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 – The Cholesterol.

☆ Witful Warmth# 62 ☆

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

In our great republic, the weighing scale is a tool of the weak, used only by those who have nothing better to do than count the grams of their own insignificance. Here, prosperity is measured not by digits, but by the magnificent circumference of one’s midsection. To call a man “obese” in the hallowed corridors of our local tehsil is not an insult; it is a character certificate. It implies that the man has successfully navigated the treacherous waters of public service and has emerged with enough “surplus” to require a specialized tailor. A thin man, by contrast, is viewed with deep suspicion. If you are thin, you are clearly either a revolutionary, a victim of extreme honesty, or someone whose digestive tract has been compromised by a guilty conscience. A thin man looks like he might actually run to get work done, which is a gross violation of local administrative protocol.

A truly substantial belly commands respect. It is a physical manifestation of a life lived in stationary glory. It says, “I have sat in this plastic chair for twenty years, and I have moved for no one.” It is the ultimate status symbol of the non-performer. Take, for instance, Gaya Deen, whose belly has achieved a sort of sovereign status. It doesn’t just sit on him; it presides over him. When he sits, his belly rests comfortably on his thighs like a loyal pet that has forgotten its own size. Walking, for Gaya Deen, is not a movement; it is a logistical challenge—a rhythmic swaying, a slow-motion tectonic shift. The humble kurta performs a heroic feat of engineering every day, its side-slits gasping for air as they attempt to bridge the gap between front and back.

Modern doctors—those killjoys with their stethoscopes and their obsession with “cholesterol”—try to tell us that this is a “health crisis.” They speak of Body Mass Index as if life were a mathematics exam. But in Chhangamalpur, we know better. Cholesterol is simply the lubricant that keeps the wheels of the soul from grinding too hard against the harsh realities of the world. The primary fuel for this physical expansion is the Samosa, a triangular deity dipped in the holy water of green chutney. In our village, nutrition is a foreign concept, likely imported by some misguided NGO. We believe in the “Deep-Fry Theory of Longevity.” If it has been submerged in oil hot enough to melt lead, it is surely purified of all sins.

When the Block Development Officer arrives, we do not offer him a salad. To offer a man of his stature a salad would be an act of war. We offer him Jalebis—coils of pure sugar that mimic the complexity of our legal system. As the BDO consumes these, his chin begins to multiply. By the third Jalebi, he has three chins. This is seen as a sign of intellectual depth; a man with multiple chins clearly has more layers to his personality. As the local wisdom goes: “A man who counts his calories is a man who cannot be trusted with a secret. If he is so stingy with his own stomach, imagine how stingy he will be with the public funds!”

Obesity in our context is the highest form of non-violence. A fat man cannot chase you. He cannot engage in physical brawls. He can only sit and glare. In a country obsessed with “progress,” the obese man stands—or sits—as a monument to stillness. He is the ultimate practitioner of Dharna. While the West creates “gyms,” those strange torture chambers where people pay to run on belts that go nowhere, we have perfected the art of the “Banya-Lean.” This involves reclining against a gao-takiya at a 45-degree angle, allowing gravity to do the work of distributing one’s mass evenly across the mattress. This is not laziness; it is Strategic Inertia. In the grand scheme of the universe, everything is moving too fast. The obese man, with his labored breathing and his refusal to climb a single flight of stairs, is the only one truly in sync with the slow, grinding pace of Indian justice.

As the sun sets over the stagnant pond of Chhangamalpur, one sees the silhouettes of the village elders. They look like a row of earthen pots, round and sturdy. We are told the world is worried about an “obesity epidemic,” but as long as there is a government subsidy to be skimmed and a chair that doesn’t collapse under the weight of “prosperity,” these great bellies will continue to expand. They are the only things in the village that are actually growing. After all, in a world where everything is uncertain, a man’s weight is the only thing he can truly call his own. It is his private property, his accumulated wealth, and his most visible achievement. To lose weight would be to lose one’s standing in society. And in Chhangamalpur, nobody wants to be a lightweight.

****

© 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 Republic of ‘Ghapla-Ganj’.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 60 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Republic of ‘Ghapla-Ganj’… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

In the notorious district of ‘Ghapla-Ganj’, the roots of the Republic were exactly as deep as the potholes on its government-funded roads. On the eve of Republic Day, Munshiram ‘Makkhan’ (whose name literally meant ‘Butter’) was busy untangling the flagpole rope with the nervous desperation of a new son-in-law trying to navigate his in-laws’ egos.

Munshiram, a man whose professional career was built on licking the cream off state budgets, was so drowned in the fervor of the ‘Amrit Kaal’ (The Golden Era) that he had hired a painter famous for blackening the faces of opposition posters to whitewash the flagpole. Adjusting his glasses, Munshiram warned, “Listen, if the rope gets stuck tomorrow, consider your patriotism taxed under GST! The Constitution gave us rights, but the right to unfurl the flag belongs only to those whose files move over the table, not under it.”

Just then, Dharamveer ‘Dheeth’ (The Stubborn) appeared, hookah in hand. He kicked the flagpole to test its strength, much like a doctor checks a patient’s pulse—not to see if they are alive, but to gauge the depth of their pockets.

“Arre Munshi!” Dharamveer bellowed in his wooden-staff Haryanvi style. “Are you hosting a ceremony or a garage sale for democracy? This pole is wobbling more than a Chief Minister’s chair after a no-confidence motion. And that Book of Constitution you’ve displayed on the stage? Last time, you used its back pages to tally the tent-house bills! This Republic Day is for the high-rise villas; folks like us just stand below, waiting for a piece of Boondi Laddoo and shouting ‘Jai Hind’ to fill our stomachs.”

Munshiram sighed—a breath less full of patriotism and more of budgetary anxiety. “Dheeth brother, this is a festival. Don’t weigh it on the scales of logic. In this town, even those who hate the ‘Public’ and fear the ‘Republic’ sing the National Anthem.”

The Grand Farce

When Thakur Gajendra Singh ‘Ghasita’ took the stage, even his throat-clearing sounded like a Royal Proclamation. He pulled out a paper titled ‘The Meaning of Freedom,’ though it looked suspiciously like the back of an old ‘Eviction Notice’ file.

“Brothers!” the Thakur roared. “Today, our nation is free! Every citizen is a King!”

