English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 42 – The Great Deceiver Maya, Our Mistress ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 41 – The Universal Truth ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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 Universal Truth 

☆ Witful Warmth# 41 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Universal Truth… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

It is a truth universally acknowledged (though seldom admitted by those who ought to know it), that in our modern metropolis—in which industrial mechanizations, fraudulent schemes, and the ever-expanding folly of commerce preoccupy the hours of both the diligent and the idle—the art of common sense has been, by degrees, effaced by the artful incompetence of modern industry. In this spirit, I now present to you a tale—half mirthful, half mournful—a chronicle of the curious misadventures of Mr. Bartholomew Gudgeon and his motley assembly of compatriots, who in their blind pursuit of profit, have rendered themselves as veritable marionettes to the inane puppetry of economic absurdity.

Mr. Gudgeon, a man of no small ambition and even less common sense, had risen from the squalid bowels of the lower quarters to preside, however insignificantly, over an establishment known simply as “Gudgeon & Sons, Importers of All That Glitters.” This establishment, rather than being a beacon of integrity and industrious labour, had become a veritable repository of every modern contrivance that promised to convert common superstition into extraordinary profit. Gudgeon’s offices, festooned with gaudy advertisements extolling “The Miracle of Modern Mechanisms,” bore witness to the grand delusion that all problems might, indeed, be solved by mere acronyms and flashy slogans. “Efficiency”—that once noble ideal of honest labour—is now a word bandied about by corpulent managers in carbuncles of greed, each one eager to see society reduced to a series of figures balanced in monstrous ledgers. And so it came to pass that Mr. Gudgeon, amidst a veritable circus of accounting fiascoes and misappropriated funds, set forth a series of “innovative” directives, which, while promising to cut expenditures and inflate profits, only served to exacerbate the endemic foolishness that had long infested his establishment.

In the bustling thoroughfares beyond the precincts of Gudgeon’s offices, one might observe the common folk scuffling about in an array of colourful garments and broken dreams, all the while subjected to the whims of a modern aristocracy whose passion for waste often knew no bounds. Mrs. Prudence Tickler, a matron of some repute among the local trade unions, once declared, in a tone as mournful as it was melodious, “The world is a stage where folly and greed are worn as badges of honour, while the blood and sweat of good men are used to grease the wheels of avarice.” Her words, though steeped in despair, carried with them an undercurrent of hope—that human decency might yet triumph over the impersonal tyranny of profit and procedure. Alas, such sentiments fell upon ears as deaf as those of the proverbial mariner, who, lost amid the cacophony of modern ventures, would not pause to consider the lamentations of his fellow travellers.

Meanwhile, in the somber parlours of civic administration, a cadre of officials—more concerned with the latest fashions in bureaucratic jargon than with the corporeal well-being of their constituents—laboured under the illusion that life’s complexities could be distilled into neat sections and subsections of policy. It is a truth, indeed, that the pen is mightier than the sword; yet in these modern times, the pen appears oft to be wielded by those who have never seen the sharp edge of human hardship. A memo issued one fateful morning proclaimed, with all the gravity of a schoolmaster’s reprimand, that henceforth all public complaints were to be reduced to strictly formatted inquiries, to be answered with the precision of a clock’s tick and the mercy of a ledger’s arithmetic. This, dear reader, was not the tongue of compassion nor the voice of understanding—it was the cold, unyielding sound of mechanized jargon, designed to stifle the heartbeat of a nation in distress.

Yet among the throng of such recondite administrators, there existed an oddity—a mild, almost comical figure, by the name of Mr. Chesterfield Pumblechook. Mr. Pumblechook, though neither stout nor particularly resplendent, possessed a curious talent for navigating the labyrinthine corridors of government offices with a jaunty air of misplaced confidence. With his threadbare waistcoat and spectacles perpetually askew, he laboured under the delusion that every bureaucratic form was but an unwritten love letter to reason, and every stamped document a token of his own importance. “By Jove,” he would exclaim amidst piles of unsorted files, “if this is not the apex of administrative genius, then I am a lowly clerk in the realm of ignorance!” His proclamations, laced with the irony of fate and a wit as dry as the arid plains of misfortune, were received with a blend of amusement and pity by those who understood that very few possessed the subtle grace to laugh at one’s own absurdity.

