Tag: #Satire

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

1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
2. 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.
3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
5. Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.

Today we present his satire Where Trees Were Promised and Titles Were Planted.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 51 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Where Trees Were Promised and Titles Were Planted… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

In the dust-choked lanes of a forgotten village in Champaran, where only electoral drizzle now refreshes the thirst of hope, once sprouted a noble seedling: the Janhit Utthan Parishad. This was not an institution born of lobbying or LinkedIn connections, but of a frail old teacher—Masterji—who traded his only piece of ancestral land, not for stock options, but for the betterment of the village. Back when devotion had not yet been gobbled up by dopamine-fueled selfies, and when sacrifice did not need hashtags to go viral, Masterji dared to dream of a platform that would channel rivers of altruism. That sacred shrine of public service has now been annexed by a mob of sweet-toothed contractors who flock not to serve but to be served. The walls that once echoed with his maxim, “An institution is a temple of service,” now display laughing faces on election posters. Mahatma Gandhi still hangs there, though rumor has it he occasionally mutters, “Hey Ram! What calamity is this?”

Where once sat councils of virtue—discussing education, sanitation, and green revolutions—the institution’s meetings have been demoted to exhibitions of egos and necktie knots. One fine day, as though an old transistor caught a rogue frequency, ten members stood up simultaneously and cried, “The institution is sinking!” One might have mistaken it for the Titanic’s final scene, had it not been accompanied by the chairman’s candy-store smile. And like a comic twist in a political reality show, the solution proposed was not reform in intent or action, but reform in titles—new president, new vice president, and a minister to complete the trilogy. As if governance was a talent hunt and the prize was a gilded armchair. Not a whisper on principles, but a stampede for positions. Somewhere in the cracked plaster behind Masterji’s garlanded photo, his spirit may well have headbutted the wall.

Gone are the days when meeting agendas brimmed with purpose—children’s education, cleaning of the village pond, and planting of trees. The modern meeting resembles a wedding procession, without the bride. Chairs line up like anxious guests; speeches rain down like confetti, but the issues are conspicuously absent. The only mission now is the mission to capture a better camera angle. The guiding philosophy has been replaced with an inventory of chairs. One veteran, his eyes moist with betrayed faith, whispered, “We used to plant trees; now we plant titles.” This from a man who once pledged his pension to the cause, now left to admire the president’s gold chain while peering into an empty treasury register.

The annual celebration—once a festival of soil and saplings—has transformed into a carnival of banners, drums, and declarations. “Fifty trees planted this year!” the president announced, and the crowd clapped like metronomes. Meanwhile, the village searched for a single sprout. Neither pit nor plant could be found. The trees had evidently taken root in reports, watered and nourished by budget files. A trophy followed—“Best Environmentalist”—handed to the chairman, who stepped up and declared, “Our institution is the mother of society!” A child in the crowd innocently quipped, “Then why does she feel so stepmotherly?” Ah! There lies the whole tale—this mother no longer nurtures, she merely poses.

The institution’s social media handles now read like a satire on benevolence. The same leader, the same cap, the same posture—ad infinitum. Old-age homes became backdrops for photo ops. Fruits were ‘distributed’—or rather, made to hover before the lens—while the elders received smiles more than sustenance. One old man chuckled, “Son, they didn’t give us fruit; they just clicked pictures and vanished.” And thus, the institution transitioned from a service mission to a lighting studio, where emotion was the wallpaper and the spotlight reserved for faces, not causes.

As the curtain drew further, original members were either retired with ceremonial garlands or systematically muted like unwanted tabs on a browser. Masterji, once a living manual of integrity, now only grins from his dusty frame. His grandson once asked, “Grandpa, what does your institution do now?” He sighed and replied, “It’s no longer an institution, son. It’s a flea market for chairs.” The PR firm has taken over the spirit, and truth, it seems, has taken a long vacation. Masterji no longer speaks from the dais; he speaks from the frame. A relic of a time when service was the language of the soul.

Eventually, under the theatrical name of ‘restructuring,’ the institution quietly dissolved itself. No drums, no slogans, just a withered meeting where Masterji’s photo received its final garland. A crack ran down the wall, and those nearby claim they heard a voice whisper, “I created this for service. You used it for selfies.” The institution that once irrigated the barren fields of Champaran with hope has itself turned barren. Now, its tale is preserved in one corner of a modest library, in a frail diary’s final line: “There’s only one letter’s difference between service and power—but the intent is separated by a thousand miles.”

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

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

1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
2. 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.
3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
5. Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.

Today we present his satire Bread In The Sky, Moon In The Plate.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 50 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Bread In The Sky, Moon In The Plate… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

If ever the heavens rained bread and the moon found residence in a steel plate, it would be in the absurd republic we call modern India—where petrol rides higher than hope and the unemployed carry their pride like worn-out socks, threadbare but essential. Imagine, dear reader, a citizen wandering through the labyrinthine digital corridors of the Education Department, only to be met with the soul-shattering pop-up: “No vacancies available. Kindly try again.” Try again! As if life were a polite web page and not the snarling belly of capitalism. I, a humble supplicant armed with degrees and delusions, stood before a bureaucrat who ogled me as though I had proposed elopement with his daughter. “No experience,” he spat, as if hunger were not the most seasoned tutor. For is not the gurgling of an empty belly a more eloquent bell than any cathedral can ring?

And so I wandered with the last surviving rupee in my digital wallet, only to have it vanish like Gandhiji’s promise of village utopia. In this brave new world of QR codes and failed OTPs, even coins prefer to commit digital suicide. On the iron bench of a station, with PayTM as bankrupt as my ambition, I contemplated inventing a new IRCTC category: ‘Bhookh Tatkal’. Just then, a rustic messiah arrived in the form of a melon-bearing farmer. With the grace of a Mughal noble, he handed me two slices and said, “Brother, these are sweet as sugar.” And lo! I beheld sugar in its purest, most unscam-like form. I devoured those slices as one binges on forbidden shows, grateful not just for sustenance, but for proof that humanity had not fully migrated to the cloud.