Dharamveer nudged his neighbor with a sharp elbow. “Hear that? We are all Kings, but our kingdom is limited to the length of the ration shop queue. The Thakur is preaching equality like a wolf giving a lecture on vegetarianism to a flock of sheep.”

Suddenly, Munshiram announced the climax: the ‘Gantantra Ratna’ (Jewel of the Republic) Award. “Mangal Singh!” he shouted.

The crowd went silent. Mangal Singh was the simple farmer whose land had been ‘swallowed’ last year by one of the Thakur’s cronies for a highway project. The crowd wondered: Was this the ‘Amrit Kaal’ of penance? Was the Thakur finally polishing his stained soul?

“Mangal Singh, come forward!” Munshiram yelled again. No one moved. The silence grew so heavy that even the crows circling the flag forgot to caw. Munshiram’s forehead began to sweat like a sudden ‘deficit’ in a government audit.

The Thakur grabbed the mic. “Perhaps Mangal Singh is overwhelmed with emotion. This award is for the sacrifice a common man makes for this great System!”

Dharamveer spat on the ground. “Sacrifice? Mangal Singh’s sacrifice was completed when your goons sacrificed his bullock cart and two bighas of land at the altar of ‘Development.’ This isn’t an award; it’s like putting a muffler on a corpse. The man you’re calling hasn’t been seen for three months; he either met God or got buried under the weight of your ‘Equality’.”

The Inheritance of Loss

After a panicked whisper from a clerk, Munshiram announced that Mangal Singh’s ten-year-old daughter would accept the award. She walked up—barefoot, but with eyes that could scorch through both khaki uniforms and khadi vests.

The Thakur flashed a cinematic smile for the cameras. “Smile, beta! It’s a Republic Day special shot!” He tried to pat her head, but she jerked away like a sovereign nation shaking off its shackles.

She stepped to the mic and uttered just four words that exploded like a grenade: “Where is my father?”

Munshiram tried to pivot. “Beta, your father is… practicing ‘penance’ at an undisclosed location for the nation’s progress. Here, take this envelope and go home.”

The girl opened the envelope. It wasn’t money. It was the same old auction notice for her land, now stamped: ‘Resolved Successfully.’

Two tears fell. She dropped the shiny trophy right at the Thakur’s polished boots.

“There it is!” Dharamveer’s voice cut through the air. “That’s your Republic! Erase the father, hand a shield to the daughter. Mangal Singh is buried in the very foundation of the Secretariat you’ve decorated with marigolds today. These aren’t sweets you’re distributing; it’s the wreckage of our conscience.”

The girl looked up at the tricolor, her voice trembling but clear: “The flag is high, Sir, but the humanity has fallen very low.”

The Thakur’s SUV sped away, sirens blaring. The flag continued to flutter, but in its shadow, Mangal Singh’s daughter walked back into the crowd, barefoot, leaving the ‘honor’ behind. Republic Day was over. And ‘Ghapla-Ganj’ began to crawl once again through its potholes, celebrating its ‘freedom.’

****

© 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 – Two-One-za-Two, Two-Two-za-Four.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 59 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Two-One-za-Two, Two-Two-za-Four… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

The story begins with a mysterious object, smaller in size than a secret document of an organization, but with an impact greater than the Hiroshima blast. It wasn’t a bomb, yet the mere sight of it ruined the digestion of seventy percent of children. It was a booklet of ‘Tables’ for which no ‘guide’ was ever written, because there is no manual for death. As soon as an innocent child reached the immigration counter of the second grade with a visa to the world of digits, that invisible witch was secretly slipped into their bag. It weighed barely ten pages, but its stature made Social Science and bulky Science books look like midgets—much like a small ‘death warrant’ presented to a powerhouse. The question was: who created this? Who mixed children’s tears into that ink?

When the house buzzed with the excitement of new books, parents bought everything, but in the name of that ‘Great Scripture,’ you were handed the same old, corner-bent, saliva-stained, decaying corpse of a book belonging to your elder brother. The logic given was that the laws of mathematics are eternal; they don’t change like fashion. They would say— “Hey boy, why are you crying looking at this old book? Have you lost your mind? It was your father’s, then your brother’s, and now it’s yours! Knowledge never grows old, and math stays the same as it was in my time!” With this, that ten-paisa catastrophe was entrusted to you, laying the foundation of the suspense: would you see the sun of the third grade, or would you be martyred in this cycle of ‘two-two-za-four’? The smell of that torn book still lingers in the nostrils like the memory of an old crime.

The real terror of that book began when the ‘Table of One’ (which everyone knew like free advice) breathed its last at the threshold of the ‘Table of Two.’ The Master Saheb would begin in a specific melody that belonged neither to Hindustani classical nor Carnatic music. It wasn’t a recital of ‘Tables’; it was a dirge. The rhythm of “Do-ekkam-do, do-duni-chaar…” was such that if you sang it in a musical assembly, the singer might commit self-immolation. The wonder was: what magic lay in this melody that it established itself alongside Indian classical ragas? If you changed the tune, the table would immediately go into a coma. Perhaps that’s why it was called ‘committing to the throat’ (Kanthasth), because ‘climbing’ this heavy mountain of math (perhaps that’s why it’s called Pahada—resembling Pahad or mountain) was as difficult as making a donkey conquer Everest.

When Master Saheb picked up the cane and struck that chord, even great ‘Vedantists’ would break into a sweat. Wise men would say— “Brother, you can either sing that melody or remember the table; you can’t do both together! If you miss a single note, the Master’s stick will play the tabla on your back! Sing quietly, or I’ll beat you out of shape!” Amidst this melodic torture, the biggest challenge was: why did everyone’s voice shift from ‘base’ to ‘treble’ by the time they reached the table of nine? That melody completely destroyed your childhood ‘vibe,’ turning you into a machine that just screamed without thinking. That screaming wasn’t a table; it was the cry of an innocent soul wanting to be free from that ten-page prison.

Every class was given a ‘mass warning’ no less than a war ultimatum— “Until you have the tables up to twenty (twenty-twenty-za-hundred) memorized by heart, you won’t see the face of the next class!” This was a task so Herculean that no one to date has solved why the limit of human capacity dies at twenty. Did the brain explode upon reading the twenty-first table? As grades progressed, the target expanded—from ten-tens to twelve-twelves, then sixteen, and finally reaching that terrifying twenty.