In the marketplace of ideas—a marketplace as corrupted by the stain of greed as any bazaar of trifles—there stirred a movement, nascent yet resolute, composed of thinkers, writers, and reformers who dared to challenge the prevailing superstitions of progress. They gathered in dimly lit taverns, under the flickering light of gas lamps, to debate with fervour the impending collapse of a society governed not by wisdom but by the sterile pursuit of fiscal advantage. “The spirit of man is not for sale,” they declaimed, with a passion that stirred the soul even as it mocked the inanity of those who would have it otherwise. Yet their voices, though potent in their candour, were drowned out by the roar of machines and the clangor of coin, for the modern era had, in its relentless march toward mechanized desolation, forgotten the warmth of a genuine human heart.

Thus, in the great theater of modern existence, where each act is scripted by the architects of commerce and every scene orchestrated by those who profit from our folly, we are left to ponder the true cost of progress. It is a cost measured not merely in pennies or pounds, but in the lost hours of youthful exuberance, in the shriveled dreams of those once luminous with hope, and in the silent laments of a people made to feel insignificant amid the towering edifices of ambition. For what is progress but a fevered dream, a grand illusion that dances on the edge of despair? And what, dear friends, is the role of the individual but to bear witness to this tragic comedy and perhaps, if fortune favours, to inject a measure of sanity into the ceaseless machinery of avarice?

In the final analysis, it behooves us to remain vigilant against the encroachment of unthinking conformity and the cold tyranny of the profit motive. Let us raise our voices, however faintly, against the tidal wave of absurdity that threatens to wash away the delicate filigree of human decency. For in every petty misadventure and every bureaucratic blunder lies a lesson—a reminder, perhaps, that while the gears of industry might grind on relentlessly, the human spirit, with all its quirks and contradictions, remains the true engine of our existence. And so, in the spirit of resolve and reflection, let us not forget that the parody of our modern age, though wrapped in the garb of progress, is, in truth, a lamentable spectacle of self-inflicted imbecility.

May the echo of our protests be as enduring as the clamor of the mills, and may we, with courage and wit, continue to challenge the follies of our time. Thus, I leave you with this thought: if our era is to be judged by the measure of its contradictions, let us at least choose to pen our destiny with the quill of conscience rather than the blunt instrument of greed.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 40 – The Accidental Death of Honesty, Hope, and Hunger☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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 Accidental Death of Honesty, Hope, and Hunger 

☆ Witful Warmth# 40 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Accidental Death of Honesty, Hope, and Hunger… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

It was an ordinary day in the Republic of Promises, where potholes were deeper than policies, and citizens were mere statistics waiting to be updated. At a deserted bus stop in a remote village—where election banners arrived more frequently than electricity—three coffins lay silently. Inside them rested an old farmer, a young graduate, and an honest officer. Their deaths were accidents, of course. The farmer accidentally mistook a rope for a government loan, the graduate mistakenly believed in merit, and the officer, well, he simply forgot that honesty was an outdated currency.

The villagers watched with silent reverence, for these three had achieved something extraordinary—they had managed to make the system notice them, albeit as corpses.

Ramprasad, the farmer, had a legacy of debt that grew faster than his crops. Every election season, a man in a white kurta would arrive, promising “Farmer Welfare” with one hand while holding a bank foreclosure notice in the other. One day, exhausted from running in circles between government offices, he decided to apply for a farming assistance scheme. The clerk smiled, took a bribe, and rejected his application in the same breath. That evening, Ramprasad found an easier government scheme—hanging from a tree. His suicide note was the only paper the authorities ever approved. It read: “I have cleared my debt. Will you?”

The next morning, politicians arrived for a quick photo session. They announced an investigation, formed a committee, and drove off in their air-conditioned cars. The village remained unchanged—thirsty, bankrupt, and ready to produce another Ramprasad for the next election cycle.

A few miles away, Abhishek, a young man with more degrees than his father’s entire generation, had spent years chasing a government job that the minister’s nephew secured in a single afternoon. He had memorized every motivational quote about perseverance but found no chapter on how to survive without a salary. Every time a job vacancy was announced, a convenient court case postponed the recruitment indefinitely. His father, once proud of his son’s education, now suggested, “Son, why don’t you start a small shop?”

But Abhishek was stubborn. He had sworn to serve his country, unaware that in this country, dreams belonged only to those who could afford them. His lifeless body was found near the railway tracks, clutching an old newspaper with the headline: “India’s Youth: The Future of the Nation!” The irony was poetic—the future had just thrown itself in front of a speeding train.

Meanwhile, Shivnath, an engineer who foolishly believed in the power of honesty, made the mistake of exposing corruption. His colleagues warned him, “Don’t fight the system. It’s older than you.” But Shivnath was honest, which, in his profession, was more dangerous than being a criminal. When he refused to approve a fraudulent contract, he unknowingly signed his own death certificate.