Employment did arrive—at a government school in Jabalpur—though the salary marched slower than a sleepy snail. Without ticket or tact, I clambered aboard a train with dreams, books, and a rolled-up sense of self-worth. A cook, as saintly as any cardinal, whispered, “Crawl under the seat, the inspector is too busy texting memes.” And thus I learned the first true lesson of employment: that compassion runs on data packs. When the salary finally dropped—not into my account but straight into mortality—my father died. I wished to post an Instagram story: #FirstSalaryVibes, but fate had scheduled a funeral instead. The currency, so warm and awaited, paid for flames and flowers. “Where did your first salary go?” asked relatives. I replied, “To secure Papa a Provident Fund in the afterlife.”

Then came my sister’s wedding, where the guest list exceeded the budget, and the groom’s expectations surpassed GDP growth. At a dingy station, fate stole my wallet, phone, and identity; all I had left was her trust. A priest offered me tea and potatoes and a cryptic prophecy: “Let us find our path by electricity’s gleam.” We reached our village like lovers meeting on a first date—unsure, excited, but alive. The wedding happened, not by luxury but by resilience, and we celebrated it like bureaucrats who cleared UPSC by some divine clerical error. I began writing satire not when likes poured in, but when tears refused to come. I wrote for those who smile through their despair, lest the world mock them with memes. Humor, once my hobby, became my sword. Unable to fight systems with fists, I trained my words in martial arts. Satire became not laughter, but an encrypted cry for justice.

Politics beckoned, its siren song promising reform. I fantasized about addressing the Rajya Sabha on educational overhaul, only to be shoved aside by a tsunami of ‘recommendation letters’ and ‘network referrals’. In the bureaucratic sea of politics, your résumé is but flotsam unless buoyed by nepotism. A month I languished in a queue where hopes were stapled and dreams photocopied. A doorman, drunk on protocol, declared, “No entry without influence.” It was then I realized that the Constitution is but a myth we recite on Republic Day, while power winks at networking cocktails. Today, my words appear calm on paper, but their journey has been more turbulent than the Yamuna after a monsoon. I write jokes with bleeding fingers and compose laughter with tear-stained ink. Satire has become a PDF file of sorrow—formatted, compressed, but never deleted.

Now, I consider branding my misfortunes for digital consumption. Perhaps my struggles can trend with the right filter, the correct angle, and a trending hashtag. Let every hunger become a reel, every insult a YouTube short. Let me say to the world, “Here, take my downfall in HD—like, share, subscribe.” For isn’t that the final mockery of our times? That even tragedy must pass through an editing app before it’s believed. Thus ends my tale—not with resolution, but with a smile filtered just right, and tears cropped just off-screen. Jonathan Swift might have railed against the cruelties of his age, but I merely upload mine to the cloud and hope for a few sympathetic comments before the algorithm moves on.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

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

1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
2. 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.
3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
5. Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.

Today we present his satire Click to Connect, Sigh to Reflect.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 49 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Click to Connect, Sigh to Reflect… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

At the village crossroads, a bright and shiny hoarding screamed in full color: “A mobile in every hand, internet in every pocket.” Next to it stood Ramlal, a simple farmer who still thought of his mobile as a torch and a music box. He paused, confused, as if the banner had just whispered a prophecy. “Masterji,” he asked, scratching his head, “where does one catch this internet bug?” Masterji smiled, adjusting his glasses. “Everything’s online now, Ramlal—farms, fields, ration cards, weddings, even death certificates—it all fits in that tiny device.” Ramlal looked at his battered keypad phone and muttered, “This doesn’t even catch signal, how’ll it catch the internet?” The tea shop crowd burst into laughter, their chai nearly spilling. But that was the day Ramlal made a vow—his son would go digital.

With pride and poverty intermingled, he sent his son to the city to learn computers. A year later, the boy returned, laptop in hand, having finally stopped mistaking a mouse for a baby elephant. But the village had no power, no internet. One day, sitting among cows and crops, the son filled out an online form for a farmer’s subsidy. The site flashed: “Server Down. Please Try Again.” Ramlal squinted at the screen and asked, “Which crop is this ‘server’ that dies every season?” The poor boy clutched his head. And so, the word ‘digital’ slowly turned into a curse in the village’s vocabulary, like an evil spirit that haunted every WiFi-less hut.

Then came a day of miracles—or so it seemed. A government jeep rolled into the village, blaring from its deck: “Participate in the Digital Literacy Campaign!” People looked around as if some magic wand was about to wave. The secretary announced proudly, “Now land records will be stored in your mobile!” Ramlal, ever the realist, asked, “When there’s no water in the land, what use are mobile records? Should I plough my field with a screenshot?” The officer chimed, “You’ll now need to apply online.” An old man asked, genuinely curious, “Beta, first tell me where we get this ‘application sack’?” The crowd snickered, and the officer gently corrected him, “It’s not a sack. It’s a website.” The murmurs grew—”Seems like even plowing will soon happen on mobile.” Digital India had entered the village, but the village hadn’t entered Digital India. Not yet.

Then came the day when Ramlal received a message: “Rs. 6000 subsidy deposited in your account.” Overjoyed, he rushed to the bank. The banker calmly replied, “Your account isn’t linked to Aadhaar.” Ramlal blinked. “Is Aadhaar some special cow? One that gives no milk at the bank?” He was sent to get his Aadhaar made, but the machine at the center complained of the same old issue—network problems. After three days of sweating in queues, he still had no Aadhaar. The bank manager sighed, “The government is sending money, but you can’t catch it.” Ramlal responded with grit, “I’m a farmer, brother. I don’t catch money. I catch mud.” The village buzzed: the government wants us to fly, but forgot to give us wings. The hoardings flashed progress, but all the farmers saw were buffering wheels and power cuts.

Frustrated but not broken, Ramlal looked to the city for answers. He told his son, “Let’s leave the village. In the city, there must be power, internet—and maybe people too.” But the city was no land of salvation. Everyone seemed to be living inside their screens. Each human being was now a “mobile-staring worker,” lost in scrolls and swipes. The son whispered, “Father, hearts don’t beat here. Phones vibrate.” Ramlal sighed, “This city is like a body without a soul. At least in the village, eyes met and smiles had meaning.” But nostalgia has poor signal strength in a world obsessed with 5G. The village’s poverty seemed rich in comparison to the emotional bankruptcy of urban life.

