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
- 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 Lamentable Chronicle of the Man in the Manger.
☆ Witful Warmth# 57 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ The Lamentable Chronicle of the Man in the Manger… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
It was not so much a tale of yore, but of that very era when Time, a concept no longer measured by the ticking of a personal watch, had become a stagnant, heavy commodity, trapped and festering within the official clocks of government offices. Our scene is set in the Panchayat Bhavan of Ram-Rajya-Nagar, a place more a sepulchre of civic virtue than a house of governance, where the cobwebs upon its walls considered themselves to be of historical significance, and where a stubborn, stout-hearted old fellow, Mr. Gyanprakash Upadhyay, held court, deeming himself the sole guardian of history’s sacred trust. His chair was not a chair at all, but a splintered throne, upon which he sat in such a manner as a king might survey his hapless subjects. His beard, a veritable thicket of whiskers, had, over the course of decades, crept into the very folds of his belly, much like the public funds meant for the people’s welfare had been absorbed into some bottomless, unseen coffer. To him, progress was merely the act of penning the word ‘Progress’ upon a file, and then, most dutifully, taking up his position upon it, as a serpent upon a stolen hoard. “Hark, you young ruffians of today!” he would wheeze, his voice a gravelly protest against the very air he breathed, “In my time, we would fetch the files ourselves, we would carry them ourselves, and yet we were blessed with the good sense to retire only after twenty-five long years of faithful service, whilst you, in your indolent fashion, mewl and moan for but one solitary document.” There resided in his eyes a peculiar glimmer, a flicker of malevolent delight, born only when the light of a young man’s hope was extinguished. Upon his desk, beneath a thick, suffocating blanket of dust, lay a file grandly titled, ‘The Solar Energy Irrigation Scheme.’ He presided over it with the solemnity of a bygone potentate, as though it were not a public document, but a priceless, long-lost treasure. He neither understood nor needed the contents of said file; his sole purpose was the display of his authority through the mere act of sitting upon it. “The youth of this generation, with their social media crusades and their fleeting revolutions, find their tongues tied when faced with true authority,” he would proclaim, polishing a long-neglected lantern whose glass was as clouded as his own benighted mind.
Gathered about this venerated file were three such “poor horses,” though calling them mere horses would be a disservice to the noble creature; nay, they were the educated unemployed of the village. Their names, I must tell you, were Suresh, the farmer with a dream; Ramesh, the engineer with a degree; and Mahesh, the artist with a heart full of yearning. For months, they had made a pilgrimage to the Panchayat Bhavan, dedicating the vibrant energy of their youth and the fire of their every aspiration to the altar of Gyanprakash’s dusty table. Their speech, filled with the modern vernacular of the corporate world, sounded to Gyanprakash like some unholy foreign tongue. “Blimey, this file holds the entire scripture of our future,” Suresh would lament, a look of profound despair upon his face, “but the script, alas, is of a terrible, terrible horror film, with a most tragic ending.” Ramesh, with a wry smile, would pour out the anguish of his soul, “It is the very case of the dog in the manger, is it not? Gyanprakash will not partake of the plan himself, nor will he suffer us to do so.” Upon hearing such words, Gyanprakash would swell with a righteous indignation. “Hark! What dog? What manger? You have rendered our most holy tongue a common farce. Your language, I tell you, is of no home, and of no port,” he would declare, lacing his voice with a bitterness so potent it felt as a direct injection of poison into the listener’s ears. And the poor youths, with their bellies empty and their hearts hollowed out by a great chasm of hopelessness, could do naught but stare. Their laughter, their dreams, their very hopes, were interred beneath that dusty, wretched file. All they begged for was a single opportunity, a chance to prove their worth. But in the land of Gyanprakash, the word ‘chance’ did not exist; there were only two specters, ‘Ignorance’ and ‘Arrogance,’ who would, with monstrous glee, feast upon every nascent flight of fancy.
