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 – Love Merger: An Advanced Love Story.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 66 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Love Merger: An Advanced Love Story… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

It was a golden, high-tech morning in the year 2050. The atmosphere in the neighborhood’s “Oxygen Park” was unique. Two elderly men sat there with oxygen cylinders on their shoulders, opening the “files” of their vintage memories. They were reminiscing about the old days when lovers would stand outside houses and perform “manual tasks” like throwing pebbles at windows. Today, however, was the era of remote romance and cloud-based attachments.

Nearby, a young man named Alex-Paul was checking data on his smart glasses and sighing deeply. Seeing this, his friend Cyber-Sylvester asked, “What’s wrong, bro? Did your girlfriend log out with someone else, or did your emotional cloud crash?”

Alex gave a philosophical smile, looking like a man who had just suffered a massive spiritual loss. He said, “No man, the tragedy is that she’s back! I sent my partner, Zara-Quantum, on a three-month ‘free trial’ to a neighbor so she could upgrade her exploration skills. But now she says she wants to renew my subscription! This is total backwardness! She should have been progressive and multi-tasking. She should have been making HD reels of strangers, but instead, she’s back here talking about making tea and being ‘loyal.’ I’m thinking of suing her in the Emotional Consumer Court!”

Cyber-Sylvester comforted him, “Don’t worry, society is in a transition phase. Slowly, she’ll learn to be ‘open-source’ with others.”

Actually, Alex’s pain was twofold. He was hurt because Zara was “dumping” him at home instead of launching him into the international market. He wanted Zara to “offer” him at a high-profile Metaverse kitty party so he could realize his global marketing value. He was annoyed that while the whole world followed the “sharing economy,” Zara treated him like a private asset or household furniture. He dreamed of a modern type of bravery—where Zara would send him on a date with another woman, lock the door from the outside, and live-stream the data to win a “Gold Medal for Progressive Partners.”

Meanwhile, pseudo-intellectuals were holding a seminar at a five-star center. They claimed old-fashioned lovers were “unprofessional” because they got jealous and violent. A “Relationship Algorithm Specialist” shouted from the stage, “Friends! Real manhood isn’t about holding her in your arms; it’s about live-streaming and gathering social media likes! A lover who doesn’t shortlist a second lover for his girlfriend is not a lover—he’s a ‘Love-Terrorist’!”

Finally, Alex gave Zara-Quantum an ultimatum: “Zara, if you don’t go on date with a stranger by next week and send me the ‘Behind the Scenes’ photos and sensory data, I will block you from my life’s friend-list forever!”

Poor Alex just wanted his girlfriend to join the mainstream and be “evolved.” By 2050, this new relationship model was seen as a sustainable solution to old crimes. Possessiveness was now declared a serious mental illness, and “sharing” was the highest virtual virtue. New-age lovers like Alex believed that murder was a “waste of resources and data loss,” while sharing a girlfriend was a long-term social investment.

Alex’s mind had become so “global” that he started looking for new paths for himself. He created a profile on the “Dating App (Ultra-Pro-Max Version).” He layered so many AI masks and digital filters on his face that if his own DNA report saw him, it would mistake him for a tourist from another planet and ask for dollars! Under all that digital makeup, he had forgotten his real identity.

That night, he saw a profile: Neo-Night-Rider. The avatar was so magical and shiny that Alex’s heart started racing at gigabyte speed. He thought this was the perfect stranger to “acquire” for Zara to boost his social standing. He hit Super-Like, Mega-Like, and even God-Like! He had no idea who was behind that digital screen.

Eventually, Zara succeeded in her mission to find a new boyfriend. Alex was so happy he started dancing in his Virtual Reality suit and distributed “Digital Sugar-Free Laddu” coupons to the whole neighborhood. “My Vision 2050 is a success!” he cheered.

Just then, Zara video-called him. “Alex darling, your recommendation worked! I found my secondary partner—and guess what? You recommended him yourself by Super-Liking him last Sunday! Meet your new relative and my new project!”

Zara turned the camera. Alex’s eyes nearly popped out. Sitting on the sofa was his own younger brother, Sonu-Cyber, wearing Alex’s favorite T-shirt and grinning.

“Sonu? You?” Alex stammered. “But I liked Neo-Night-Rider who had six-pack abs and a robotic supermodel face!”

Sonu-Cyber laughed. “Big brother, in 2050, faces are just ‘display ads.’ I bought that filter on the Dark Web. You taught me that hiding your identity is ‘progress.’ So I thought, why let the family wealth go outside? When I saw your Super-Like, I took it as a divine sign for a family collaboration!”

Alex was an “evolved” man of 2050. After a moment of confusion, he started laughing loudly. “Wow! This is maximum output! At least now I don’t have to pay for petrol, Wi-Fi data, or restaurant bills for her dates. I can monitor this ‘in-house project’ myself. And Sonu, you’ll make the smart-coffee tomorrow because you’re the ‘Intern Lover’ now!”