One day, Ramlal fell ill. Off they went to a city hospital. The doctor peered over his specs and said, “Book an appointment online.” Ramlal coughed, “My body is sick, not my mobile!” The doctor chuckled, “Welcome to New India.” After struggling to get an appointment, a compounder whispered, “If you’ve got connections, treatment’s possible.” Ramlal asked, “Which connection? Electric? Water? Or political?” The doctor replied coolly, “Whichever one works.” The medicine was online, but the pain was very much offline. Treatment depended not on health but on hyperlinks. Ramlal realized that in Digital India, illness too had turned into a system crash.

As Ramlal’s condition worsened, his son, helpless, proposed, “Let’s go back to the village. Maybe peace still lives there.” But the village had transformed. Gone were the elderly gossiping at the chowk; everyone now sat hunched over screens. Ramlal’s eyes scanned for familiar faces, but all had become thumbnails. He whispered, “Son, return me the world where people called each other by name, not by usernames.” But the village had become an app, and relationships had logged out. Tradition had been replaced by touchscreens. Even the banyan tree, once a gathering place, now stood alone—its only company, a Jio tower humming above.

On his deathbed, Ramlal took one last breath and said, “Son, forgive me. I asked you to become digital but forgot to tell you to remain human.” The son wept, but not without multitasking—his fingers busy uploading a story: “RIP Dad.” Likes poured in. Comments too. But when it came to carrying the bier, no one showed up. In Digital India, Ramlal had finally become what most of us do—just another scrollable post, glanced at, liked, but never truly felt. His legacy? A few emojis, a blue tick, and an online condolence that never touched flesh. A life logged out, without ever really being logged in.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

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

1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
2. 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.
3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
5. Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.

Today we present his satire Galaxy Under FIR.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 48 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Galaxy Under FIR… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

A rare intergalactic bulletin flashed across the stars: “Urgent need for a skilled Earthly cop to train our galaxy’s police.” The Supreme Galactic Council, in its infinite lack of judgment, decided to summon Senior Police Inspector Arvind from India, the torchbearer of moral ambiguity. Arvind, seasoned in the subtle art of bending rules without breaking sweat, saw this invitation not as an honour, but a golden ticket to cosmic fame. “Why not teach the universe how real policing is done?” he thought. Packing his khaki pride and his procedural grey areas, he boarded the starlight cruiser and reached the Galactic HQ. There, in a chamber filled with officers of all species—tentacled, winged, and gelatinous—he began his grand sermon. His training? Not quite what the Council expected. Arvind began by meticulously explaining the sacred trinity of his earthly methods: how to tamper with FIRs without leaving a trace, how to ‘emotionally persuade’ witnesses into selective amnesia, and the poetic ballet of evidence manipulation. The cosmic cops were awestruck. “What a masterstroke of investigative innovation!” they cheered. Arvind was crowned “Guru Supreme of Galaxy Enforcement,” and the entire intergalactic force pledged themselves to his earthly gospel. Meanwhile, back on Earth, a quiet sigh escaped the department: “Well, at least the universe now shares our burden.”

As days turned into lightyears, Arvind’s doctrine spread like a cosmic wildfire. Crime rates began to rise, oddly in sync with the increasing efficiency of the Galactic Police. His logic was simple: the better you are at finding criminals, the more criminals you find—even if you have to invent a few along the way. Galactic citizens soon found themselves caught in a whirlwind of paranoia. Neighbours eyed each other with suspicion; friends exchanged greetings with polygraph tests; even houseplants were accused of conspiracy. Arvind had successfully introduced the galaxy to the fine art of ‘policing through presumption.’ Witnesses disappeared, not physically, but mentally. Evidence changed forms faster than a shapeshifting alien. The Galactic Police grew sharper, swifter, and eerily selective in their justice. Soon, even a sneeze in public became grounds for interrogation. “Pre-crime is the new normal,” declared one officer proudly, quoting Arvind’s interplanetary bestseller, ‘Suspicion: The Mother of All Justice’. The once-harmonious galaxy had morphed into a grand theatre of mistrust. Planetary leaders started whispering, “Are we making the galaxy safer, or just scarier?” But Arvind, basking in celestial praise, sipped his Martian tea, and said, “Progress comes at a price. Especially when the receipt is forged.”

The real brilliance of Arvind’s teachings lay in his ‘Triple Tampering Technique.’ First, manipulate the FIR. A simple theft could easily become a galactic conspiracy. Then, dismantle the witness. “Don’t argue with them,” Arvind advised. “Just confuse them with jargon until they doubt their own existence.” Finally, reconstruct the evidence—preferably in your favour. These were not just lessons; these were celestial commandments. The Galactic Police, once a by-the-book force of order, now resembled stage actors in a high-budget courtroom drama, complete with scripted confessions and choreographed raids. Meanwhile, the galaxy’s legal scholars were in a frenzy. “Do we defend the truth or the trend?” one lawyer asked, only to be arrested for ‘possessing a rational mind.’ Trials became entertainment, and judges became fans. “Your Honour, I object!” became “Your Honour, I adore!” Arvind’s techniques were immortalized in training modules, VR simulations, and even interplanetary musicals titled ‘Evidence? What Evidence?’ Slowly but surely, law enforcement was less about upholding justice and more about upholding reputation—and Arvind was the brand ambassador. His signature style? Catch first, prove later, and if you can’t prove it, just rearrange the facts until they confess. The universe applauded his efficiency, not realizing it was applauding its own slow descent into democratic delusion.

As Arvind’s influence grew, the side effects became visible across galaxies. Love turned into legal doubt. Family dinners included background checks. Weddings required affidavits of innocence from both parties. Even children were taught to report suspicious behaviour—especially if their sibling refused to share. The cosmic society began to rot under the polished surface of “Arvindian Order.” Trust—a quaint concept once cherished—became a liability. Entire planets adopted his policies, branding them “Zero Tolerance Protocols,” though some citizens whispered, “It’s just zero logic with full drama.” Surveillance drones hovered over every block, broadcasting updates like “Citizen #547 blinked suspiciously at 1400 hours.” The term ‘innocent until proven guilty’ was quietly retired, replaced by “guilty until Photoshop says otherwise.” Arvind, however, remained blissfully detached. “They’re just adapting,” he reasoned. “Some planets take longer to embrace efficient lawlessness.” Yet, the cosmic mood had shifted. Whispers turned into questions, questions into protests. But before dissent could gain momentum, it was swiftly labelled as ‘anti-police propaganda.’ After all, in Arvind’s universe, free speech was just a noise until proven innocent. The galaxy had become a living monument to satire—a place where law lived on paper, and justice lived on YouTube.