A few weeks later, he met with a “tragic accident”—his motorcycle mysteriously lost control on a dry, empty road. The police called it “death due to reckless driving,” the newspapers labeled it “an unfortunate incident,” and the system wrote him off as just another man who didn’t understand how things worked. His wife pleaded for justice, his son knocked on every door, but all they got was “We are investigating.” Investigation, after all, was just another word for waiting until people forgot.

Back at the bus stop, life continued around the coffins. The tea vendor poured another cup of tea, the shopkeeper discussed cricket, and a politician’s convoy sped past, not even slowing down. A journalist arrived but left quickly—there was bigger news in town. A celebrity had just bought a pet dog worth ₹5 lakh.

As the sun set, the villagers whispered, “Who’s next?”

No one knew the answer, but they all understood the game.

The system did not kill people. It simply created the circumstances for them to die.

And so, the nation moved forward, marching proudly toward progress—stepping over the graves of honesty, hope, and hunger.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 39 – The Grand Plans of the Great Officer ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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 Grand Plans of the Great Officer 

☆ Witful Warmth# 39 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Grand Plans of the Great Officer… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

The great officer issued a decree—”The city must be clean, beautiful, and smart!” Orders spread from top to bottom, like a sudden high-voltage current in an old wire. Officials held meetings, tea and snacks were served, and it was decided that the first battle would be against filth. Posters were plastered all over town—”Clean City, Healthy City!” The public asked, “Who’s going to pick up the garbage?” The officials smiled—”The public, of course! We need everyone’s cooperation!” A gathering was held at the neighborhood square, where an elderly gentleman suggested, “Maybe start by installing dustbins?” The officials nodded—”The budget hasn’t been approved yet, but if the public becomes aware, what could be better!” The next day, newspapers screamed—”The city embraces cleanliness, citizens rejoice!” In reality, the streets were the same, the garbage was the same, only the newspaper headlines had changed—now flying around as litter. 

The trumpet of the Smart City project was sounded. The great officer declared—”Now both the city and its people will become smart!” The citizens beamed—”Wow! Our children will study in smart classrooms instead of just being glued to smartphones!” Some curious minds asked, “Sir, when will these smart classrooms be ready?” The officer replied, “First, we’ll widen the roads, install traffic lights, put up CCTV cameras… then we’ll talk about education!” The next day, trees along the roadsides were mercilessly chopped down—”Greenery out, development in!” Another newspaper headline boasted—”Winds of progress sweep through the city, people delighted!” But the dust storm of this progress was so thick that no one could see where development was actually heading. 

A stampede of contractors rushed to the municipal office—”Give us a chance to serve too!” Contracts were handed out—some for installing fountains, some for replacing park benches, others for repainting old streetlight poles. The public asked, “Wasn’t a fountain installed here just last year? Why replace it?” The officials grinned—”That was an old model. Now, we have new technology!” The public argued, “But the old one didn’t have water either!” A contractor clarified, “That was because there was no water in the tank. This time, we’ll make sure there’s water too!” The public suggested, “Then why not build the water tank first?” The officials sighed, “The budget hasn’t been approved yet, but if the public becomes aware, what could be better!” 

The great officer then turned his benevolent gaze toward the city’s hospitals. “Health is wealth! We will now provide facilities in government hospitals equivalent to private ones!” The next day, a massive banner appeared at the hospital entrance—”MRI, CT scans, heart surgeries—everything available here!” The sick rushed in, only to find… no doctors! The nurse shrugged, “Doctor sir is in a meeting. Come tomorrow.” The next day, doctors were present, but the machines were missing. Complaints reached the great officer, who responded wisely—”Go to a private hospital, bring us the bill, and we’ll reimburse you!” A patient hesitated, “And if we die?” The officer smiled—”Then you won’t have to worry about reimbursement!” 

Digital transformation was the next grand mission—”The city will go digital!” People cheered—”Now even government offices will go paperless!” The clerks chuckled—”Oh no! The files will remain the same, but the advertisements are now digital!” The great officer announced another groundbreaking initiative—”Government offices will now have five-star facilities!” The public gasped—”Wow! Now work will be done faster!” Offices got central AC, new leather sofas, coffee machines. The public thought—”Finally! No more begging the peon for a cup of tea!” But when they visited for actual work, the response was—”The system is down, but would you like some coffee?” 