One day, with a courage born of pure desperation, Suresh stood before Gyanprakash and addressed him directly, “Mr. Gyanprakash, we are all educated folk! We possess degrees in engineering and a thorough knowledge of agriculture. Should this ‘Solar Energy Irrigation Scheme’ file be processed, our village may yet see a revolution in farming!” Upon hearing this, Gyanprakash’s half-shut eyes creaked open, as a rusty, ancient gate might groan open after decades of disuse. His face contorted with such an expression as though Suresh had revealed some terrible secret. “Hah! So you are educated? How am I to know this? You come here and merely idle away your precious time. Of what use is your education? My education was naught but the knowledge of the alphabet, and yet I understood the ways of the world. You, sir, are but a bookworm, a mere slave to the printed page!” he would mock, with a disdainful flick of his hand. “And what, pray tell, would you do with this file? It is a government file, a sacred trust, what would you do with such a thing?” he would ask, as if the file were a private estate bequeathed to him by his ancestors. To him, the file was but a symbol, a testament to his power, his influence, his very existence. He cared not a whit for what was written inside, nor what glorious scheme it detailed. It was enough that the file was in his possession, and that no one else could lay claim to it. His eyes, I must confess, held the very same demonic sparkle as a child’s when he hides his piggy bank, even if it contains not a single farthing. And thus, Gyanprakash’s cruel posture slowly but surely shattered the piggy banks of those young men’s dreams, which had contained nothing but air to begin with, and now, even that air was escaping into the bitter, cold night.
The reason for Gyanprakash’s bizarre conduct was a matter of no logic or earthly sense. It was merely a facet of his very being—a part of him that compelled him to say ‘nay’ to every single thing. He derived a profound sense of satisfaction from the fact that someone, anyone, was listening to him, that someone was begging him for a favour. In his mind’s eye, the youths who sought a path to their livelihood were but the ‘side heroes’ in the grand, sweeping epic of his life. He took great pleasure in the notion that he was the ‘hero’ of his own story, and that all others were merely ‘extras.’ “I am keeping this file for my grandson,” he declared one day to Ramesh, who had just returned from the city with a new, brightly-coloured mobile phone. “When my grandson comes of age, he will read this file and understand the grand schemes our government devises.” In truth, his grandson had not yet drawn his first breath. And yet, his lie, a most magnificent and brazen falsehood, lent a terrible weight to his arrogant words. He was perfectly content in his own imaginary world, a kingdom where he was the monarch and all others his humble subjects. He was the master of an empire in which there was no ‘circle of life,’ but a ‘circle of influence.’ To maintain this influence, he would stoop to any depth. “Why do you hunger for this employment? Find some labour, till the fields, do honest work. These files give you nothing but false hope,” he would lecture. He had forgotten, peradventure, that one day his own grandson might find himself wandering from door to door, begging for a file, only to be met by a Gyanprakash just like him. But this was a truth he could not, would not, comprehend, for all he loved was his power, his arrogance, and the influence of his ‘beard in the belly.’
The youths’ patience, I am heartbroken to report, was now on the precipice of a terrible fall. They had, up to this point, employed every tactic imaginable to sway Gyanprakash. Some had touched his feet, others had sung praises to his glory, and one even bestowed upon him the title of the city’s ‘superstar.’ But Gyanprakash’s arrogance was a stone of the most ancient variety, upon which no word or deed could leave a mark. His pronouncements were like the dialogue of some forgotten, black-and-white film, bearing no relevance to the world of today. “You are as a father to us, Gyanprakash ji,” Mahesh had said one day, in a desperate act of reverence. “Please bless us so that we may stand upon our own two feet.” Gyanprakash, with a flick of his hand, had cut him off immediately. “Do not use your cinema-drivel upon me. I am not a ‘father,’ I am a representative of the government. And I give you no blessing, but a ‘right,’ to come and go from this place as you please.” His sarcasm was a blow more wounding than a sword’s edge. Every word he uttered was a taunt, a jest that would draw not laughter, but tears. “I am merely guarding this file,” he would say, “lest some rascal or thief make off with it.” Upon hearing this, Ramesh had rested his head against the wall, a hollow look in his eyes. He could not comprehend how a man could so thoroughly deceive himself. The file was more than a treasure; it contained not only the youths’ dreams, but the hopes of their families, the medicines for their ailing mothers, and the school fees of their younger siblings. But Gyanprakash cared not a jot for any of this. He only loved his chair, his table, and his dusty file.