Eventually, even the Galactic Council couldn’t ignore the chaos. One of the moons filed an official complaint—yes, the moon itself—claiming “emotional trauma due to excessive suspicion in its orbit.” A star system sued its police department for “over-policing under the influence of Earthly madness.” Interplanetary journalists began writing scathing reviews titled ‘Law & Disorder: The Arvind Protocol’. The Council convened an emergency meeting. “He came, he taught, he corrupted,” declared one member. “He did what he was trained to do,” replied another, somewhat guiltily. And so, the verdict was passed: Arvind would be respectfully deported back to Earth. As news broke, the Galactic Police wept. Their guru, their mentor, the man who taught them how to play chess using checkers, was leaving. Arvind, however, was unmoved. He packed his cosmic medals, his slightly edited commendation letters, and boarded his return shuttle. Before he left, the Police surrounded him, desperate for a final speech, a signature lesson. He simply raised his hand and said, “I didn’t corrupt you. I merely revealed your potential.” Then, turning towards his spaceship, he whispered, “Justice may be blind, but I taught it how to squint.”

Back on Earth, Arvind landed with the subtlety of a political comeback. A red carpet awaited, not of celebration, but confusion. The department that sent him off with quiet relief now greeted him with a nervous smile. “So… how was the universe?” someone asked. “Messy, but manageable,” he smirked. His Galactic teachings didn’t go unnoticed. A few ambitious officers asked for his notes. A few cautious ones burned them. Meanwhile, the galaxy slowly began to detox. It wasn’t easy. Undoing a doctrine is harder than applying it. But somewhere between court reforms and cosmic counselling, planets began to rediscover trust. Yet, Arvind’s legacy lingered—like a perfume that wouldn’t wash off. His manuals became collector’s items. His quotes were used in satire columns. Schools debated his ethics. Comedians adored him. Politicians studied him. In the end, Arvind had not just trained the galaxy; he had held a mirror to it. A mirror that exaggerated, ridiculed, and, in doing so, revealed the absurd truth: that sometimes, the system isn’t broken—it’s just built like that. As Arvind sat in his office once again, sipping tea, he smiled at the sky. “Stars may be far, but their flaws? Just like ours.” And somewhere, light-years away, a suspicious moon blinked—just once.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

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

1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
2. 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.
3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
5. Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.

Today we present his satire Dance You Can’t, Blame the Floor’s Slant.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 47 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Dance You Can’t, Blame the Floor’s Slant… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

It was the fourth consecutive year that Master Ji was elected as the Chairman of the Local Development Committee—a man whose achievements could be summarized in three bullet points: once rang the school bell without being told, once refused to be a “murga” (punishment pose), and once mistook the drain cover for a chessboard. The whole neighborhood sang in chorus: “If you can’t dance, don’t blame the courtyard!” But Master Ji? He blamed everything but himself. “Potholes? That’s monsoon policy. Choked drains? Blame global warming. No water in the taps? Solar initiative!” In Master Ji’s dictionary, ‘logic’ came after ‘laziness’.

Master Ji’s talent lay in his gymnastics of blame. Like a trained magician, he pulled out excuses faster than one could say “sanitation drive.” Roads had more pits than a battlefield, but he proudly proclaimed, “We are promoting rainwater harvesting—naturally!” A kid once tripped in a gutter and called it “Ganga Snaan with flavor.” And the public? They were too tired of his slogans: “Digital Future!”—ironically printed on ration card paper. The best line? “Where IQ is low, foundation stones grow.”

No other leader could drag an entire community backwards like Master Ji. He announced: “Manual drain cleaning is back! Why? Because machines steal jobs!” Poor Sattu Bhaiya, the local snack seller, replied: “Bhai, if we must clean by hand, at least provide nose clips!” But Master Ji smiled like a Buddha statue and said, “This is real employment.” The punchline echoed: “When the job is shit and the hope is holy, revolution smells like bleach.”

One fine day, he proudly unfurled a new plan—“Digital Neighborhood.” It meant: “Send your complaints via WhatsApp. Solutions, we’ll imagine.” An old man stood up: “Beta, I don’t have a phone.” Master Ji snapped, “Exactly! That’s why I said—Go Digital!” The people’s eyes welled up. Their only water source—a tank built in 2007—still had no water. But the children made drums out of it. And Master Ji? “See! Cultural development is booming!” Punchline? “If your project gives rhythm, but not relief—it’s not development, it’s deception.”

Elections came again. And again, the committee re-elected Master Ji because “no one else wanted to ruin their peace.” The few who opposed had kids in his school—so, silence. The air reeked of old Gulab Jamuns and newer betrayals. A new plan was unveiled: “Dream Scheme”—symbolized by an old photocopy of a bus pass presented as a “blueprint.” Punchline of the year? “In the land of the blind, even a fake certificate is vision.”

Then came the “Smart Light” promise. Lights would be installed. Bulbs, you’d buy. Wiring? Your headache. Bill? Also yours. People asked: “So what will the government provide?” Master Ji replied with a grin: “Inspiration.” A boy laughed—till he fell in an unlit ditch. His leg broke. Master Ji declared: “It was a voluntary yoga pose. He wanted to connect to the grassroots.” The crowd gasped. Punchline? “When words are healing but deeds are hemorrhage, pain becomes tradition.”

The park, once used for morning walks, was now a ‘Yoga Kendra’ with banners screaming “Together for Master Ji!” Breathing exercises amidst stinking drains became symbolic. One youth dared to ask: “What have you even done?” Master Ji replied, “By doing nothing, we ensured no mistakes.” The punchline hurt: “When inaction becomes policy, history becomes obituary.” And yet, no one resisted. Resistance was taxed—emotionally.

Finally, an old lady, revered voter number one, whispered: “I may be half-blind now, but Master Ji’s face still shines the clearest—maybe because he’s always in the front row… with no one else daring to join.” The final farewell came when Master Ji “resigned” (read: retired hurt). No one cried. Except the walls, maybe, who bore his posters for too long. A final banner said: “If we don’t change now, history will rewrite us… in red ink.”

That old man who fell in the ditch? His 13th-day memorial was silent. No one brought flowers. Master Ji showed up, whispered, “I’m deeply sensitive.” A child muttered, “Then why did it feel like apathy dressed in empathy?” Last punchline, the hardest one: “They promised development; we got drama. Now we breathe, not air—but ache.”