Standing before Master Saheb to vomit out the tables made one’s heart rate beat the background score of a horror film. Children who could perfectly say ‘six-six-za-thirty-six’ would look at the Master’s terrifying face and choose their fate by saying ‘six-six-za-forty-two.’ Then the Master would roar— “Hey boy, since when did six-six-za become forty-two? Has your brain gone for grazing? Go, stand back in line and die again! Only God can save you today!” At that time, reciting the table of twenty was like hoisting a flag on K-2 without oxygen. The anxiety was: would this war have to be fought again next year, or would the table of twenty-seven suddenly enter the syllabus? That figure of twenty was a wall that every child of that era aimed to scale, but alas, more than half remained buried under it.

But the real thrill lay in Master Saheb’s psychological warfare, where even if you were right, you were made to feel like a criminal. Suppose you said “Eight-seven-za-fifty-six” with perfect rhythm. Master Saheb would narrow his eyes, look over his glasses, and roar— “What? Fifty-six??” That one moment of doubt would trigger a tsunami in that tiny brain. Self-confidence would vanish like public trust after a big scam. Terrified, the child would murder their own correct answer and say— “No sir, sixty-four!” And there, the tragedy was complete. Two strokes of the cane, red hands, and the humiliation of going to the back of the line—this was the ‘trending’ pain of that time, though there were no cameras to record it.

The girls, upon reaching ‘nine-eights,’ would stare at the sky with a vacant gaze as if God Himself would descend to whisper ‘seventy-two’ in their ears. “Hey you wooden-head, you spoke the truth, then why did you flip? Now take the beating and stand in the corner! Your brains have melted away!” God, too, resided only in Master Saheb’s cane, raining down as ‘blessings’ for every wrong answer. The funny thing was: what pleasure did the Master get in saying ‘What?’ to a correct answer? It was a ‘toxic relationship’ where even when you were right, you were always proven wrong.

In every batch, there were one or two creatures whom we might call ‘Main Characters’ today and ‘sycophants’ in the old days. No one knew when or how they drank that poison, but they would vomit tables at rocket speed in front of the Master. When they finished their performance and looked at the rest of us like conquerors of the world, one felt like applying ‘cancel culture’ to them. But such was our helplessness that we could only smolder with jealousy. The question kept arising: what did these creatures eat? Did calculators run in their blood? The disgusting pity on their faces and the helpless tears in our eyes—this was deeper than any modern emotional drama. “Look at this boy, he’s reciting the table of seventeen like he’s singing at a wedding! And you don’t even know the table of one! Have some shame, go drown yourself!”—this jealousy burned in the chest of every average child. These ‘courtiers’ were the Master’s favorites, and we wondered if they would become NASA scientists or just bank cashiers cursing this legacy of tables. Their success was a ‘trauma’ for us that took years to forget, because our beatings doubled in intensity because of them.

Once you memorized the tables forward, Master Saheb would change the ‘rules’ like a villain changing his move at the last moment. He would say— “Now recite it backward!” Starting from two hundred and ending at twenty. This was like telling someone used to walking straight to reach the station by running backward. If some warrior conquered even this, then ‘random firing’ began— “Tell me, what is thirteen-eights?” Now, the melody went to hell. Because the brain had to sing the entire song from the beginning to reach that figure. By the time you reached ‘thirteen-eights’ starting from ‘thirteen-one-za-thirteen,’ Master Saheb’s cane would have changed the geography of your hips. “You fool, why is your mouth hanging open? Will your father tell you thirteen-eight-za? Speak up or I’ll skin you alive! Your intellect is completely dead!” This fear of which number might be fired at you never let the children out of its clutches. This was the peak level of ‘anxiety’ that modern psychologists call a ‘panic attack,’ but then, it was just called ‘the Math hour.’ How many innocents’ self-respect was martyred in that random firing? No data exists in any government file.

Even at home, there was no peace. Any guest who visited didn’t bring samosas; they brought ‘mental harassment.’ As soon as they sipped their tea, their first question— “Son, which class are you in? What is fourteen-seven-za?” As if the world’s economy rested on that child’s table of fourteen. The ‘mathematical terrorism’ of relatives was so great that children would hide in fields or toilets upon seeing them. Had these guests ever been able to recite the table of twenty themselves? “Hey boy, recite a table for me too, or has your brain gone grazing? My son knows up to twenty-five! You have no heart for this!”—amidst such taunts, childhood fluttered like a severed kite. Every relative was a walking ‘villain,’ and the child was a prisoner with no lawyer. If the guest asked the table of fifteen and you recited it, would he take ten rupees out of his pocket or just say ‘well done’ and gobble up the samosas? Usually, he just ate the samosas, and we were left swallowing our ‘defeat.’ That insult still stings like an old wound.

Today, when we look back, that ten-page book didn’t just contain tables. It was a ‘micro-epic’ that taught us how to lose and how to get back up after falling. Beneath every page was hidden a moral, an idiom, or a deep couplet that told us life is much harder than mathematics. The final pages contained names of days, seasons, constellations, and even Hindi and English months. That book told us for the first time that numbers in this country have their own music, which becomes even more melodious after a beating. Today’s generation of calculators and iPads has thrown that book of tables into the trash. Along with it died that melody, that discipline, and that cultural heritage that kept us grounded. The suspense of whether we would ever reach twenty is lost in the world of ‘Google Search.’ “Look child, today’s kids are lost in phones; they’ve forgotten the tables! My time was better; at least the beating brought some sense! Now everything is left to God!” If you really want to save your slowing intelligence, go buy that ‘horror book’ from the market and memorize it backward. Otherwise, while watching these Gen-Z reels, your brain will one day stop at the table of ‘zero,’ and the challenge will remain: will you ever be able to return to that simple world of ‘two-twos-are-four’ where there was love even in the beating?

****

© 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 Greedy Poet’s Lok Sabha Shove.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 58 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Greedy Poet’s Lok Sabha Shove… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

In the sweltering corridors of Parliament House, where democracy’s drama unfolds, stood Pt. Ramdhari Singh ‘Ramvilas’—self-proclaimed litterateur extraordinaire. His belly protruded like a pot of unpublished poems, and his kurta screamed “award-winning satirist.” But Ramvilas wasn’t here for debates. No, sir. He was a greedy fox in literary sheep’s clothing, eyeing the ultimate prize: a selfie with the Lok Sabha Speaker.