Plans were laid out to renovate city parks. “Each park will have an open gym, fountains, and shiny new benches!” The next week, a grand inauguration board was placed—”City’s first open gym, now operational!” But within a day, all the gym equipment mysteriously vanished. The public asked, “Where did the gym go?” The officials responded, “Someone took it overnight!” The citizens sighed, “Why didn’t you assign a security guard?” The officer sighed too—”The budget hasn’t been approved yet, but if the public becomes aware, what could be better!” 

Another master plan was launched for cleanliness—”Every ward will have dustbins, and every alley will have sanitation workers!” The next day, brand-new dustbins appeared across town. People felt relieved—”Finally, no more littering!” But within two days, the dustbins themselves disappeared. The officials explained, “Someone stole them! But don’t worry, next time, we’ll install iron ones!” The public rolled their eyes, “Then why didn’t you install iron ones in the first place?” The great officer smirked—”Development happens in phases. Everything can’t be done at once!” 

Then, one fine day, the great officer was transferred. A grand farewell was arranged. Officials delivered poetic tributes—”He has taken this city to new heights!” The public stood silently, wondering—”Whose heights were actually raised? The city’s or the officer’s?” But the speech continued—”His vision has secured the city’s bright future!” The public nodded—”Yes, indeed! The future looks bright… because the present is completely dark!” 

A new officer arrived. In his first meeting, he declared—”The city must be clean, beautiful, and smart!” The public smirked—”Ah, here we go again!”

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 38 – The Grand Gala of Honors and the Spectacle of Jugaad ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 37 – The Trials of Truth: A Modern-Day Journalism ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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 Trials of Truth: A Modern-Day Journalism… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

King Vikram hoisted the ever-mischievous Vetala onto his shoulders, bracing himself for another riddle-filled ordeal. No sooner had he begun walking than Vetala cackled, “O King! Let me tell you a tale from the grand halls of modern journalism. But beware! If you fail to answer my question at the end, your head shall shatter into a thousand pieces!”

Vikram, ever the unwavering monarch, sighed and replied, “Speak, Vetala. I shall answer.”

Thus began the tale.

In the capital city, a most esteemed and influential news channel, “The Nation’s Conscience,” declared that it required a fresh news anchor—one worthy of the sacred duty of informing the masses. The selection process was veiled in secrecy, as only the shrewdest, most astute, and cunning minds would prevail. But, as in all great institutions, true merit lay in something far deeper.

Three hopeful candidates presented themselves: Raghav, Suresh, and Mohan. Each was competent, but the question remained—were they the right kind of competent? Their fate rested in the hands of the channel’s supreme editor-in-chief, the venerable Bhaktibhushan Acharya.

With an air of divine authority, Acharya gazed at the three and posed his first question: “What is truth?”

Raghav, a firm believer in the antiquated values of journalism, answered boldly, “Truth is impartial. It is that which serves the people and upholds justice.”

Acharya’s brow furrowed with displeasure. “Nonsense! Impartial journalism? There is no such thing! You, sir, have failed.”

Raghav, his ideals still intact but his career aspirations crumbling, departed in dejection.

Acharya turned to Suresh. “And what do you say?”

Suresh, a man of pragmatic intelligence, replied, “Truth is whatever is repeated often enough to be accepted as truth.”

Acharya’s lips curled into a smile. “A fine thought! But not yet sublime. You must go deeper.”

Now came Mohan’s turn. With a smug confidence, he declared, “Truth is whatever the ruling power decrees it to be.”

Acharya leapt up in sheer delight. “Ah! Now here is a man who understands the nature of reality! You are on the path to becoming a journalist of true distinction.”

The second trial began. Acharya presented them with a challenge—a simulated debate. The topic: Inflation does not exist; it is merely a rumor.

Raghav, ever the fool for facts, cited statistics and government reports, attempting to prove that inflation was indeed a grim reality.

Acharya’s expression darkened. “Why is your voice so feeble? A news anchor must dominate the airwaves! Guests may speak, but their words should be mere interruptions to your thunder! You are unfit for this noble profession. Begone!”

Suresh, taking heed of Raghav’s mistake, spoke louder, cut off his imaginary guests, and filled the space with his own voice. Yet, Acharya was unsatisfied.

Then came Mohan. His strategy was elegant in its simplicity: he bellowed at the top of his lungs, repeating only one phrase—“Do not betray the nation! Speak against the government, and you are an enemy of the people!”

Acharya clapped his hands in glee. “Marvelous! A true newsman in the making!”

Now, the final and gravest test awaited. Acharya turned to them and said, “Imagine you are in possession of a video—one that exposes a powerful minister embroiled in corruption. What would you do?”