And from that day on, in that neighborhood, whenever someone did something foolish, the elders would chuckle and say:

“Don’t grow up to be Master Ji, beta… even history won’t footnote you.”

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

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

1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
2. 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.
3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
5. Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.

Today we present his satire The Quest for Life’s Truth.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 46 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Quest for Life’s Truth… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

In a small town, there lived a person named Rohan. Rohan was a person who was on a quest to find the truth of life. He was searching everywhere, but he couldn’t find the truth of life. One day, he asked a pandit, “Pandit ji, what is the truth of life?” The pandit replied, “The truth of life is within you, you just need to find it.” Rohan said, “But Pandit ji, I am searching everywhere, still I couldn’t find the truth of life.” The pandit said, “You need to look within yourself to find the truth of life.” Rohan said, “But Pandit ji, I am not even able to understand myself, how can I find the truth of life?” The pandit said, “That’s the truth of life, understanding oneself.” Rohan said, “But Pandit ji, it’s very difficult.” The pandit said, “The truth of life is always difficult, but you need to find it.” Rohan said, “Okay Pandit ji, I will try to find the truth of life.” The pandit said, “That’s the truth of life, trying to find it.”

Rohan tried to find the truth of life, but he couldn’t find it. He tried to understand himself, but he couldn’t understand himself. He said, “If only I could understand myself, I would definitely find the truth of life.” But Rohan couldn’t find the truth of life. He said, “Maybe the truth of life will never be found.” Rohan’s eyes welled up with tears and he fainted crying. When he came to, he found himself in a hospital. The doctor said, “Your health is not good, you need to rest.” Rohan said, “But doctor sahib, I want to find the truth of life.” The doctor said, “The truth of life is within you, you just need to find it.” Rohan said, “But doctor sahib, I am not even able to understand myself.” The doctor said, “That’s the truth of life, understanding oneself.”

Rohan tried to find the truth of life, but he couldn’t find it. He said, “If only I could find the truth of life.” Rohan’s eyes welled up with tears and he fainted crying. When he came to, he found himself at home. His mother said, “Beta, you don’t need to find the truth of life, just understand yourself.” Rohan said, “But maa, I am not even able to understand myself.” His mother said, “Beta, to understand yourself, you need to look within yourself.” Rohan said, “But maa, I am scared to look within myself.” His mother said, “Beta, the truth of life is always difficult, but you need to find it.”

Rohan tried to find the truth of life, but he couldn’t find it. He said, “If only I could find the truth of life.” Rohan’s eyes welled up with tears and he fainted crying. When he came to, he found himself in a temple. The priest said, “Bhakt, you don’t need to find the truth of life, just understand yourself.” Rohan said, “But maharaj, I am not even able to understand myself.” The priest said, “Bhakt, to understand yourself, you need to look within yourself.” Rohan said, “But maharaj, I am scared to look within myself.” The priest said, “Bhakt, the truth of life is always difficult, but you need to find it.”

Rohan’s story made people cry. People said, “If only Rohan could find the truth of life of.” But Rohan couldn’t find the truth of life. Rohan said, “Maybe the truth of life will never be found.” Rohan’s eyes welled up with tears and he fainted crying. People consoled Rohan and said, “Don’t worry, Rohan will definitely find the truth of life.” But Rohan couldn’t find the truth of life.

Rohan’s story had a very sad ending. Rohan tried very hard to find the truth of life, but he couldn’t find it. Rohan said, “If only I could find the truth of life.” Rohan’s eyes welled up with tears and he fainted crying. People consoled Rohan and said, “Don’t worry, Rohan will definitely find the truth of life.” But Rohan couldn’t find the truth of life.

Rohan’s story taught people that finding the truth of life is very difficult. But people said, “Don’t worry, Rohan will definitely find the truth of life.” But Rohan couldn’t find the truth of life. Rohan’s story had a very sad ending and people said, “Rohan’s story taught us that finding the truth of life is very difficult.”

Rohan’s story came to an end. Rohan tried very hard to find the truth of life, but he couldn’t find it. Rohan’s eyes welled up with tears and he fainted crying. People consoled Rohan and said, “Don’t worry, Rohan will definitely find the truth of life.” But Rohan couldn’t find the truth of life. Rohan’s story had a very sad ending.

Meta AI response: The Quest for Life’s Truth Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratripta’ In a small town, there lived a person named Rohan. Rohan was a person who was on a quest to find the truth of life. He was searching everywhere, but he couldn’t find the truth of life. One day, he asked a pandit, “Pandit ji, what is the truth of life?” The pandit replied, “The truth of life is within you, you just need to find it.” Rohan said, “But Pandit ji, I am searching everywhere, still I couldn’t find the truth of life.” The pandit said, “You need to look within yourself to find the truth of life.” Rohan said, “But Pandit ji, I am not even able to understand myself, how can I find the truth of life?” The pandit said, “That’s the truth of life, understanding oneself.” Rohan said, “But Pandit ji, it’s very difficult.” The pandit said, “The truth of life is always difficult, but you need to find it.” Rohan said, “Okay Pandit ji, I will try to find the truth of life.” The pandit said, “That’s the truth of life, trying to find it.” Rohan tried to find the truth of life, but he couldn’t find it. He tried to understand himself, but he couldn’t understand himself. He said, “If only I could understand myself, I would definitely find the truth of life.” But Rohan couldn’t find the truth of life. He said, “Maybe the truth of life will never be found.” Rohan’s eyes welled up with tears and he fainted crying. When he came to, he found himself in a hospital. The doctor said, “Your health is not good, you need to rest.” Rohan said, “But doctor sahib, I want to find the truth of life.” The doctor said, “The truth of life is within you, you just need to find it.” Rohan said, “But doctor sahib, I am not even able to understand myself.” The doctor said, “That’s the truth of life, understanding oneself.” Rohan tried to find the truth of life, but he couldn’t find it. He said, “If only I could find the truth of life.” Rohan’s eyes welled up with tears and he fainted crying. When he came to, he found himself at home. His mother said, “Beta, you don’t need to find the truth of life, just understand yourself.” Rohan said, “But maa, I am not even able to understand myself.” His mother said, “Beta, to understand yourself, you need to look within yourself.” Rohan said, “But maa, I am scared to look within myself.” His mother said, “Beta, the truth of life is always difficult, but you need to find it.” Rohan tried to find the truth of life, but he couldn’t find it. He said, “If only I could find the truth of life.” Rohan’s eyes welled up with tears and he fainted crying. When he came to, he found himself in a temple. The priest said, “Bhakt, you don’t need to find the truth of life, just understand yourself.” Rohan said, “But maharaj, I am not even able to understand myself.” The priest said, “Bhakt, to understand yourself, you need to look within yourself.” Rohan said, “But maharaj, I am scared to look within myself.” The priest said, “Bhakt, the truth of life is always difficult, but you need to find it.” Rohan’s story made people cry. People said, “If only Rohan could find the truth of life of.” But Rohan couldn’t find the truth of life. Rohan said, “Maybe the truth of life will never be found.” Rohan’s eyes welled up with tears and he fainted crying. People consoled Rohan and said, “Don’t worry, Rohan will definitely find the truth of life.” But Rohan couldn’t find the truth of life. Rohan’s story had a very sad ending. Rohan tried very hard to find the truth of life, but he couldn’t find it. Rohan said, “If only I could find the truth of life.” Rohan’s eyes welled up with tears and he fainted crying. People consoled Rohan and said, “Don’t worry, Rohan will definitely find the truth of life.” But Rohan couldn’t find the truth of life. Rohan’s story taught people that finding the truth of life is very difficult. But people said, “Don’t worry, Rohan will definitely find the truth of life.” But Rohan couldn’t find the truth of life. Rohan’s story had a very sad ending and people said, “Rohan’s story taught us that finding the truth of life is very difficult.” Rohan’s story came to an end. Rohan tried very hard to find the truth of life, but he couldn’t find it. Rohan’s eyes welled up with tears and he fainted crying. People consoled Rohan and said, “Don’t worry, Rohan will definitely find the truth of life.”