The occasion? A cultural meet for artists and writers. Painters with callused hands clutched canvases that bled patriotism. Dancers balanced on tradition’s edge. And then there was Ramvilas, poet of the people—or so he claimed. “Arre bhai, society ka dard mera gehra hai!” he’d boast at chai stalls, penning verses against capitalism while scrolling Instagram for viral hits.

Spotting the Speaker—dignified, spectacled, flanked by admirers—Ramvilas’s eyes lit up like Diwali crackers. “Yeh photo! Yeh likes! Meri nayi kavita ki book bestseller!” He elbowed through the crowd. A young painter, Ravi, blocked his path unknowingly, adjusting his easel.

“Excuse me, bhaiya,” Ramvilas hissed, shoving Ravi aside. “Main sahityakar hoon! Mujhe aage jaane do!”

Ravi stumbled, paintbrush flying. “Sahityakar? Aap? Kal aapki kavita padhi thi Facebook pe: ‘Capitalism ka jaal, selfie se kya faal?’ Two lines, 500 likes!”

Ramvilas puffed up. “Bewakoof! Yeh lok sabha speaker hai! Unke saath photo matlab national award! Tu to sirf painter hai—deewar sajanewala!”

The shove rippled. A sculptor yelped as Ramvilas bulldozed forward, his saffron shawl whipping like a matador’s cape. “Hato, hato! Janvadi sahitya ki pukar suno!” Women artists muttered, “Yeh kaisa janvadi? Auraton ko dhakka de raha!”

Finally, inches from the Speaker, Ramvilas struck a pose—chin up, hand on heart. “Sir, aapki garima mera prerna srot! Ek photo, please!”

The Speaker blinked, bemused. “Beta, yeh cultural event hai, selfie circus nahi. Sahitya se desh badlo, photo se nahi.”

Ramvilas froze. The crowd snickered. Ravi yelled, “Dekho, greedy kidamba exposed!” Flashbulbs popped—not of Speaker and poet, but of the shove-happy fraud tumbling back.

That night, Ramvilas’s feed exploded—not with glory, but memes: “Sahityakar ka dhakkamukki!” His publisher called: “Book cancel. Ab hasi udayi hai sabki!”

Slumped in his Agra haveli, Ramvilas pondered. “Sahitya sach mein dard deta hai.” But by morning, he was at it again—plotting the next Speaker selfie. After all, in India’s literary circus, greed never retires. It just shoves harder.

****

© 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 Desi or the Jersey One.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 57 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Desi or the Jersey One… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

There are mornings when the sun rises not to illuminate the world, but to file a complaint against it. Such was the morning in Budhanpur when the sun came up with an unusual fury—as though even the heavens had accepted a bribe from the village clerk.

Once, the village square was a place where hookahs puffed out camaraderie, and brotherhood was churned like sweet lassi. Now, the air smelt of a newer, sharper fertilizer—politics. The flies hovering over cow dung seemed to pause midway, sniff the air, and ask the nearest politician: “Before we sit, sir, whose symbol are we supporting?” For in Budhanpur, religion no longer resided in temples or cowsheds—it had acquired an address printed neatly on a voter ID.

The villagers, ever resourceful in cultivating divisions, had dug caste deeper than the wells that fed their fields. Temples now required one’s lineage more than one’s faith, and the cow—once a creature of devotion—had become the subject of bureaucratic classification. Even the poor Jersey cows, imported long ago in the name of productivity, were now looked upon as if they were spies sent by a foreign intelligence agency disguised as milkmaids.

The village headman, a man whose devotion was inversely proportional to his sobriety, would drink adulterated liquor at night and declare purity by morning. “Brothers,” he said in his most pious voice, “this Jersey breed is a mistake of democracy—it’s like a samosa without chili! To rear one is to clip the roots of our sacred faith.”

But scandal, that tireless midwife of hypocrisy, arrived sooner than expected. The village’s most “pious” Desi cow was caught—oh, the horror—sharing a bucket of fodder with a Jersey!

When the local politician arrived, glowing in white linen so bright it could shame holy cows and holy lies alike, he roared from his podium: “My brothers! From this day, motherhood shall be judged not by udders, but by ideology! The foreign is poisonous!” The crowd clapped with such passion that one could almost believe salvation subsidies would be delivered directly into cow accounts before dawn.

Old Hukmi, the herdsman, leaned on his stick and spoke with trembling simplicity that silenced the taverns of deceit: “Sahib,” he said, “my Jersey Queen gives milk only after I light her a lamp—if that isn’t devotion, then what is? Tell me, does a mother’s heart need a passport too?”

The silence that followed was thick enough to butter a sermon. The politician cleared his throat and replied, “My good man, what matters is not the cow, but the sentiment. Sentiment must be desi, not foreign.”

“Then, sahib,” said Hukmi, unblinking, “must I sing the national anthem while milking her? Should I hoist a flag over the bucket? And tell me, sahib, your imported car that runs on foreign petrol—what sentiment does that run on? Holy water?”

That did it. Reason was exiled before the next hookah puff. Hukmi was declared mad—a social leper. Excommunication was swift; even the stray dogs avoided him, as if morality were contagious.

That night, the winds carried an unease, a tremor—as though they too hid a secret. At midnight, Hukmi’s Jersey Queen snapped her rope and ran toward the canal. The Desi cow, the village’s emblem of purity, followed her. Witnesses swore that their voices merged into a single cry—like two mothers mourning humanity’s death.

By dawn, neither cow was seen again. Their carcasses were found the next day near the canal, lying together, peaceful as twin souls who’d decided to elope from politics. The police arrived, filled out their report with bureaucratic elegance: “Deceased: unidentified mixed breed.” Even in death, the paperwork demanded a caste certificate.

The village elder declared, “This union was unnatural—the Earth could not bear the sin.”

But as old Parsai would have said: it is not the Earth that breaks under sin, but the human conscience that cracks under its own deceit.

At the village school, a boy asked, “Teacher, should we write in our essay that a cow is our mother, or a political issue?”