But Zara had one more bomb to drop. “Alex, Sonu has a return gift for you. He matched your profile with ‘Madam-Moon’ from our neighborhood—the one who has had three divorces and five renewals. She’s inviting you for a candle-light dinner to show you her ‘vintage emotional data’ collection. Sonu says everyone must do their ‘sharing duty’ to be a holistic family.”

Alex’s eyes filled with joy. “Amazing! A hybrid model of old traditions and new progress!”

Suddenly, a Robotic Police officer arrived at the door. “Alex sir, your brother Sonu and girlfriend Zara have ‘logged you out’ of this house. They deleted your profile from the ‘agreement’ and rented your room on the Metaverse to a foreign partner. You are now a ‘Freelance Lover.’ Please find a new software and a new roof.”

Alex looked at his phone, sighed, and smiled. “No problem! At least now I am ‘unlimited’ and ‘unbound!’ Rejection is just a system update.”

Outside, Madam-Moon was honking her electric scooter. Alex ran to sit on the back seat. In the morning of 2050, Alex proved that as long as the “sharing data packet” is active, resources and emotions never end—whether it’s a room or a heart.

The elderly neighbor watched this, ripped off his oxygen mask, and thought, “Death is better than this ‘progressive’ air.” But Alex just waved goodbye and disappeared with Madam-Moon.

It’s true—no one lost here; everyone just got “shared.” Whether Alex was looted or became “globally free” is a decision only the algorithms of 2050 can make.

****

Note: It is not necessary that the editorial board agrees with the opinions/views expressed in the satire/article.

© 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 – Mechanical Motherhood.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 65 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Mechanical Motherhood… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

That afternoon in Ratlam wasn’t just weather; it was like a long, exhausted yawn of a burning government file. The sun was spitting fireballs across the sky, much like a brand-new officer slamming ‘Urgent’ stamps on dusty old folders. The dogs wandering near the municipal dustbins were under the huge delusion that they were first-class citizens of ‘Independent India.’ Poor fools! They didn’t know that to be a citizen in this republic, two legs aren’t enough. You need a ration card and the basic qualification of having taken at least one dip in the holy river of corruption. Being a dog is the greatest moral crime in this country because it follows that old-fashioned loyalty which our system has long ago declared ‘outdated’ and tossed into the trash.

On that same melting tar road, ‘Modernity’ zoomed past on a two-wheeler, moving with a speed as fast and hollow as election promises. Two ‘civilized’ women were riding the scooter—the kind who look like they memorized and then tore up all chapters of kindness and religion in childhood so that no ‘confusion’ remains. Tied to the back was a rope, and at the end of that rope was a puppy, who was under the impression that he was out for a ‘walk.’ The puppy hadn’t yet learned how to ‘bark’ properly, but he was being given international-level training in how to ‘drag.’ As the scooter speeded up, his tiny paws began to rub against the road, just like a widow’s pension application rubs against the stairs of a government office. The woman on the back seat would glance at him occasionally, like a pro tax officer checking an honest man’s pocket to see if any ‘balance’ was left.

In our great nation, ‘Motherhood’ has been advertised so much that it now exists only in commercials and political slogans. The motherhood sitting on that scooter had probably left its ‘duty’ behind at some traffic signal after bribing a cop. The puppy’s skin was peeling off, and the tar road was turning red with his blood, looking like a map of a ‘Smart City.’ People passed by as if a VIP convoy was moving, where bowing your head is the only guarantee of safety. In India, ‘Ignoring’ is a national art in which we are all born gold-medalists. If you can watch a life gasping on the road and not stop chewing your tobacco, believe me, you deserve to be declared the most ‘mature’ and ‘experienced’ citizen of this democracy. Sensitivity here is just a ‘device’ that is switched ‘on’ only while taking a selfie.

The puppy was finished, the scooter stopped, and the woman tossed him into the bushes exactly like a politician tosses his manifesto after winning an election—wipe the evidence and move on. The next day, the same woman was sitting in her air-conditioned room, getting teary-eyed watching ‘the horrors of war’ on TV. “Oh God! How cruel the world has become!” she sighed. Just then, her teacup slipped, and she screamed at her servant as if he wasn’t a human, but ‘sin’ itself in person. Outside the window, the bloodstain on the scooter tire was laughing out loud. That stain knew how thin this coat of civilization is, and that the pride of being ‘human’ is actually buried under that lifeless piece of meat which we crush every day under the wheels of ‘progress.’

****

© 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 1% Terror: A Gen-Z Horror Story.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 64 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The 1% Terror: A Gen-Z Horror Story… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

AFor today’s youth, “Moksha” or peace is not about reaching heaven. It is simply finding a charging point next to their table in a cafe. For a Gen-Z boy like Aryan, the world does not stop because of a big war. It stops when the top-right corner of his phone turns red and screams—”Battery 1%.” This 1% feels like a ticking bomb, and he has no idea who is holding the remote.