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

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

1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
2. 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.
3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
5. Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.

Today we present his satire Tiny Rings, Big Weddings, Half a Garland Love.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 45 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Tiny Rings, Big Weddings, Half a Garland Love… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

That evening, there weren’t any clouds in the sky, but on the WhatsApp group of the neighborhood, an emotional monsoon was definitely pouring. The reason? A birthday party. But not just any party—this was the grand “Mini-Marriage Extravaganza” of Gupta ji’s granddaughter’s aunt’s sister-in-law’s daughter’s son. Yes, relationships in India are longer than wedding vows, and just as confusing.

On a tiny, glittering stage stood five-year-old Rahul and four-and-a-half-year-old Pinky—both with cheeks still stained from milk and cookie crumbs. One looked like a lost groom, the other like a soap opera heroine in miniature.

“Hold the flower!” commanded Pinky, her tone sharper than a reality show judge.

“No, not like that—gracefully! Like you mean it!”

The crowd laughed. Cameras clicked. And Sharma Aunty sobbed emotionally, whispering, “Today’s kids are so smart! Our daughter-in-law still doesn’t know what blouse fall is!”

This was no play. It was a national trailer—India’s future in two minutes and forty seconds, garnished with flowers and viral hashtags. When Rahul bent down to hand over the flower, clumsily copying the kneeling trope from Bollywood, the aunties clapped as though a new law had passed in Parliament—The Child Marriage (Cute Content) Act 2025.

As the garlands looped around tiny necks, nostalgia gripped the uncles.

“In our days, love arrived via postman,” mused Sharma ji, “Now it shows up in Instagram reels—with background music and slow motion!”

He sighed. A deep, worn-out sigh. The kind of sigh that said: “Even children are marrying now, and I’m still paying EMI for my second daughter-in-law’s bangles.”

If Parsai’s soul was lurking anywhere nearby, it would have been rolling in the aisle, chuckling at humanity’s need to commercialize even a child’s innocence. “I bet,” he’d whisper from beyond, “next time they’ll stage a cute divorce act—complete with tiny lawyers and an emotional breakup song.”

The party ended, but not the unease. As laddoos were served, a question quietly echoed: Are we turning our children into ‘content’ before they can even become children?

Garlands on one side, likes on the other… and in between—childhood, shrinking like that old frock your daughter once wore but can’t fit into anymore.

Earlier, girls used to marry dolls. Now they become dolls—for views and clout. And the boy? He simply does what he’s told—

“Hold the flower, beta!”

After the shoot, Rahul caught a cold, and Pinky went viral. Her mother proudly declared, “We should put her in acting school. She’s got that spark!”

Rahul’s father just stood silently. Then muttered, “He held the flower. Now I’ll bear the thorns forever.”

The satire met its most painful punch when Rahul’s little sister asked that night, “Papa, will I also get married tomorrow?”

And the mother, adjusting her sari and her sarcasm, replied, “Depends, sweetheart. If the video goes viral, then maybe. Start thinking of a hashtag—#LittleBrideBigHype.”

And so, a new ritual has emerged in our lanes and gallis: a corner at every party now has kids dressed up in wedding costumes, ready to ‘perform’ their innocence.

Parents hover with phones in hand, waiting to record the next viral gem, the next ‘adorable’ moment, the next “We are so blessed” caption.

This isn’t just satire. It’s a mirror we’d rather not look into. Everything is staged. Everyone’s a prop. And childhood? It’s just a clip—carefully curated, expertly edited, and widely forwarded.

Next time you come across a viral reel of two kids pretending to get married, don’t just hit ‘like’. Pause. Ask yourself—Is that smile really theirs, or just another rented emotion we forced them to wear for our entertainment?

And if you must cry—keep a tissue handy. You’re going to need it.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

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 stomach judged, the rulers budged!.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 44 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The stomach judged, the rulers budged!… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

Raghu’s entire life was spent in one queue or the other. First, the school queue. Then, the marriage queue. Then came the job queue. And now, in his twilight years, he was gloriously queued up for—hold your breath—ration! They say a man finally rests six feet under a line, but Raghu had managed to live in one, permanently. He’d wake up at 4 a.m. (bathing was optional), tie a half-hearted dhoti, and be in line before his wife could shout, “There’s no milk!” Milk? Raghu didn’t need milk. He needed wheat, rice, and a teaspoon of dignity. Ration queues, my friend, are the true melting pots of Indian democracy. Religion, caste, class—everything dissolves into one universal identity: “Please wait.” The government tone might as well be inspired by the ration shop’s eternal chorus.