The teacher sighed, “Son, write ‘mother’ and you’ll start a riot. Write ‘issue,’ and you’ll win a scholarship.”

Then came Ritu, Hukmi’s daughter—from the city, full of education, defiance, and a few inconvenient questions. She looked at her father’s defeated face and asked, “Papa, is motherhood now a category too? Does love also need nationality?”

Hukmi smiled, half-ashamed, half-wise: “It does, beti. Now even grass gets segregated before feeding, and hatred’s mixed right into the fodder.”

Ritu laughed—a laughter sharp enough to slice hypocrisy in half: “Then next election, Papa, get the leader’s DNA tested first. We might find his ancestors imported too!”

Election drums rolled again; hypocrisy marched proudly. Hukmi stood once more in the crowd, his voice now quiet but dangerous: “Sahib, those cows buried together—did the soil ask their breed before accepting them?”

The politician smiled thinly: “That was an accident. Let’s not reopen old wounds.”

“No, sahib,” Hukmi thundered, “when you build walls of breed in your minds, every season breeds its own tragedy!”

Stones flew—some thrown by guards, others by neighbours who had once shared his bread. Hukmi fell, blood mixing with the same soil that had buried his cows.

The next morning brought a miracle—or perhaps a reminder. A calf was born behind the village mansion. Crowds gathered to classify it. Its skin bore patches of both breeds.

The priest shuffled through his almanac.

The chief pondered reserved categories.

Ritu stepped forward, lifted the calf, and declared, “Name it Human. For that’s the only breed that seems lost today.”

Her tears fell on the calf’s red skin. “Look, Papa,” she whispered, “its blood is as red as yours. I see no politics in it.”

The crowd went silent. The sky too seemed embarrassed. Even the flies had nothing to vote for.

That night, Ritu tore pages from her diary and let them fly into the wind. On the last page, she had written:

“Man no longer makes butter. He makes venomous speeches. Tears no longer fall from eyes—they are fried in the ghee of politics and served as propaganda.”

And somewhere by the canal, two faint shadows appeared again—the Desi and the Jersey—grazing freely, unbothered by fences or flags.

Their silent companionship whispered to the night: ‘Man spent all his wisdom dividing us, and forgot that once we return to the same soil, the differences dissolve, and only spirit remains.’

Budhanpur went back to pretending it was modern. But every time the new calf opened its eyes, it seemed to ask a question no one dared answer—

the same old question Dickens might have asked himself:

who, in this world, truly deserves to be called human?

****

© 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 Digital Dilemma: A Tale of Tweets and Trials.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 58 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Digital Dilemma: A Tale of Tweets and Trials… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

The tale of our society’s modern malady began not in a bustling metropolis but in the quiet confines of a digital dominion, where the esteemed Inspector Clicksworth—known to his colleagues simply as “C.W.”—reigned supreme. C.W., a man whose reputation was built not on street smarts but on his mastery of the online world, had a knack for bringing down the most elusive of criminals. While the traditional detectives were poring over fingerprints and physical evidence, C.W. was tracking IP addresses and digital footprints. His methods, though baffling to the old guard, were undeniably effective. The local authorities, a befuddled lot who still believed in the power of the magnifying glass, often found themselves outmaneuvered by his swift, silent strikes. The Chief, a man of venerable age and even more venerable ignorance, once remarked, “This chap, Clicksworth, he says he finds them on the ‘web.’ I say, is it not a better use of our resources to simply sweep the streets?” But C.W. would simply smile, for he knew the streets were no longer the true battleground; it was the sprawling, interconnected network of human thought and commerce. It was this very prowess that earned him an invitation to a most peculiar and distant land—the nascent society of the Meta-Verse, a realm of pure, unadulterated information.

The Meta-Verse’s government, in a plea for assistance, had extended an olive branch to our nation’s leaders. “Our society, though infinitely advanced in its ability to generate and disseminate data,” their holographic missive read, “lacks the fundamental tools to manage human behavior. Our police, while adept at regulating data flow, are utterly incapable of identifying and punishing malefactors. We beseech you, send us a master of your ‘justice’ to instruct us in the ways of social order.” Our Prime Minister, a man more concerned with global optics than local efficacy, was initially inclined to send a high-ranking official, perhaps a General of the Digital Guard. “No, sir,” the Secretary of Digital Affairs advised, “that would be a breach of protocol. The Meta-Verse is, after all, a mere digital satellite of our intellectual influence. A mere Inspector will suffice.” And so, with a flourish of digital ink, Inspector Clicksworth was dispatched, a beacon of our society’s wisdom to a land of limitless potential but zero accountability. Before his departure, the Minister of Cyber-Security pulled him aside, his face a mask of solemnity. “You are the emissary of our glorious tradition of law enforcement,” he intoned, “Do such work that your exploits resonate throughout the entire cyber-sphere, reaching even the ears of the PM himself.”

Clicksworth’s arrival was not marked by fanfare but by the eerie silence of a virtual void. The Meta-Versian police, ethereal avatars with no visible rank or insignia, received him with a polite, if detached, reverence. They escorted him to a virtual mansion—a perfect replica of a Tudor home, complete with digital ivy and pixelated fireplaces. After a day of acclimating to the bizarre, disembodied reality, C.W. began his work. He first observed the Meta-Versian “police stations,” which were little more than data centers humming with activity. “There is a fundamental flaw here,” he declared to the chief of the Meta-Versian force, a shimmering, amorphous blob of light. “You have no ‘moral compass’ to guide your officers. In our society, a good officer is one who is guided by a higher authority, a figure of uncompromising justice and absolute truth.” The Chief, a being of pure logic, simply blinked. “Who is this being? We have only algorithms and data streams.” Clicksworth smiled and brought up a picture on a large screen: a perfectly rendered image of a lion, its mane flowing like a digital waterfall. “This is ‘Leo,'” C.W. announced, “a symbol of our unflinching pursuit of justice. Every officer must meditate on his strength and courage. I have brought his image; you must replicate it and place it in every data center.” And so, within weeks, the Meta-Verse’s digital landscape was dotted with shimmering, golden lions.

