(Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi—an ex Naval Officer, possesses a multifaceted personality. He served as a Senior Advisor in prestigious Supercomputer organisation C-DAC, Pune. He was involved in various Artificial Intelligence and High-Performance Computing projects of national and international repute. He has got a long experience in the field of ‘Natural Language Processing’, especially, in the domain of Machine Translation. He has taken the mantle of translating the timeless beauties of Indian literature upon himself so that it reaches across the globe. He has also undertaken translation work for Shri Narendra Modi, the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, which was highly appreciated by him. He is also a member of ‘Bombay Film Writer Association’.
We present Capt. Pravin Raghuvanshi ji’s amazing poem “~ Fire…~”. We extend our heartiest thanks to the learned author Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi Ji (who is very well conversant with Hindi, Sanskrit, English and Urdu languages) and his artwork.)
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
Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
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.
Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
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, 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
Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
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.
Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
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.
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?
(Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi—an ex Naval Officer, possesses a multifaceted personality. He served as a Senior Advisor in prestigious Supercomputer organisation C-DAC, Pune. He was involved in various Artificial Intelligence and High-Performance Computing projects of national and international repute. He has got a long experience in the field of ‘Natural Language Processing’, especially, in the domain of Machine Translation. He has taken the mantle of translating the timeless beauties of Indian literature upon himself so that it reaches across the globe. He has also undertaken translation work for Shri Narendra Modi, the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, which was highly appreciated by him. He is also a member of ‘Bombay Film Writer Association’.
We present Capt. Pravin Raghuvanshi ji’s amazing poem “~ Beyond Nirvana…~”. We extend our heartiest thanks to the learned author Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi Ji (who is very well conversant with Hindi, Sanskrit, English and Urdu languages) and his artwork.)
🌌Thanksgiving and Indian Consciousness: A Reflection of Gratitude 🌌
The celebration of Thanksgiving in the Western world and the expression of gratitude in Indian culture reveal a profound similarity in the fundamental values of humanity. Though the rituals, customs, and expressions may differ, the underlying essence remains the same.
Thanksgiving, celebrated in November, is a time when Americans come together to express gratitude for the harvest and the blessings of life. Similarly, in India, festivals like Baisakhi, Onam, and Pongal are celebrated to acknowledge the bounty of nature. The Indian tradition of offering prayers to the sun, reciting the Gayatri mantra, and expressing gratitude to the elements reflects the same sentiment.
The Indian sages emphasized the importance of gratitude not just as a ritual but as a way of life. The Bhagavad Gita teaches us to dedicate our actions to the divine, recognizing that everything is a gift. This philosophy frees us from the burden of ego and makes us humble, acknowledging our place in the universe.
The American tradition of Thanksgiving highlights the importance of family, community, and sharing with those in need. Similarly, Indian festivals bring people together, strengthening bonds and fostering a sense of belonging.
In today’s materialistic world, the relevance of gratitude cannot be overstated. It is the foundation upon which lasting relationships and achievements are built. By cultivating gratitude, we shift our focus from what we lack to what we have, leading to greater contentment and peace.
The Indian-American community has infused Thanksgiving with a unique blend of cultural flavors, creating a fusion that celebrates the diversity of human experience. As we come together to share meals and stories, we are reminded that gratitude is a universal language that transcends borders and cultures.
Let us strive to make gratitude a part of our daily lives, recognizing the beauty in the world around us and expressing appreciation for the blessings we receive. May the spirit of Thanksgiving inspire us to cultivate a deeper sense of gratitude, compassion, and connection with all beings.
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
Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
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.
Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
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.
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.
(Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi—an ex Naval Officer, possesses a multifaceted personality. He served as a Senior Advisor in prestigious Supercomputer organisation C-DAC, Pune. He was involved in various Artificial Intelligence and High-Performance Computing projects of national and international repute. He has got a long experience in the field of ‘Natural Language Processing’, especially, in the domain of Machine Translation. He has taken the mantle of translating the timeless beauties of Indian literature upon himself so that it reaches across the globe. He has also undertaken translation work for Shri Narendra Modi, the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, which was highly appreciated by him. He is also a member of ‘Bombay Film Writer Association’.
We present Capt. Pravin Raghuvanshi ji’s amazing poem “~ Balance…~”. We extend our heartiest thanks to the learned author Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi Ji (who is very well conversant with Hindi, Sanskrit, English and Urdu languages) and his artwork.)
~ Balance… ~
☆
An ocean of desire
—ever restless,
unappeased in the
breadth of finite
human palm…
Between the asking tide
and the fragile hand
a life leans precariously
in an upheaval—
shrinking on
borrowed tomorrows
or widening inward
until the infinite
resigns, quietly—
Where sea meets skin
all scale dissolves
The drop recounts
the lost horizon
Balance is not merely held
it becomes an ever
lasting awakening..!
(Inspired by Shri Sanjay Bhardwaj Ji’s poem संतुलन)
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
Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
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.
Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
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?
(Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi—an ex Naval Officer, possesses a multifaceted personality. He served as a Senior Advisor in prestigious Supercomputer organisation C-DAC, Pune. He was involved in various Artificial Intelligence and High-Performance Computing projects of national and international repute. He has got a long experience in the field of ‘Natural Language Processing’, especially, in the domain of Machine Translation. He has taken the mantle of translating the timeless beauties of Indian literature upon himself so that it reaches across the globe. He has also undertaken translation work for Shri Narendra Modi, the Hon’ble Prime Minister of India, which was highly appreciated by him. He is also a member of ‘Bombay Film Writer Association’.
We present Capt. Pravin Raghuvanshi ji’s amazing poem “~ Bird of Destiny…~”. We extend our heartiest thanks to the learned author Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi Ji (who is very well conversant with Hindi, Sanskrit, English and Urdu languages) and his artwork.)
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
Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
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.
Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
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.
~ Fire… ~ 