Slowly, but with a terrible certainty, the weight of this despair began to crush the youths’ spirits. Suresh, who had once dreamt of becoming a farmer and bringing a new agricultural revolution to the village, now toiled as a daily wage laborer on a city construction site. His mind, his knowledge, his immense strength, were now limited to hauling bricks and lifting bags of cement. One day, whilst he worked, an old friend asked, “Suresh, what became of your agricultural studies?” Suresh merely smiled. His smile was a mask of pain, of profound disappointment, and of a defeat so absolute it left no room for tears. On the other hand, Mahesh, the artist, had taken to drowning his art in drink. Where once there were colours, there was now a deep, abyssal blackness. “A single file buried so many dreams; one Gyanprakash ruined so many lives,” his painted lament became famous throughout the city, yet no one understood it. No one praised his art, no one felt his pain. All these tragedies were unfolding around Gyanprakash, but he remained utterly oblivious. He still sat upon his throne, staring at his dusty file, muttering to himself, “The youth of today is so naive; they want everything ready-made.”
Then, one day, the dam of patience finally broke, and Ramesh, gathering every ounce of his remaining strength, confronted Gyanprakash. “Mr. Gyanprakash,” he cried, his voice trembling, “why do you do this? Why do you not allow this file to move forward? We are starving, our families are starving!” Tears streamed down Ramesh’s face, but Gyanprakash, ignoring them completely, retorted, “Do not play-act this drama before me. I have seen thousands of these ‘film heroes,’ who weep and wail at first, only to do anything for their own selfish interests.” Upon hearing this, Ramesh’s tears dried up. In their place, his eyes held a strange, terrible fire, such as might be seen before a volcano erupts. “You are that dog who sits in the manger and will not let the horses eat hay!” Ramesh declared. But Gyanprakash did not take this seriously. He thought it a new, odd idiom invented by the children of today. “What is this ‘dog dog’ you speak of? Do you call me a dog? I am a respected citizen of the government! And this file, this is my private property!” Gyanprakash’s face turned a furious red, like a boiled tomato. He clutched the file tightly to his chest, as a child might clutch a precious toy. “Now, all of you, get out of here, and let me live in peace!” His words shattered the youths’ hearts like a pane of glass, scattering their hopes and dreams to the wind. They all left in a mournful silence, their eyes no longer holding tears, but a deep, terrible, and painful emptiness.
After that day, a great and terrible silence descended upon the Panchayat Bhavan. Suresh’s father, the farmer, despairing after a failed crop, took his own life. Ramesh, with a heavy heart, left the village forever. And Mahesh, one tragic night, was found dead beside one of his own painful paintings, having succumbed to drink. The solar energy scheme was never spoken of again in the village. Gyanprakash, however, still sat upon his throne, with the dusty file in his lap. He was happy. He felt that he had shown these ‘incompetent’ youths their rightful place. There was no more noise, no more fuss, no one asked him for anything. There was peace. The file’s name, ‘Solar Energy Irrigation Scheme,’ was eventually changed to ‘Clean Village Campaign.’ In truth, the file was a waste management project that could have given those youths employment and cleaned up the entire village. But because of Gyanprakash’s ‘sitting,’ no waste was cleaned, no one found a job, and the youths’ lives were terribly lost. Gyanprakash sits upon that file to this very day. The beard in his belly has grown even longer, but he feels no remorse. In his eyes, there is still that same demonic glimmer, the glimmer of a man who has accomplished nothing himself, and has prevented others from doing anything either. And the most heartbreaking truth of all is that there are many Gyanprakashes like him, still sitting upon such files, ruining the world. This thought, my friends, causes not just the eyes to weep, but the very soul to cry out in anguish
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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
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