Raghav, the hapless idealist, responded, “I would broadcast the truth for the people to see.”

Acharya groaned in agony, clutching his head as if in pain. “Oh, you misguided soul! If you wished to speak truth, you should have become a monk, not a journalist! Leave at once!”

Suresh, having learned the game, answered with careful calculation, “I would edit the video to soften the blow, ensuring that it does not cause unnecessary trouble.”

Acharya nodded approvingly. “A step in the right direction, but still not bold enough.”

Mohan, beaming with triumph, proclaimed, “I would erase the video entirely and, in its place, release a new one that frames the opposition as the true culprits.”

Tears of joy welled in Acharya’s eyes. “Magnificent! You have mastered the art of modern journalism! You are now officially our news anchor.”

Vetala cackled with delight. “So, O King! What lesson does this tale teach us?”

Vikram, ever steadfast, answered solemnly, “This tale reveals that in the world of modern journalism, truth and objectivity have become relics of the past. Success is no longer measured by integrity but by one’s ability to amplify the voice of power, twist reality to suit convenience, and drown out reason with sheer volume.”

No sooner had he spoken than Vetala shrieked with laughter and flew back to his perch on the ancient tree. “Ah, Vikram! You have answered yet again! And so, the game continues.”

Vikram sighed, tightened his grip on his sword, and strode forward once more, determined as ever to capture the cunning spirit.

And thus, the cycle of truth and deception marched on, as eternal as time itself.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 36 – The Plunder of Power, The Death of Truth, The Wound of Democracy! ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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 Plunder of Power, The Death of Truth, The Wound of Democracy!  

☆ Witful Warmth# 36 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Plunder of Power, The Death of Truth, The Wound of Democracy!… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

The village was in a terrible state. No, no, don’t misunderstand—it wasn’t famine, farmers weren’t hanging themselves from banyan trees, unemployment wasn’t at its peak, and children weren’t dying of malnutrition. Nothing of the sort. In fact, the village was “developing!” And by development, I mean that every street was adorned with election posters, every corner was occupied by leaders yelling about progress until their throats went dry, and every wall had freshly painted slogans—“Development for All!”

Two candidates were in the race for the position of Village Head—Chaudhary Ramlal and Thakur Baldev. The villagers knew their “illustrious” pasts all too well. Last time, Ramlal had won the elections and then vanished like morning mist, reappearing only five years later to remind the village that he still existed. During his campaign, he had installed streetlights across the village. The moment the election was over, those lights flickered out, just like his promises.

Thakur Baldev, on the other hand, had an even grander vision. His only agenda was, “I’ll turn this village into a city!” He never mentioned the lack of schools, hospitals, clean water, or roads. But he did promise one thing—a liquor shop of premium quality.

The day of the elections arrived. The “sovereign” people walked towards the polling booths, their choices well-secured in their pockets. Some received a bottle of whiskey, others a saree, and the more privileged ones had a crisp 500-rupee note folded into their palms. The elders were made to swear on their ancestors that they would vote for the right candidate—for the “future” of the village.

The votes were cast, the counting began, and in the grand tradition of democracy, the one who could pull off the biggest fraud won. Thakur Baldev was declared the new Village Head.

Celebrations erupted in the village. Crackers exploded, drums thundered, and sweets were distributed. Thakur Baldev, reveling in his victory, roared, “Now, I’ll transform this village into a city!” The crowd cheered, clapped, and then returned to their crumbling homes. By the next morning, the village was back to its original state—broken roads, dry handpumps, locked schools, an abandoned hospital—but discussions on development were at an all-time high.

Within the first week, new government schemes were announced. Ten lakh rupees were sanctioned for the renovation of the Panchayat office, but somehow, the building deteriorated even further. A digital board was installed in the school, though there was no teacher to use it. Funds were allocated to repair the village drains, but the money mysteriously found its way into the Village Head’s personal treasury. The wheel of progress spun so fast that the people couldn’t keep up with it.

Some innocent villagers dared to ask questions. They were quickly told, “You wouldn’t understand. This is democracy!”

A few educated youths tried to hold the Village Head accountable. Thakur Baldev greeted them with a fatherly smile and said, “Everything I do is for your benefit!” By the next morning, those inquisitive young men found themselves politely escorted to the Panchayat office, where they were given a lesson in village politics—questioning too much was hazardous to one’s health.