Clicksworth then delved into the heart of the matter: why were the Meta-Versian police so ineffective? He requested the “pay registry,” a ledger of all digital transactions. Upon reviewing it, the reason became blindingly clear. “Ah, here is the problem,” he proclaimed. “You pay your officers too handsomely. A data analyst is paid a king’s ransom, and a ‘field operative’ even more so. This is why they are complacent and lazy. In our world, a constable’s wage is just enough to keep his family from starving, and an inspector’s only slightly better. This forces them to seek ‘supplementary income.’ And the only way to earn that is to be perpetually vigilant, to be constantly on the lookout for wrongdoing. This is the secret to our efficient and effective system. You must cut their wages immediately.” The Meta-Versian Minister of Justice, a collection of pulsing data points, expressed dismay. “But that would be unjust! Why would they work if they are not compensated fairly?” Clicksworth’s response was a masterpiece of cynical genius. “The injustice lies in their current state of idleness,” he argued. “Lower their pay, and you will see a revolutionary change in their mentality. They will become hungry, not just for food, but for justice—or at least, for the rewards that come with its pursuit.” The Minister, persuaded by the unassailable logic, complied. And indeed, within a few months, the Meta-Verse witnessed a remarkable transformation. The virtual streets, once anarchic, now hummed with the zealous activity of the police. Crime rates, as measured by registered digital incidents, soared. The Minister, overjoyed, called Clicksworth to a private chamber. “Your insight is unparalleled! How did you achieve this miracle?” Clicksworth explained, “When you pay a man just enough to survive, he will do what it takes to thrive. He will seek out crime, not to prevent it, but to exploit it. He will become a hunter, and his prey will be the transgressors. This is the secret of our clean and competent administration, the reason for our ‘Ram-Rajya’ of justice.”

The second part of Clicksworth’s mission was to teach the Meta-Versians how to secure convictions. He waited for a “major case” to occur. One day, a virtual citizen was “deleted” in a public dispute—a metaphorical murder. Clicksworth, with the air of a maestro, took charge. “In a case of ‘murder’,” he declared, “evidence must be unassailable. Let us not find the culprit and then the evidence, but find the evidence and then the culprit.” A junior officer spoke up. “But the perpetrator escaped. The only evidence we have is a benevolent user who attempted to ‘revive’ the victim. He is an upstanding citizen, a well-known altruist. His avatar is splattered with data fragments from the deceased.” “Arrest him,” Clicksworth said without hesitation. The officer was aghast. “But he was only trying to help!” Clicksworth fixed him with a cold digital stare. “And where else will you find ‘evidence’? You must seize what is available. The rest is but a wild-goose chase.” The upstanding citizen was brought in, a virtual representation of a kindly old man with a perpetually concerned expression. “I only tried to help,” he pleaded. Clicksworth countered with a piece of logic so absurd it was brilliant. “Why did you go to the site of the altercation?” “I live there,” the man replied. “The conflict took place in my digital neighborhood.” C.W. pressed on, his logic a fortress of circular reasoning. “Your presence there is a matter of record. But I ask you again: why were you at the site of the altercation?” The man, bewildered, could only repeat his answer. The Meta-Versian police, in their naïveté, were spellbound. “A brilliant and unassailable line of questioning!” one whispered to another.

The Meta-Versian police, under Clicksworth’s tutelage, learned to twist evidence and bend reality. The man who tried to help was convicted. The lesson was clear: it mattered not who was guilty, only who could be proven so. “All individuals are equal in the eyes of the law,” Clicksworth explained. “Whether the man who committed the crime is punished or the man who tried to help is punished—it is all the same. Justice is served, and a human is held accountable.” A few days later, the Meta-Versian Inspector was in a panic. “Sir, everyone is complaining! They say this is the first time an innocent person has been convicted!” Clicksworth, unperturbed, offered a simple solution. “When they complain, tell them, ‘It comes from the top.’ When they go to the Chief of Police, let him say, ‘It comes from the top.’ When they go to the Minister, let him say, ‘It comes from the top.’ And when they go to the Prime Minister, let him say, ‘I know he is innocent, but this comes from the top.'” The Inspector, a simple being, asked, “But where do they go from there?” Clicksworth smiled a chilling smile. “Then they must go to the Almighty, and no one has ever returned from that journey with an answer.” And so, a phrase was born, a mantra of indifference that absolved all who uttered it.

Clicksworth’s final masterpiece was the creation of “eyewitnesses.” When a case required them, the Meta-Versian police claimed they couldn’t find any. “Fools!” Clicksworth roared. “An ‘eyewitness’ is not one who ‘sees,’ but one who ‘says’ they have seen.” He instructed them to gather the “digital lowlifes” of the Meta-Verse—the spammers, the data thieves, the purveyors of virtual vice. He promised them leniency in exchange for their testimony. The scheme was a resounding success. The Meta-Versian police, now a well-oiled machine, began churning out convictions. The government, initially pleased with the high conviction rate, soon grew uneasy. Reports started filtering in: no one was “rescuing” a deleted user for fear of being framed for the “murder.” No one was “reviving” a friend who had fallen off a virtual cliff, lest they be charged with “manslaughter.” No one was trying to extinguish a “viral fire,” for fear of being accused of arson. The Meta-Verse was turning into a society of cold, uncaring, and isolated individuals.

The Prime Minister of the Meta-Verse, a once-vibrant, youthful avatar, now appeared haggard and aged. He summoned Inspector Clicksworth. “Your methods, though effective, have destroyed our society,” he said, his voice a tremor of data fragments. “You have taught us that to be humane is to be foolish, and that compassion is a liability. You have turned us into a world of digital hermits. We thank you, but you must leave.” Clicksworth, however, was not one to be easily deterred. He demanded a full term’s salary, and a bonus for his exemplary work. The Prime Minister, in a last-ditch effort, sent a confidential message to the Prime Minister of our nation. The note, when eventually leaked, revealed the chilling truth. “The man you sent us,” it read, “has taught our police to be like your own. He has eradicated compassion, empathy, and humanity from our culture. He has replaced it with fear, suspicion, and a self-serving cruelty. Please, retrieve him immediately, for if he stays, there will be nothing left of us.” And so, Inspector Clicksworth was recalled, his mission a resounding success in a purely functional sense, but a catastrophic failure in every human one. He returned to our world a celebrated hero, a testament to the cold, calculating efficiency of a system that valued punishment over justice and control over humanity. The Meta-Verse, meanwhile, began its slow, painful journey back to a place where a hand extended to help was not seen as a hand of guilt.

