Category: Articles

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 सतिरे Chips, Clicks, and the Cry of Empty Pockets.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 53 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Chips, Clicks, and the Cry of Empty Pockets… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

Now, I reckon it was a balmy Hyderabad evening, as balmy as a politician’s promise on election eve, and there I was, a poor soul, traipsing through the labyrinthine alleys of the city, searching for a chip-set for my infernal smart-contraption. Started my pilgrimage at five bells, and by eight, my spirits were as low as a snake’s belly in a ditch. This here Hyderabad, it seemed to have declared a holy war on ‘technological contentment’. The tech-parks were disgorging human beings like a leaky faucet, and the fancy gadget shops, these vegan eating-houses, and these ‘co-working’ dens were packed tighter than a sardine can on a monsoon evening. The online gaming parlors, well, they had young’uns glued to ’em like flies to a honey pot, their futures, if you can call ’em that, gambled away on glowing screens. And my chip-set? Ha! That elusive little bugger was probably holed up in some dark corner of the internet, waiting for its price to soar higher than a balloon at a carnival, much like a startup investor waiting for his golden goose to lay an egg.

I mused, in this digital purgatory, perhaps a cup of organic green tea might just cleanse my weary soul. So, I ambled into a ‘hip’ café, but lo and behold, peace was as scarce as common sense at a political rally! My inner ‘social media influencer’—a beast I usually keep chained in the basement of my conscience—awoke with a start, ready to churn out ‘reels’ faster than a politician spins lies. It brought to mind ol’ Mark Zuckerberg’s edict: “Move fast and break things.” And by Jove, this chip-set scarcity was surely breaking the back of this city’s ‘fast-growth’ gospel, wasn’t it? A chuckle, dry as a desert bone, escaped my lips. What was I, if not a digital phantom, my online identity stuck in a perpetual ‘buffering’ loop? Was I, too, one of those poor fools trying to buy ‘coding’ with ‘no-code’ tools? Likely so! This city, bless its cotton socks, had a ‘subscription plan’ for everything under the sun, except for the common decency of human compassion. I felt like a bewildered soul lost in some infernal ‘metaverse,’ where every ‘avatar’ was haggling for its worth, and I, a mere ‘user,’ had naught but the relentless ‘scroll’ of my thumb. As I stepped out, a young lad, looking as if he’d been plucked from a ‘digital detox’ clinic, extended a hand, “Master, a data pack, if you please, may your internet flourish!” I swear, if I’d had a ‘gigabyte’ to spare, I’d have given it to him to change his miserable ‘connectivity,’ but all I had was a ‘story,’ a ‘thread,’ and a ‘meme.’

Now, my ‘thinking cloud’ was racing faster than a 5G download, and that young chap’s face was playing a ‘looping GIF’ in my mind’s eye. Twenty-five, maybe thirty years old, skinny as a rail, but with a peculiar ‘no-Wi-Fi’ glint in his eyes. Was he a ‘digital pauper’ or some ‘tech-savvy’ con artist? His threadbare T-shirt and worn-out jeans were mocking the very idea of a ‘smart-casual’ dress code. I fumbled in my pocket, hunting for a ‘five-hundred MB’ pack, felt like an ‘archaeologist’ digging for ‘deleted files’ in some ancient hard drive. When I finally unearthed that paltry ’50 MB plan’ from amidst a heap of leftover data packs, it felt like unearthing ‘data from a lost civilization.’ But when I looked up, the lad was gone! ‘Invisible User’ – I declared myself the accidental inventor of a new ‘cyber-crime’ narrative. Had he truly vanished, or was my ‘data-sharing’ speed so abysmal that he figured, “Bless me, by the time you fire up that ‘hotspot,’ I’ll have begged four more ‘free Wi-Fi’ zones dry!” A ‘battery-low’ icon zipped into a nearby alley, and my brain screamed – ‘Connected!’ It was him, my ‘data-saving-campaign’ hero! “Hey, here’s your data!” I hollered, but he had ‘notification-muted’ himself so thoroughly, it was as if some ‘tech giant’ had decided to ignore user privacy altogether. He slumped onto a large charging station, his back to me, his face buried in his hands. I thought, this ‘user’ ain’t no user, he’s a ‘digital depression’ victim. Elon Musk, he once famously declared, “We are in a future where ‘Teslas’ are driving on roads, but people are still walking.” But this ‘digital’ beggar, he was hiding his ‘disconnection’ like a dirty secret, as if someone had managed to ‘monetize’ his ‘un-plugged’ existence. Was this merely ‘data-hunger,’ or a living, breathing ‘digital satire’ of this very city?