Five years passed in the blink of an eye. The wheel of development kept spinning, yet the village remained exactly where it was. Then, election season arrived once more. The air was filled with new slogans, fresh promises, and the same old faces with slightly different lies. A new candidate entered the race, announcing, “I’ll turn this village into a city!” The villagers clapped yet again.

Perhaps you’ll read this and laugh. Perhaps you’ll shake your head and chuckle at the absurdity of it all. But if you truly absorb it, you might just feel a lump in your throat. Because this isn’t just the story of one village—it’s the story of an entire nation. It’s the tale of truths we conveniently forget amidst the election festivities. It’s the saga of wounds inflicted upon the people by democracy itself. And above all, it’s the chronicle of those seats of power where truth is executed every five years.

And yes, the development is still ongoing.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Articles ☆ Meditate Like The Buddha #5: Cultivate Loving kindness ☆ Mr. Jagat Singh Bisht ☆

Shri Jagat Singh Bisht

(Master Teacher: Happiness & Well-Being, Laughter Yoga Master Trainer, Author, Blogger, Educator, and Speaker.)

Meditate Like The Buddha #5: Cultivate Loving Kindness ☆ Mr. Jagat Singh Bisht ☆

Lesson 4

Cultivate Loving Kindness

You have learned and practised sitting in a stable posture for meditation, watching your breath, and experiencing and relaxing your body as you breathe in and out. Once your body is relaxed and your mind calm, the next step is to devote time to cultivating feelings of loving kindness and compassion for all living beings.

Towards the end of your meditation, set aside five to ten minutes to wish happiness and peace for everyone. Make this an integral part of your daily practice before rising from meditation.

Understanding Loving Kindness

Loving kindness is the heartfelt desire for the welfare and happiness of all beings. The practice of loving kindness meditation, known as metta bhavana, nurtures feelings of friendliness, goodwill, and non-violence in your heart, while dispelling anger, hatred, and negativity.

With a pure heart, free from ill-will and hatred, recite these wishes:

  • “May all creatures, all living things, all beings one and all, experience good fortune only. May they not fall into harm.”

Cultivate goodwill and friendliness towards all beings, whether big or small, strong or weak—birds, animals, insects, and human beings alike. Pray for the welfare of all:

  • May all be happy, be peaceful, be liberated.
  • Let there be no pain, misery, or suffering in the universe.
  • May all be free from disease.

The Transformative Power of Loving Kindness

As you develop feelings of love, kindness, altruism, and compassion, negative emotions like hatred, animosity, and ill-will gradually fade. Your heart fills with warmth and generosity. This practice fosters peace and tranquillity within and creates positive energy around you.

Make loving kindness a regular feature of your meditation routine. When you wish others well, you cultivate serenity in your own mind.

Sending out vibrations of loving kindness and compassion completes and enriches your meditation practice. It’s a simple yet profound act: with a still mind, wish happiness, peace, and the end of suffering for all sentient beings.

The Four Divine Abodes

Loving kindness, compassion, altruistic joy, and equanimity are known as the four divine abodes. These sublime and noble qualities provide a foundation for how we interact with all living beings and offer answers to the challenges we face in life.

  • These are the great removers of tension, the great peacemakers in social conflicts, and the great healers of the wounds borne in life’s struggles.
  • They purify the heart and transform undesirable qualities such as delusion, greed, and negativity into states of positivity and balance.
  • They help heal anger, hatred, loneliness, sorrow, and unhealthy attachments.

Closing the Practice

Conclude your session by wishing:

  • May all be happy, be peaceful, be liberated.

Gently open your eyes and emerge from meditation, carrying forward the feelings of loving kindness and compassion into your daily life.

© Jagat Singh Bisht

(Master Teacher: Happiness & Well-Being, Laughter Yoga Master Trainer, Author, Blogger, Educator, and Speaker.)

Founder:  LifeSkills

A Pathway to Authentic Happiness, Well-Being & A Fulfilling Life! We teach skills to lead a healthy, happy and meaningful life.

The Science of Happiness (Positive Psychology), Meditation, Yoga, Spirituality and Laughter Yoga. We conduct talks, seminars, workshops, retreats and training.

≈ Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 35 – Ram Lal’s Dilemma: A Holiday Hustle… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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 Ram Lal’s Dilemma: A Holiday Hustle…. 

☆ Witful Warmth# 35 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Ram Lal’s Dilemma: A Holiday Hustle… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

Once upon a time, in a quaint little town in India, there lived a diligent fellow named Ram Lal, a government clerk who spent his days shuffling papers and dreaming of holidays. The grand festivities of the year brought him immeasurable joy; he waited for them with the eagerness of a child anticipating a long-desired toy. For Ram Lal, the holidays were not mere breaks from work; they were like the sweet nectar of life, a divine blessing bestowed upon him.