“Last time I didn’t get salt,” Raghu mumbled. A cheeky teen behind him quipped, “Planning to make halwa this time, grandpa?” The shopkeeper, with the swagger of a TV anchor, stamped Raghu’s card and said, “You’ll get it when there’s leftovers. Move along, Baba!” It was the same every month—nothing left but leftover expectations. Ration has now become a seasonal blessing from the heavens, or more precisely, from the District Supply Office. Behind him, a girl shouted, “Give me rice, I feel like making daal today!” Raghu turned—she was around his granddaughter’s age but had a Smart Card. Raghu only had old memories and a fractured spine.

“Stay in line, old man!” The security guard’s voice had the softness of a hammer. Raghu stepped back. The words didn’t just strike his ears—they jabbed his soul. All his life he made sure his children stayed in line—school lines, fee lines, marriage bureaus. And today, here he was—an unregistered participant in the very line he had been loyal to. The women’s queue was longer, but their patience was even longer. “My bag’s torn!” a woman screamed. The shopkeeper chuckled, “Just like government promises—always bursting at the seams!”

Sweat ran down in streams. Raghu’s eyes leaked too—both victims of the merciless sun and merciless system. A kid asked innocently, “Grandpa, are you hungry?” Raghu smiled, “No, son. Hunger is no longer a feeling. It’s a habit now.” That was supposed to be a joke, but even the laughter trembled with weakness. When hunger becomes routine, a man doesn’t live—he simply performs the act of living.

Suddenly, a politician’s convoy zoomed past—AC cars like mobile glaciers in a desert. “Clear the way! The Hon’ble is coming!” the guard barked. Raghu’s face lit up, “Is he coming for ration too?” The crowd laughed—a hollow, stomach-growling laugh. Laughter in a ration line is a form of protest—it doesn’t lighten, it burns. Then came the cameras. Journalists took selfies with Raghu. “You look very inspirational, Dadaji!” one chirped. Raghu blinked—so hunger had now become an inspirational story!

He returned home with an empty bag and a full pocket—full of papers. One read: “Aadhaar not linked. Kindly visit the bank.” He showed it to his daughter-in-law. She sighed, “Leave it, Baba. We’ll just buy something from outside.” But Raghu knew—outside food comes with preservatives, not love. Home-made rotis, even without ghee, carried something else—dignity, belonging, soul.

The last time Raghu stood in the line, the guard said, “Why do you keep coming, Baba? You’re too old.” Raghu smiled, “The day I stop getting ration, son, I’ll stop breathing.” And so it happened. He collapsed in the line—without drama, without a scream. They brought water, but of course, there was no sugar in it. Just like his life—bitter, basic, and boiled down to survival.

Raghu left. Not just the queue, but the planet. Behind him, his torn cloth bag lay still. A perfect metaphor for every government scheme—too stretched, too fragile, and too empty. Bubbly, the girl from the back, was crying. The guard looked down. The shopkeeper, for the first time, didn’t crack a joke. And somewhere above, a final line was drawn—not on paper, but in memory. Ah… and the nation, still waiting in line, fell silent.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

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 Progressive Ox and the Modern Plow.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 43 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Progressive Ox and the Modern Plow… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

It was a lazy Sunday morning at the village square. Old Kaka, with his wrinkled wisdom and a perpetually lit pipe, sat under the giant banyan tree. His gaze was fixed on the horizon as he puffed out smoke circles that seemed to mock the monotony of life. The younger folks gathered around him—they had just returned from their city escapades and were brimming with stories of “modern solutions” and “startups.”

Kaka cleared his throat, “I hear progress is galloping ahead like a wild horse. But tell me, how do we hitch an ox to this modern plow?”

The youth laughed. “Kaka, oxen are outdated now. We’re talking drones for farming, AI for irrigation, and apps that tell you when the crops are thirsty!”

Kaka’s brows furrowed. “Ah, so we’ll teach the ox to download an app next? Or is progress about abandoning the ox and buying one that runs on batteries?”

The crowd chuckled, but Gopal, the self-proclaimed village intellectual, stepped forward. “Kaka, you’re missing the point! Progress is about replacing old methods with innovative technology. Think of it this way—farming 2.0!”

Kaka took a deep drag from his pipe and exhaled with a smile. “So, we make farming so expensive that a farmer has to sell his land to afford the progress? Progress has become a race where the ox is left behind, and the farmer is left chasing loans.”

“But Kaka,” Gopal retorted, “Technology is the future. The villagers must adapt or perish. It’s survival of the smartest!”

Kaka chuckled softly. “Yes, but remember, Gopal, even the smartest fox cannot grow crops. Progress that leaves the ox, the plow, and the farmer behind is just a balloon—beautiful to look at, but bursts at the first prick of reality.”

The conversation spiraled from drones to digital wallets, as the youth defended their newfound faith in technology. Kaka listened patiently, occasionally nodding, as his pipe smoke seemed to form questions they couldn’t answer.

Finally, he stood up, tapped his pipe against the tree trunk, and declared, “True progress is when the ox and the plow walk hand in hand with technology—not when one is sacrificed at the altar of the other.”

The village square erupted in laughter and applause, not because they fully agreed with Kaka, but because they saw in his words the humor and irony of their reality. And as he walked away, one of the youths whispered, “Maybe the old man isn’t so outdated after all.”

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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com

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 Great Deceiver Maya, Our Mistress.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 42 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Great Deceiver Maya, Our Mistress… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

So, dear friends, the story begins on that fateful day when the greatest con artist of all—the human mind—decided to play its grandest trick on me. I woke up in the morning, rubbing my eyes, thinking, “Today, I’ll do something big, something that’ll go down in history!” But history? I couldn’t even cross my doorstep before Maya threw her first punch. “Beta, make some tea!” came my mother’s voice. Now, making tea isn’t exactly a grand feat, but Maya wove such a web around it that it wasn’t just tea—it squeezed the life out of me. No sugar, curdled milk, empty gas cylinder—and there I was, standing on the street with a pot in hand, singing like an unemployed poet, “Oh life, what have you given me?” Maya laughed, “This is just the trailer, the movie’s yet to come!” And trust me, the movie was so intense that even Shah Rukh’s films would pale in comparison. The shopkeeper said, “Cylinder will come tomorrow, cook on a stove today.” A stove? Is this 2025 or 1825? But behold Maya’s game—she turned me into a poet even while I hauled wood: “Life’s a stove, all smoke, no glow.” Neighbors laughed, “You’re quite the craftsman!” There was pain in that laughter, but who sees the tears in my eyes? Maya whispered, “Don’t cry, the day’s just begun.” And I, the fool, believed her and stepped out to embrace the day. Embrace? More like I got choked. 

