in separate rooms.
As the evening wore on, the family unveiled a gift: a Bluetooth hearing aid Jagannath couldn’t figure out how to use. “It’s cutting-edge technology,” Keshav explained, as his grandfather struggled to turn it on. “You’re just not trying hard enough,” Keshav added, ignoring his own struggles with basic empathy. “Technology bridges gaps,” Riya chimed in, widening the emotional chasm with every word.
Jagannath finally snapped when they brought out a cake shaped like a walking stick. “Cut it, Grandpa!” Riya cheered, as if the knife symbolized empowerment and not passive-aggressive mockery. “What a lovely gesture,” Mrs. Gupta remarked, taking a selfie with the cake and cropping Jagannath out.
Jagannath stood up, a Herculean task given his arthritis and the weight of generational hypocrisy. “Enough!” he bellowed, silencing the room like a power cut during IPL season. “You respect me as much as you respect traffic rules—only when someone’s watching!”
The family was shocked. Jagannath rarely spoke, having learned that his opinions were treated like WhatsApp forwards: ignored unless entertaining. “You call me wise but don’t trust me with the remote,” he continued. “You celebrate me like a festival—loudly and once a year.” “Your love is like a government scheme: well-advertised but poorly implemented.”
The speech went viral in the neighborhood WhatsApp group, earning Jagannath the nickname “Rebel Grandpa.” “He’s so brave,” Mrs. Gupta texted, before muting the group to watch her soap opera. “A true inspiration,” Prakash told the press, as he updated his LinkedIn bio to “Son of a Legend.”
Jagannath’s rebellion ended the charade but not the hypocrisy. The family hired a nurse to “care” for him, outsourcing their guilt with the efficiency of a corporate merger. “We’re doing our best,” Prakash said, patting himself on the back harder than anyone else ever did. “This is modern respect,” Keshav explained, scrolling past memes about self-love.
In the end, Jagannath found solace in solitude, realizing that true respect isn’t earned but demanded. “Old age is a gift,” he mused, “but in this family, it’s more like re-gifting.” “Wisdom isn’t appreciated until it’s quoted on a WhatsApp status,” he added, laughing for the first time in years.
The irony of Jagannath’s situation was as thick as the dust on his old photo albums. His family celebrated his legacy while erasing his presence. They admired his wisdom but avoided his words. And in their quest to honor him, they forgot to see him.
As the story of Jagannath Sharma circulates through middle-class drawing rooms and internet memes, one thing becomes clear: respect, like tea, is best served warm and without pretense. And old age, in the great Indian tradition, remains both a blessing and a cosmic joke.
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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
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