One fateful day, as Ram Lal sat in his office, savoring a cup of tea and daydreaming about the upcoming festivals, his colleague Shyamu ambled over with a grin that could split a watermelon. “Ram Lal, my friend! Have you heard? This year, several festivals fall on Sundays!”

Ram Lal nearly dropped his cup in shock. “What? Which ones?” he gasped, his heart racing as if he’d just run a marathon.

Shyamu, barely containing his laughter, replied, “Republic Day, Gudi Padwa, Ram Navami… and many more!”

Ram Lal’s face fell as if someone had snatched away his beloved sweets. “This is an absolute travesty! Holidays are meant to grant us extra time off, and here they are, encroaching upon our precious Sundays!”

That evening, Ram Lal returned home, his mind a whirlpool of thoughts. With a determined spirit, he pulled out a calendar and noted the festivals that were cruelly scheduled on Sundays. “It’s just like having the rug pulled out from under you,” he muttered, filled with indignation.

The next day at work, Ram Lal rallied his coworkers to discuss this “grave injustice.” They gathered around, their faces set in determination. Together, they decided to march to their boss and demand extra holidays. After all, if one could not control the calendar, perhaps one could at least appeal to the benevolence of their superior.

Their boss, a holiday enthusiast himself, listened intently to their plight. “Listen, my friends,” he said, stroking his chin. “We cannot alter the dates of the festivals. However, I can propose to the government that when a festival falls on a Sunday, we should get Monday off instead.”

A glimmer of hope sparked in Ram Lal’s eyes. They hastily drafted a letter and sent it off to the higher-ups, dreaming of the extra days of merriment that awaited them.

Weeks passed, and at last, a response arrived from the government. The letter proclaimed, “Your proposal has been received with utmost seriousness. The government has decided that in the future, no festival shall ever fall on a Sunday! A special committee will be established to ensure that festivals always occur on weekdays!”

Ram Lal and his colleagues cheered with jubilation, their hard work seemingly paying off. Little did they know, the wheels of bureaucracy were about to spin in ways they could hardly imagine.

The special committee, comprised of scholars and astrologers, went to work. They consulted lunar calendars, mathematical equations, and even the positions of the stars to determine the new dates for each festival. Months later, the new calendar was released, and lo and behold, Diwali was now on Wednesday, Holi on Thursday, and Eid on Friday.

Ram Lal and his friends were ecstatic! Finally, they would have holidays aplenty! But as the excitement settled, a new edict emerged from the government: “Since festival dates have been rescheduled, employees will only receive leave for festivals relevant to their personal faith. For all other days, work is mandatory!”

Ram Lal felt the ground shift beneath him. “So this is what it feels like to fall from grace,” he lamented, scratching his head in disbelief.

His elation evaporated like mist in the morning sun, replaced by the harsh reality of a restricted holiday schedule. Instead of enjoying days of revelry, Ram Lal and his companions found themselves shackled to their desks, working through the festivals they once cherished.

Through this ironic twist of fate, Ram Lal learned a valuable lesson: the true essence of a festival lies not in the number of days off it grants but in the spirit of celebration itself. He and his colleagues decided that, regardless of when a festival occurred, they would embrace it with open hearts and exuberant enthusiasm.

Thus, they transformed their mundane workdays into festive occasions. They brought sweets to the office, decorated their desks, and shared laughter and joy despite the looming deadlines. They discovered that even if they couldn’t take the day off, they could still celebrate the spirit of the festival in their own little ways.

Ram Lal concluded that life was too short to fret over such trivial matters as holiday schedules. With a newfound perspective, he smiled at the thought of the next festival, no longer caring whether it fell on a weekend or a weekday. Instead, he would proclaim, “No matter the day, it’s the heart that celebrates!”

And so, the tale of Ram Lal’s holiday hustle became a legend in the town, a reminder that in the grand tapestry of life, it’s not the days off that matter most, but how one chooses to live and celebrate each moment.

As the years rolled on, Ram Lal continued to navigate the unpredictable waters of government regulations, but he did so with a light heart, knowing that true happiness comes from within, regardless of what the calendar may dictate.

In the end, when any festival approached, Ram Lal would chuckle and say, “No worries, my friends! Whether it’s Sunday or Monday, let’s make it a day to remember!” And with that spirit, the festivities rolled on, filling the office with laughter, joy, and the sweet taste of togetherness.