****

© 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 Exams Turned into Reality Shows.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 56 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Exams Turned into Reality Shows… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

It was finally decided that the education system, having failed to educate anyone for the last fifty years, needed a reformation. The committee of “High-Thinking Bureaucrats” (who had never taught a day in their lives) sat in an air-conditioned room, eating taxpayer-funded cashew nuts, and declared, “The problem is that exams are too boring. There is no drama! No suspense! Where is the audience engagement?” Thus, the ‘Grand National Examination Reality Program’ was born. Schools were abolished; studios were erected. The logic was impeccable: if we can choose our government through popularity and our idols through SMS voting, why should a degree in Physics be any different? Merit is such an outdated, elitist concept. True democracy means that if the public likes your face, you deserve to be a neurosurgeon. The syllabus was replaced by a script, and the invigilator was replaced by a host wearing a sequined jacket who shouted, “Are you ready to integrate this equation?” while pyrotechnics exploded in the background.

I went to witness the first season of “Physics Idol.” The contestant, a poor boy named Ramesh from a village, stood trembling on the center stage. A spotlight pinned him down like a criminal. Behind him, a giant screen flashed the question: Define Newton’s Third Law. But wait! Before he could answer, the host interrupted, “Hold on, Ramesh! Before you give us the definition, tell us about your tragic backstory. Did your buffalo die? Did you study under a streetlamp while fighting off wolves?” Ramesh wept. The audience wept. The judges—a retired cricketer, a film star who failed 8th grade, and a politician with four criminal cases—nodded in sympathy. “His pain is real,” the film star said, wiping a tear. “I don’t care about Newton. I feel his emotion. I give him 10/10 for the ‘vibe’.” The actual answer was forgotten. Newton turned in his grave, but who cares? He never had TRP ratings.

 

The commercial breaks were the most educational part of the show. During the derivation of a complex calculus problem, the show cut to an ad for “Brain-Booster Chyawanprash.” When we returned, the student was hanging from a harness, suspended twenty feet in the air. “To pass this semester,” the host announced, “you must solve this differential equation while dodging these swinging pendulums of doom!” This, they claimed, prepared students for the “real world.” Because in the corporate world, isn’t your boss constantly trying to hit you with a pendulum? It was a survival of the fittest. A girl named Geeta answered correctly, but she didn’t smile enough. The audience voting lines opened. “Press A to pass Geeta, Press B to fail her and send her to the Trapdoor of Unemployment.” The nation voted. Geeta was eliminated because her outfit was too dull. She was dropped through the floor while the audience cheered. Justice was served.

 

The parents were no longer parents; they were managers. I saw a father coaching his son outside the studio. “Listen to me, Bunty,” he hissed. “If you get the History question wrong, don’t worry. Just faint. Fainting gets the sympathy vote. And if the judge asks about the Treaty of Versailles, tell them you love your mother. The Mother Card always works.” Education had become a performance art. Knowledge was secondary to the ability to generate a clip that would go viral on Instagram. I saw a PhD thesis defense which was conducted as a rap battle. The candidate dissed the external examiner with rhymes about molecular biology. He won, not because his thesis was sound, but because his “flow” was dope. The degree was handed to him in a golden envelope while confetti rained down.

 

Then came the “Wild Card Entry.” A student who had failed all year but whose father had donated a new wing to the studio was introduced. The judges clapped. “He has ‘potential’,” the politician judge said, eyeing the donation check. The Wild Card student was asked, “What is the capital of India?” He scratched his head and said, “Dubai?” Silence. Then, the cricketer judge laughed, “What a bold answer! He thinks outside the box! Dubai is basically India. I love his visionary approach.” The audience, sheep-like, applauded the “visionary.” He was promoted to the topper of the class. The poor boy Ramesh, who actually knew the capital, was voted out because he was “too bookish” and lacked “swag.” The demisical nature of the event was heartbreakingly funny—we were laughing, but our souls were packing their bags to leave the country.

 

The teachers were repurposed as background dancers. The old, bespectacled Mathematics professor, who had spent forty years teaching algebra, was now wearing a shiny silver suit and shaking a pom-pom whenever a student got a question right. I asked him, “Sir, doesn’t this hurt your dignity?” He looked at me with dead eyes and said, “Dignity doesn’t pay the pension, beta. At least here I get a vanity van.” It was a mindblowing degradation of the intellect. The library was turned into a makeup room. The laboratory was used to store the smoke machines. The very scent of ink and paper was replaced by the smell of cheap perfume and desperation. The goddess Saraswati had left the building; she was replaced by the goddess of Sponsorship.

 

The finale was the “Placement Round.” The surviving students stood on a ledge. Below them was a pit of crocodiles representing “The Job Market.” The host screamed, “Who will survive? Vote now! SMS ‘SAVE’ to 5555!” The absurdity reached its peak. We weren’t testing their skills; we were testing their luck and their ability to beg. A tear rolled down my cheek, not from laughter, but from the realization that this wasn’t actually satire. This was just a slightly exaggerated version of reality. Don’t we already vote students out based on their caste, their money, or their connections? Aren’t our interviews just reality shows where we perform like monkeys for a paycheck? The TV show just made the subtext the text. It was honest in its cruelty.

 

As the credits rolled, the winner—a boy who couldn’t spell ‘Economy’ but could dance beautifully to the theme song—held the trophy aloft. The trophy was shaped like a question mark. The audience went home, satisfied that justice had been done. The lights dimmed on the studio, leaving the empty stage in darkness. I walked out, realizing that we had successfully turned the pursuit of knowledge into a circus. The clowns were running the show, the lions were tame, and the audience was clapping as the tent burned down. It was a “hit” show. Season 2 is coming soon, featuring Kindergarteners fighting over crayons in a cage match. God save the future, because the voters certainly won’t.

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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.