The moment the phone hits 1%, a “Mahabharat” starts at home. Aryan, who usually ignores his mom calling him ten times by saying “Hmm… coming,” suddenly jumps up. He leaps like Spiderman whose web has just snapped. You can see a deep fear in his eyes, like a climber stuck alone on a mountain. He runs from his room to the hall like he is running a 100-meter race in the Olympics.

The real comedy happens when he finds the charger, but the cable is “cheating” on him. It only works if he bends it at a very weird angle. Now, our Gen-Z hero stands like a frozen statue, holding the wire at a perfect angle. If he even breathes too fast, the charging stops! For thirty minutes, he stands as still as an old saint. The only difference is that the saint wanted God, but Aryan just wants his Instagram Reels.

The elders of the house watch this and hold their heads in frustration. His grandfather, Dadaji, says, “In our days, we used to study under a small lamp!” Aryan thinks to himself, “Dadaji, at least the lamp didn’t have buffering issues!” For Gen-Z, a ‘Low Battery’ is like the climax of a horror movie. He feels that if the phone turns off, the world will forget him, his Snapchat Streaks will break, and he will die a “digital death.”

When the phone finally hits 2%, a calm look comes over Aryan’s face. It is like a thirsty person finding water in a desert. This 1% fear is the biggest truth of today’s world— “Life may go, but the plug must stay!”

****

© 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 Sovereignty of the Privet.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 63 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ The Sovereignty of the Privet… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆ 

In the quiet cul-de-sac of Lower Willowbrook, where the grass is legally required to be exactly 2.5 inches tall, lived Arthur Pringle and Barnaby Fitch. They had been best friends for twenty years until the Great Encroachment of Tuesday morning.

The dispute began when Arthur noticed a single, rebellious twig from Barnaby’s privet hedge crossing the invisible, federally unmapped line of their property border. It wasn’t just a twig; it was a statement. To Arthur, that half-inch of leafy intrusion was a calculated land grab, akin to the annexation of a small European principality. Rather than speaking—which is what people with “too much free time” do—Arthur responded with Passive-Aggressive Landscaping. He installed a “No Trespassing” sign specifically facing Barnaby’s birdfeeder, a move Barnaby countered by aiming his industrial-grade leaf blower at Arthur’s driveway for forty-five minutes every morning at 7:01 AM.

By Thursday, three different land surveying companies were on the scene. They spent six hours squinting through transit levels to determine if the hedge was, in fact, 0.004 centimeters over the line. The results were inconclusive, mostly because the surveyors were distracted by the catered lunch Barnaby provided to influence the neighborhood’s court of public opinion.

The conflict reached its zenith at the Monthly Homeowners Association Meeting. The agenda usually consisted of “Why the Mailman Walks Too Fast,” but tonight, it was the Shrubbery Summit. Arthur presented a 42-slide PowerPoint presentation titled Sovereignty and Shrubbery, arguing that if Barnaby’s hedge was allowed to remain, the very fabric of the neighborhood would unravel. “Today it’s a twig,” Arthur whispered dramatically into the microphone, “tomorrow, it’s a communal fire pit in my breakfast nook!” Barnaby countered with a physical exhibit: a jar of “Dust and Debris” allegedly blown from Arthur’s unkempt porch onto Barnaby’s prize-winning petunias.

The HOA board, composed of three retirees who lived for this kind of high-stakes drama, delivered a Solomon-like verdict. The hedge would be trimmed by a neutral third party—a local teenager who didn’t care about borders—and both men were required to share a symbolic pitcher of lemonade on the disputed boundary.

As they sat on their folding chairs, exactly three feet apart, a single leaf from a nearby oak tree—owned by the city—drifted down and landed perfectly across both of their laps. They spent the next four hours discussing which one of them had the legal jurisdiction to move it.

****

© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra, known for his wit and wisdom, is a prolific writer, renowned satirist, children’s literature author, and poet. He has undertaken the monumental task of writing, editing, and coordinating a total of 55 books for the Telangana government at the primary school, college, and university levels. His editorial endeavors also include online editions of works by Acharya Ramchandra Shukla.

As a celebrated satirist, Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra has carved a niche for himself, with over eight million viewers, readers, and listeners tuning in to his literary musings on the demise of a teacher on the Sahitya AajTak channel. His contributions have earned him prestigious accolades such as the Telangana Hindi Academy’s Shreshtha Navyuva Rachnakaar Samman in 2021, presented by the honorable Chief Minister of Telangana, Mr. Chandrashekhar Rao. He has also been honored with the Vyangya Yatra Ravindranath Tyagi Stairway Award and the Sahitya Srijan Samman, alongside recognition from Prime Minister Narendra Modi and various other esteemed institutions.

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra’s journey is not merely one of literary accomplishments but also a testament to his unwavering dedication, creativity, and profound impact on society. His story inspires us to strive for excellence, to use our talents for the betterment of others, and to leave an indelible mark on the world.

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