The sun rose higher, and I thought, let’s hunt for a job. I grabbed my resume, polished my shoes, and set off—“There are more destinations to conquer!” But Maya had already written the script. I boarded the bus, reached for my pocket—my wallet was gone. The driver barked, “Ticket or get off!” I pleaded, “Brother, adjust a little, I’m jobless.” He laughed, “Then this isn’t a bus, it’s a train straight to Footpath Station!” The crowd clapped, and I stepped off—not as a hero, but as a villain. Standing on the road, I wondered, “Is this Maya or my fate mocking me?” Just then, a beggar approached, “Sir, spare two rupees.” I said, “Brother, I’m a beggar myself, you give me some.” He laughed, “You’re worse off than me!” Maya cackled, “See, I’ve made you the king of the streets!” King? Yes, without a crown, without a kingdom. My shoes were worn out, my stomach growled, and Maya shouted, “The interview’s still left!” Interview? That became a distant dream because by the time I reached the office, it was night. 

Evening fell, and I thought, let’s meet some friends—maybe my heart will feel lighter. But Maya outdid herself here too. My friend said, “Good you came, I’m broke, lend me some money.” I replied, “Brother, my pocket’s full of air—and that’s polluted too!” He said, “No worries, sit, I’ll get tea.” Tea arrived, I started sipping, and the dhaba owner yelled, “Who’s paying?” My friend vanished, and I was trapped. The owner said, “Wash the dishes, then leave.” Now witness Maya’s magic—my day began making tea, and ended washing dishes. Hands covered in soap, eyes brimming with tears, and a single question in my mind—“Is this life or a punishment?” Maya placed her hand on my shoulder, “Not punishment, my art.” Art? This isn’t art, it’s cruelty! But who can reason with Maya? She just kept laughing, and I, like an empty vessel, kept sobbing. My friend called later, “Sorry, I was joking.” Joking? My life’s become a joke, and Maya’s sitting in the director’s chair, clapping away. 

Night arrived, and I returned home. Mom said, “Where were you? The food’s cold.” I replied, “Mom, I’ve gone cold from life itself.” I ate, but where was the taste? Maya had stolen that too. I tried to sleep, but Maya had kidnapped my sleep. Lying in the dark, I wondered, “What did I do wrong?” Maya answered, “Wrong? You were born—that’s your mistake!” And then her laughter echoed—ha ha ha! I buried my face in the pillow, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Outside, a dog was barking—perhaps another victim of Maya. “Brother, are you crying too?” I asked. The dog fell silent, maybe Maya scolded him too. I survived the night, morning came, and Maya was ready again—“New day, new drama!” I pleaded, “Enough, Maya! I can’t take it anymore.” But she said, “You’ll have to, because I’m Maya, the Great Deceiver!” And I, like a puppet, got entangled in her game again. 

Morning followed the same routine. I made tea, but this time Maya added a new twist—she swapped the sugar with salt. Mom shouted, “What is this?” I said, “Mom, this is the taste of my life—salty tears!” She snapped, “Stop the nonsense, go get milk.” I went, but the shopkeeper said, “Money first, milk later.” Empty pockets, teary eyes. I returned, and Mom taunted, “You’ll always be useless.” Useless? Yes, Maya had made me the emperor of the useless. The day progressed, and the phone rang. The electricity guy said, “Pay the bill, or we’ll cut the power.” I said, “Brother, my life’s already cut off, what’s electricity?” He laughed, “Then cry in the dark!” Darkness? It’s become my friend. Maya said, “See, I’ve shown you every shade—black, white, salty!” And I, without electricity, sat with a candle, talking to my shadow—“You’re better than me, at least Maya doesn’t toy with you.” 

Noon arrived, and a neighbor came by, “I hear crying from your house.” I said, “Brother, that’s my life, clinging to me and weeping.” He asked, “Some girl trouble?” I laughed, “Yes, a girl named Maya!” He didn’t understand and left. Then the postman arrived with a letter. I opened it—a job rejection: “You’re unfit.” Unfit? Maya taunted, “See, you’re unfit even for my game!” I tore the letter and screamed, “Maya, you’ve won!” But she said, “Won? The real fun of defeat is yet to come.” That evening, the power was cut. Sitting in the dark, I wondered, “What’s left?” Then water dripped from the ceiling—rain had started. Maya laughed, “I’ve summoned your tears from the sky!” I got drenched, and Maya danced. 

The night deepened, and I had a dream. Maya stood before me, saying, “You think I’m cruel? I’m your teacher.” I asked, “What have you taught me? To cry?” She said, “No, to endure!” Endure? Yes, Maya had turned me into an endurance machine. I woke up, my pillow soaked. The rain had stopped outside, but the storm inside me raged on. Mom said, “Get up, do something.” I replied, “Mom, what can a man defeated by Maya do?” She stayed silent—perhaps she sensed Maya’s presence. The day began, but for me, every day was the same—Maya’s game, Maya’s trap. I looked at the sky, “Oh Maya, you’ve taken everything, what’s left?” She said, “Your tears are left—I’ll squeeze those too!” And she did, while I kept crying. 

In the end, I was sitting on the street. A child approached, “Uncle, why are you crying?” I said, “Son, what else can a man defeated by Maya do?” He asked, “Who’s Maya?” I laughed, “The guest who’ll soon visit your life!” The child left, and I sat there. Maya came to me, “Game over, now go.” I asked, “Where?” She said, “Back where you came from.” I thought, maybe it’s time to die. But Maya threw her final punch, “I won’t even let you die—keep living!” And I, like a living corpse, lay on the street. The crowd watched—some laughed, some cried. But Maya? She moved on, hunting for her next prey. My tears dried, but a sigh escaped my heart—“Oh Maya, you’ll always be the Great Deceiver!” And reader, if you’re crying too, know this—Maya has already arrived at your doorstep.

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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com