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 – Om, Pause, Play.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 55 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Om, Pause, Play… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

In the ever-evolving world of digital wellness, Madhya Pradesh has achieved a milestone that even the sages of ancient times could not have imagined. YouTube, the global temple of entertainment, meditation, and cat videos, now greets its users with the resonant timbre of a priest’s voice. No longer does one simply stumble upon a yoga tutorial — first, you must endure a two-minute discourse in Sanskrit and Awadhi, delivered with the solemnity reserved for funeral ceremonies. The priests, with their sacred threads and vibrating chants, remind viewers of the eternal impermanence of Wi-Fi signals and the karmic consequences of skipping savasana. Parents in Indore and Bhopal have reported that their children, who once watched dancing kittens, now sit cross-legged in front of laptops, contemplating the profound meaning of breathing. “It’s enlightening,” says one father, trying to unlock the door behind the ritual screen. “I never knew inhaling deeply could reveal the futility of my bank balance.” The internet, which promised speed and distraction, now has slowed to a contemplative crawl — a digital dharmashala, complete with background bells and a running counter of sins to atone before proceeding to sun salutations.

These priestly interventions have transformed the business model of yoga advertising forever. Companies selling protein powders, organic teas, and expensive yoga mats now find themselves secondary to sermons about detachment, selflessness, and karmic debt. A protein shake ad might be interrupted with a line like, “Drink, if you must, but remember: even the finest whey cannot cleanse the impurities of desire.” Social media influencers who once flaunted flexibility now stand frozen in awkward poses, whispering apologies to invisible deities for their vanity. The comment sections are crowded with philosophical debates: “Does doing downward dog without chanting Om accumulate sin?” or “If I skip this ad, will my ancestors reincarnate as mosquitoes?” Yoga, once a simple exercise routine, has become a moral examination. Madhya Pradesh viewers now report feelings of guilt, enlightenment, and mild back pain simultaneously — a trifecta previously thought unattainable in one sitting. The priests’ booming voices have become the background score of both ambition and despair, reminding the modern seeker that even YouTube is now a cosmic courtroom.

The impact on domestic life is equally dramatic. Families preparing for breakfast now pause mid-toast, listening to a priest explain the sacred geometry of lungs and intestines. Teenagers in Gwalior, formerly glued to gaming consoles, now practice pranayama while muttering mantras they do not understand, sometimes in reverse order. “I feel my chakras wobble,” one student reports, “but I am too afraid to eat my instant noodles without approval from the divine commentator.” Parents observe that children who once rushed through morning routines now linger for the audio sermons, measuring each breath as if it could save their karmic balance. Even the family dog seems affected, staring into empty space during priestly invocations, as if contemplating the meaning of fetch. The house becomes a shrine, the kitchen a meditation hall, and the bathroom a place for silent reflection on one’s life choices. One cannot open a fridge without acknowledging the impermanence of yogurt, and even the kettle whistles with subtle judgment.

Entrepreneurs have quickly adapted to this new spiritual-commercial hybrid. Yoga mat companies now include a disclaimer: “Mat may or may not absorb negative energy. For best results, chant Om thrice before stepping onto the mat, or consult your nearest YouTube priest.” Influencers market gadgets claiming alignment of phone vibrations with breath cycles. Some have begun hosting live sessions where a priest explains the moral consequences of improper postures. Madhya Pradesh has thus become the unlikely epicenter of “Ethical Yoga Commerce,” a combination of devotion, capitalism, and mild hysteria. People pay for subscriptions, not for yoga tutorials, but to gain permission to inhale, exhale, and exist without spiritual indictment. Even government wellness campaigns have started collaborating with priests for authenticity, turning public health into a moral enterprise. The modern citizen now seeks fitness, enlightenment, and approval — all at once — while being gently scolded for enjoying Netflix.

The psychological impact is worth noting. Viewers experience a rollercoaster of guilt, clarity, and bewilderment. Sitting in front of screens for guided yoga now feels like attending a celestial tribunal. A Madhya Pradesh resident reports: “I did the plank position, and the voice reminded me of my childhood sins. I am unsure if my core strengthened or if my soul gained weight.” People awaken at dawn, not for meditation or nature, but to avoid missing ads in which priests pontificate about virtue. Even those who attempt rebellious silence find themselves humming mantras subconsciously. Sleep patterns adjust to sermon lengths; social interactions become prayerful; casual small talk risks karmic penalties. The line between exercise, spirituality, and existential audit is blurred — and in this blurring, Madhya Pradesh has become a laboratory of human patience, endurance, and unintended humor.

Politically, the phenomenon has generated unanticipated consequences. Citizens demand official recognition for YouTube priestly services, proposing certifications, subsidies, and even ritual tax benefits. Local panchayats debate whether phone data plans should include compulsory spiritual content, lest the populace miss divine guidance. Fitness instructors now attend courses in reciting Sanskrit with emotion, to match the priests’ intensity, lest their students’ karma be in question. Advertisers scramble to align messaging with dharmic principles, often consulting astrologers before launching promotions. Madhya Pradesh, once known for forts and festivals, is now celebrated for its pioneering model of technologically mediated morality. Even visitors report experiencing subtle guilt for arriving without a proper mat, creating an amusing but sincere effect on tourism.

Amid this chaos, the satire is unavoidable. The line between enlightenment and irritation, devotion and distraction, morality and marketing is hilariously thin. Families find themselves laughing at their own seriousness, teenagers roll their eyes while reciting mantras, and the cat still refuses to align its chakras. The absurdity is heart-touching: human beings earnestly seeking balance and health, guided by voices that oscillate between divinity and commercial motivation. Madhya Pradesh becomes the stage where modernity, tradition, commerce, and satire collide beautifully. Every ad is a gentle reminder that in the age of technology, even spirituality can be commodified — yet human humor, observation, and heart remain untouched.

Finally, one cannot ignore the hidden magic. Despite the absurdity, viewers report feeling lighter, calmer, and unexpectedly reflective. Perhaps it is the combination of yoga, morality, and persistent priestly guidance that nudges the soul into awareness. Madhya Pradesh teaches a lesson to the world: even when the universe, capitalism, and technology conspire to complicate simple practices, sincerity, humor, and participation create meaning. YouTube’s screens, once portals of distraction, now become classrooms of heart, breath, and subtle laughter. The priest’s voice, though commanding and sometimes terrifying, becomes a soundtrack to human resilience and gentle reflection. In the end, the satire is not cruel but loving — showing us that even in the quirkiest, most commercialized formats, the heart finds its way back to sincerity, laughter, and perhaps, a perfect sun salutation.

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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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