And so, dear readers, let us learn from Ram Lal’s merry misadventures—because in the great carnival of life, it’s the love we share and the joy we spread that truly makes the day a celebration, no matter the date!

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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English Literature – Weekly Column ☆ Witful Warmth # 34 – Elections and Evasions: A Comedy of Unkept Promises… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

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 A Journey through the Literary Fair…. 

☆ Witful Warmth# 33 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Elections and Evasions: A Comedy of Unkept Promises… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

In the vibrant land of India, where every election season unfolds like a theatrical performance, the latest chapter of our grand democratic saga has begun. The air buzzes with anticipation, a peculiar mix of hope and disbelief, as citizens prepare for yet another rollercoaster ride through the amusement park of unfulfilled promises. Welcome to the spectacle of “Promises Galore,” where the main act is always the same: the politicians, draped in their finest rhetoric, dazzling the audience with dreams they have no intention of fulfilling.

The Prelude: An Invitation to Hope

As dawn breaks over the bustling streets of New Delhi, the city is adorned with colorful banners and flags, each one more ostentatious than the last. These political advertisements proclaim a glorious future, a utopia where poverty will be eradicated, roads will be paved with gold, and every citizen will have a dream home—if only they vote for the right party, of course. The citizens, gullible as ever, gather around their television sets, eyes glued to the charismatic leaders who promise them the moon while their feet remain firmly planted in the muck of reality.

 Act I: The Campaign Circus

The campaign trail kicks off with the fervor of a carnival. Politicians clad in pristine white kurta-pajamas, their faces smeared with the magic of camera filters, hop aboard their gleaming SUVs, parading through slums that they have only ever glimpsed from the safety of their tinted windows. The candidates throw out promises like confetti—better schools, better healthcare, and, of course, better governance. The crowd, armed with placards and a keen sense of irony, cheers wildly as if they truly believe these assurances. Each rally is a grand spectacle, with fireworks and music that would put any Bollywood blockbuster to shame.

Act II: The Results Extravaganza

Fast forward to the day of reckoning: election results. The moment is laden with excitement as votes are tallied and the winners emerge from their fortified bunkers, adorned in garlands of flowers and claims of a resounding victory. In a bizarre twist, the same people who only weeks ago were promised a brighter tomorrow now find themselves listening to the victors declare that they are “the voice of the people.” Meanwhile, the vanquished wear their defeat like a badge of honor, vowing to return stronger, as if the political arena is some kind of eternal wrestling match.

Act III: The Government Formation Fiasco

With the dust barely settled, the new government is hastily formed, and the ministers take their oaths, puffed up with pride and lofty ideals. Behind closed doors, however, the reality is far less noble. Deals are brokered like shady backroom trades at a market, with portfolios changing hands like candy. The cabinet resembles a ragtag ensemble cast, where loyalty often outweighs competence, and the whispers of scandal already loom over the horizon.

Act IV: The First 100 Days of Glory

In the first 100 days, the new administration is all about theatrics. Press conferences become a stage for dazzling PowerPoint presentations filled with pie charts and promises that would make even the most seasoned con artist proud. The media, ever the dutiful watchdogs, gobbles up the sound bites, conveniently ignoring the yawning chasm between policy and practice. Meanwhile, the opposition is poised, ready to pounce on any slip-up, their enthusiasm equal only to their hypocrisy.

Act V: The Descent into Mediocrity

As the months roll on, the initial euphoria morphs into a mundane routine of unfulfilled aspirations. Bureaucratic red tape ensnares every initiative, and the wheels of progress grind to a halt. Citizens watch helplessly as the promises made during the campaigns fade into distant memories, much like their hopes for a better future. The only thing that flourishes is the cycle of disappointment, and the public’s collective sigh echoes through the streets.

Epilogue: The Endless Cycle of Discontent

And so, we find ourselves back at the beginning of this grand circus, where the citizens, ever hopeful, cling to the belief that change is just around the corner. The politicians, ever the performers, play their roles to perfection, knowing that the show must go on. As the curtains close on this act, the audience—exhausted yet hopeful—continues to applaud, caught in the illusion that perhaps, just perhaps, next time will be different.

In this tragicomedy of Indian democracy, one undeniable truth remains: the more things change, the more they stay the same. The curtain falls, the lights dim, and as the applause fades, the sobering reality sets in. The dreams of a nation hang in the balance, and the laughter gives way to tears—a poignant reminder that in the great play of life, hope and disillusionment are merely two sides of the same coin

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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : [email protected]

≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈

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