Stepping down from the cafe, I felt like I’d stumbled onto the set of a ‘web-series’ gone wrong. Right there, in the middle of the alley, a young woman, wrapped in broken headphones, a year-old child cradled in her arms, and ‘touch-screen’ tears tracing paths down her face – it was a scene so ‘pixelated’ it made my ‘4K vision’ blur for a spell. She was weeping in ’emoji’ form, as if her tears held all the ‘bugs’ of this sprawling city. I watched as her sobs subsided, and she looked at me like a ‘QR code,’ then bowed, “Sir…” Suddenly, it clicked! This was that ‘content creator’ family I’d met two years back at a workshop, when we were all trying to go ‘viral.’ “Is that your ‘follower’?” I asked, and she, with a ‘yes, sir,’ began to weave her ‘life-story.’ I reckoned, if George Orwell had witnessed this, he might’ve ripped up his next ‘dystopian’ novel and started afresh right there. She was thin as a rail, like a ‘low-battery’ warning, and her husband’s ‘network bars’ were dangling precariously, as if threatening to ‘disconnect’ at any moment. I thought, this ain’t poverty, this is a live demonstration of the ‘digital divide.’ Without needing to ask, I understood their plight. ‘Content creators’ from a ‘tier-2’ town, chasing ‘views’ like a dog chases its tail, and I remembered that first time I saw their ‘low-resolution’ predicament, and my ‘like’ button had cried out in anguish. But now, my ‘heart’ was ‘un-liked,’ a ‘hardware’ so hardened, no ‘software’ could melt it. I figured, in this country, ‘digital destitution’ wasn’t a problem, it was just a ‘trending hashtag,’ and everyone was playing their part to perfection.

“After how many ‘videos’ did this ‘viral’ child come to us? Today, he yearns for a single ‘like.'” The young woman’s words echoed in my ears like the sound of a ‘buffering’ video. I looked at the child, plump as a fresh ‘download,’ but his state was like a ‘growing subscriber’ whose ‘channel’ had suddenly been ‘deleted.’ That ‘low-battery’ little one was sucking his thumb, and it dawned on me that he wasn’t sucking his thumb, but rather, the very ‘digital ethics’ of this society. I transferred a ‘digital transaction’ into her hand, and she took it as if I’d handed her the world’s largest ‘Bitcoin.’ “If there’s any ‘remote’ job, sahib, please get us one. We’ll both ‘freelance,’ we haven’t had ‘Wi-Fi’ connected for three days.” Three days! Good heavens, these folks were dying of ‘digital deprivation’ while I was here crafting ‘memes’! Harishankar Parsai, a wise old bird, once said, “In a country where you have the freedom to curse, you don’t need the freedom to speak the truth.” And I wondered, was I, too, engaged in ‘digital hypocrisy,’ merely for the sake of my ‘keyboard’ clatter? I told her, “Online jobs ain’t easy to come by. But anyway, meet me on ‘LinkedIn’ in a week.” And I handed over my ‘profile.’ The couple looked at me with ‘thank you’ ’emojis,’ but the husband’s face carried a ‘signal-loss’ kind of anguish that words couldn’t possibly capture. His eyes screamed, “I don’t need ‘online charity,’ I need ‘real’ work!” This wasn’t satire; it was an ‘Artificial Intelligence’ ‘glitch’ that had thoroughly scrambled all my ‘algorithms.’ I reckoned, in this country, there’s no ‘virus’ bigger than the ‘digital divide,’ and no ‘software update’ more crucial than ’employment.’

