Tag: #Weekly_Column

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