Wandering through the electronics market, my mind drifted back two years, to a time when I was hunting for ‘genuine accessories’ for my new ‘iPhone.’ A ‘fast charging’ hub stood ready, and after tucking my belongings into a ‘digital locker,’ I settled into the ‘experience zone.’ The view outside? On one side, phones with ‘broken screens,’ ‘repair shops,’ and mountains of ‘e-waste’ – a scene straight out of a ‘cyber-crime’ movie, only the ‘multimedia’ colors were a bit faded. On the other side, ‘dated operating system’ gadgets, with kids playing ‘games’ like ‘professional e-sports athletes,’ begging for ‘in-app purchases’ as if their ‘lifetime subscriptions’ depended on it. ‘Users’ who shelled out money for ‘in-game items,’ those kids would ‘hack’ and extract them in a flash. Their ‘pixel-by-pixel’ tapping after money felt like a painful ‘digital entertainment’ to me. I thought, these weren’t just kids; they were ‘data miners,’ diving into the ‘virtual world’ for their ‘bread-and-butter.’ In my ‘pocket Wi-Fi’ section, a ‘tech entrepreneur’ and an ‘influencer’ boarded, looking like ‘business partners.’ They seemed to have come from ‘Cyberabad,’ seeking ‘funding’ with promises. After being ‘hacked’ during a ‘pitching session,’ they were returning to their ‘startup’ in a ‘data-corrupted’ state. Outside the ‘incubator,’ their two ‘angel investors’ stood by, and the entrepreneur offered a ‘five thousand dollar’ ‘check.’ “Only five thousand dollars given… what about the rest?” The investor’s voice was like a ‘venture capitalist’ collecting his ‘equity.’ I thought, these aren’t just investors; they’re ‘digital money launderers’!

“What rest, we agreed on five thousand dollars,” the entrepreneur said, pointing to the ‘CEO’ standing nearby. “These five thousand dollars are fine for me, give him three thousand.” The influencer, standing beside him, chimed in, “…and three thousand dollars? I won’t even give a thousand. It was settled that you’d both get a total of five thousand dollars.” I thought, this wasn’t a ‘startup pitch’; it was a bargain at a ‘black market,’ where ‘equity’ had become a subject of negotiation. Her husband pulled out a thousand dollars and offered it to the other investor. He flatly refused to take it. “If it’s one cent less than three thousand dollars, we won’t take it. They even started returning the first five thousand.” The second investor, with a ‘download-failed’ tone, sneered, “From where will such ‘budget-conscious’ startups become ‘unicorns’?” His words struck me like a ‘ransomware attack.’ The entrepreneur ‘froze,’ and his wife, the influencer, showed rapidly changing ’emojis’ of distress. Suddenly, her ‘battery’ began to ‘overflow.’ Wiping tears with a ‘power bank,’ she cried, “Smash three thousand dollars on his face!” Those two ‘mock-CEOs,’ making money from such a vile act, grinned sheepishly and walked away. The ‘file transfer’ had also started, but her ‘screen’ wouldn’t stop weeping. Her husband tried to ‘debug’ her repeatedly, but she kept crying. In a frantic ‘error-message’ voice, she cried, “Did we come all this way to hear these words from such ‘fake-profile’ people?” I thought, this woman wasn’t just a woman; she was a victim of ‘digital fraud.’ I tried to ‘recover’ her ‘corrupted data’ with a few words, but my interference wasn’t appreciated. After a while, she ‘rebooted.’ I figured, in this country, even ‘Web-3.0’ demands its ‘fees,’ and if the ‘blockchain’ falls short, they threaten with ‘NFTs.’

In Hyderabad, they were ‘tech-workers.’ Both husband and wife worked ‘remotely.’ He wrote ‘code.’ She analyzed ‘data.’ They managed their household on a ‘fixed income,’ saving quite a bit. I thought, these folks were the true face of ‘New-Age India,’ living their ‘digital’ lives independently, without any ‘government schemes.’ They had been married for eight years but were ‘childless.’ The husband was indifferent to this, but the wife couldn’t be. She had been saving money for ‘IVF’ for a year. Although the husband didn’t believe in it, he came along for his wife’s sake. I thought, this wasn’t ‘medical tourism’; it was ‘biotech hope,’ which people sought in ‘clinics.’ From ‘online consultation’ to ‘Hyderabad,’ I kept talking to them. The husband and wife shared a deeply ‘chemical bond’ of love. Both thoroughly enjoyed their ‘digital’ journey. They gave money to every ‘charity link’ that came their way. From ‘delivery’ apps to ‘subscriptions’ and ‘premium features,’ they enjoyed buying everything. I thought, these people knew how to buy ‘happiness’ ‘online,’ even if it was ‘virtual.’ When we bid farewell upon reaching Hyderabad, it felt as if ‘connections’ of many years were now ‘disconnecting.’ I thought, in this country, people ‘follow’ each other as quickly as they ‘unfollow.’ The place where they were sitting was just a ‘Wi-Fi zone’ away. Knowing that at least today they would get food with the money I had ‘UPI’ed them filled me with immense satisfaction. I thought, my ‘digital benevolence’ had come alive, if only for a short while.

Suddenly, a young woman, with ‘scattered pixels’ in her hair, came running towards me, weeping. She stood before me, glaring like a ‘bug.’ I looked back at her, her eyes brimming with ‘errors.’ It was that same ‘content creator.’ “Sir, have you seen my ‘account’? Have you seen my ‘channel’?” “Your ‘account’! The one that was ‘deleted’?” “Yes, that one… someone ‘hacked’ it.” I blurted out, “It won’t go anywhere. Don’t worry, where’s your husband? Let’s report it to the ‘cyber cell’.” Comforting her, I started walking with her towards her ‘IP address.’ It was eight o’clock at night. There was no other ‘software,’ so I bought a ‘connection’ from an ‘expensive foreign VPN’ store and came to her house through the same ‘dark web’ route. There, her husband sat in a deplorable state, his head in his ‘hard disk.’ He looked at me like a ‘Blue Screen of Death.’ “I left the ‘channel’ with them to get ‘cloud storage.’ When I returned, it was gone,” she said. After that, she didn’t stay in front of me. Pounding her ‘mouse’ and ‘keyboard,’ she cried out… “My ‘viral’ child, where have you gone… Ha…” She ran into the ‘alley’ between the ‘phishing sites,’ questioning anyone carrying a ‘recovered account.’ Her wailing and lamenting grew louder and louder. “Let’s report it to the ‘cyber cell’,” I told her husband. “I’ve ‘scanned’ everywhere. I’ve also ‘complained’ to the ‘police’.” After staying there for five minutes, I started walking towards my house. After years of ‘networking,’ a ‘follower’ had been gained. Now, where had it ‘vanished’?” When my wife came to me, holding our son in her ‘tablet,’ I remembered that ‘data-lost’ child and the ‘suffering motherboard.’ I ‘zoomed’ in on the child and kissed him. Two days passed. An ‘app developer’ was shouting from outside. I called out to the ‘app developer’ and went out. The ‘app developer’ was none other than that ‘tech-worker’ from Secunderabad. He had arranged beautiful ‘apps’ in a ‘play store’ basket. Placing the ‘play store’ on a ‘laptop-like’ platform, I began choosing ‘apps.’ His lips trembled, his eyes welled up. “Did you find the ‘account’?” I asked. “It won’t be found.” “Why won’t it be found?” “The ‘account’ wasn’t ‘hacked’; this sinner sold it for fifty ‘dollars’.” “You sold the child’s ‘account’…” He sat on the ‘laptop,’ wiping his eyes, and said, “To save the child, she was ready to go ‘offline’ and die of hunger. Whatever ‘digital content’ she got, she’d give to the child. Even after giving so much, the child’s ‘data’ wasn’t full, sir…” “Then?” “Then I couldn’t find any other ‘loophole’ for income.” “A ‘dark web king’ from outside asked for the child. He promised good ‘profiling.’ Thinking it was for everyone’s good, I sold the ‘account.’ My wife doesn’t know about this.” I sighed. “This sinner sold the child with these very ‘clicks.’ I’m doing ‘app development’ with those very dollars. Every day I earn two-four ‘dollars.’ I’ve told my wife that you gave me money for ‘funding’ the business. If she finds out about selling the child, she’ll ‘system crash’ herself.” “How could your ‘moral algorithm’ allow this…? You got this ‘account’ by seeking ‘funding’ from ‘Cyberabad’?” I asked. Hearing my words, he just kept ‘buffering’ for a long time, as if that ‘loading’ contained every ‘click’ of that child, every ‘tear’ of that mother, and every ‘error’ of that father. I thought, in this world, there’s no ‘virus’ bigger than ‘digital divide,’ and no ‘cyber attack’ bigger than ‘hunger.’ And finally, I could only say, “Oh, ‘online life,’ what a ‘business model’ you have, where a mother’s ‘like’ and a father’s ‘subscription’ are sold in the ‘dark web’!”

****

© 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 Leadership By Loudspeaker: Akarmpur’s Path To Parched Prosperity.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 52 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Leadership By Loudspeaker: Akarmpur’s Path To Parched Prosperity… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

I still vividly recall those golden mornings in Akarmpur, a village where every problem found its solution not through diligent effort, but through a new ‘totka’ – a ritual, a gimmick, a quick fix. Akarmpur was not merely a village; it was a philosophy, a living embodiment of the maxim: ‘Do less, show more.’ Here, hard work was perpetually sidelined, relegated to the margins, while ostentation, pretense, and immediate ‘ritualistic compliance’ were elevated to the status of ‘supreme duty.’ The people of Akarmpur, as if liberated from a centuries-old curse of labor, now sought only the path of ease and comfort. If the specter of drought loomed over the village, instead of tilling the fields, a team of priests would be summoned. They would gaze intently at the sky, attempting to ‘mesmerize’ the clouds with their chants. When crops failed, there was no deliberation on the quality of seeds or the lack of irrigation; instead, easy remedies like ‘Shani’s donation’ or ‘Rahu’s wrath’ were sought.

Our village headman, Shri ‘Banaavati Lal’ – whose oratorical prowess was astounding but whose capacity for action was nil – would always declare, “Look, brothers, it’s all about ideas; action is merely a formality. When thoughts are pure, results will manifest on their own!” And the people of Akarmpur, so immersed in this cry of ‘thought revolution,’ remained oblivious to their crumbling huts, parched fields, and empty platters. Every evening, meetings were held at the Chaupal (village square) where grand theories of ‘nation-building’ were discussed. Afterwards, everyone would return to their homes, satisfied that they had offered their oblations in the ‘sacrifice of knowledge’ for the day. If someone asked, “Why is there no water?” the answer would come, “Oh, we are performing a ‘water-yagya’ for the water problem! We just need a little more ghee.” A problem was never a problem; it was merely an ‘opportunity for a ritual.’ And in the midst of these endless rituals, Akarmpur slowly, smilingly, dug its own grave. Every face was content, not because any real work had been done, but because the showmanship was so spectacular that it defied questioning! This had become the inherent nature of Akarmpur, where ‘inaction’ was the greatest ‘action.’

One day, as the sun began to scorch Akarmpur’s earth and the water in the wells receded into the netherworld, a desperate cry echoed through the village. Children whimpered from thirst, women stood helpless with empty pitchers, and men cursed the heavens. But lo and behold, our सरपंच Banaavati Lal, who saw a ‘new opportunity’ in every calamity, immediately announced an ‘unprecedented Water Crisis Aversion Grand Ritual’ (Adbhoot Jal-Sankat Nivaaran Maha-Yagya). A massive sacrificial pit was constructed in the village’s largest field. A team of twenty priests was summoned, their fees paid by the villagers who cut into their meager meals. During the ritual, white powder dissolved from a plastic container was offered instead of milk, as real milk had vanished along with the water. Fragrant oblations of ‘vegetable oil’ replaced ghee, which, while driving away flies, failed to summon any clouds. The priests chanted mantras as if reciting dialogues from a Bollywood film – loud voices, dramatic gestures, and silence as soon as ‘cut’ was called! One priest even started snoring in the middle of a mantra, but no one paid attention, for ‘devotion’ was at its peak.

The village headman proclaimed over the microphone, “Friends! This is not just a ritual; it is the ‘Grand Confluence of our Water Consciousness’! Today, we have appeased the souls of our ancestors; now water will come on its own, just like voters on election day!” And the very next day after the ritual, the pond dried up further. Yet, the village headman attributed this to the ‘immediate effect of the ritual’ – “The impurities are drying up; pure water is coming from below!” The people were hungry and thirsty, but a sense of ‘satisfaction’ was etched on their faces, for ‘something had been done.’ And when nothing works, the pretense of ‘doing something grand’ becomes the greatest solace.

The Rally of Empty Slogans: ‘Save Water, Save Nation, Print My Name in Newspaper’

When even the grand ritual failed to bring water, and the villagers, waiting for ‘holy water,’ began to wither further, the youth brigade took charge. The leader of the youth brigade, Shri ‘Hawaabaazi’ (Mr. Empty Talk), announced, “Friends! Rituals are old traditions; now is the time for ‘modern consciousness’! We will organize the ‘Save Water, Save Nation, and Get My Name Printed in the Newspaper’ rally!” A plan for the rally was drawn up. Posters were printed, featuring one or two drops of water, with the rest of the space dominated by Shri Hawaabaazi’s smiling face. Tempos were rented, blaring patriotic songs from loudspeakers, and at every intersection, slogans like ‘Water is Life!’ and ‘How will the nation survive if you die of thirst!’ were shouted. Some people in the crowd had only come for the ‘free snacks,’ and others didn’t even know what the water problem was; they were just enjoying ‘being part of the rally.’

Hawaabaazi delivered an impassioned speech, “Communalism doesn’t bring water, casteism doesn’t make water drip! We must unite for national unity, for water!” Then, two empty buckets were symbolically burned, an act termed ‘the burning of the effigy of corruption.’ People applauded heartily, because watching burning buckets was more entertaining than looking at dry wells. The rally ended. Everyone was exhausted, but with the inner satisfaction that ‘today we have done something significant!’ The next day, large pictures were splashed across newspapers, showing Hawaabaazi and his cronies with slogans, but water was still nowhere to be found. The village children were now chanting ‘national unity’ slogans, but their thirst had only intensified.

The water problem had now taken a severe turn. People were fleeing the village, and those who remained cursed their fate. Then, a renowned intellectual from the city, Professor ‘Gyanchand’ (Mr. Knowledge Moon), who had a penchant for organizing ‘seminars’ on every problem, arranged a grand seminar in the village on ‘Water Crisis: A National Discourse.’ The seminar hall was splendid, air conditioners hummed, and mineral water bottles (which the villagers could not afford) were placed on the tables. Three scholars expressed their deep concern: “The water crisis is a ‘crisis of our morality’! It is a result of ‘global climate change’! We must ‘rethink water management’!”

Professor Gyanchand delivered an hour-long, verbose speech on the ‘economic dimensions,’ ‘social implications,’ and ‘philosophical nature’ of water. Most of the audience was either sleeping or playing games on their mobile phones. At the end of the seminar, a ‘resolution’ was passed that more ‘discussions’ on ‘water conservation’ would be held in the future. The next day, large pictures of Professor Gyanchand appeared in newspapers, showing him expressing concern over ‘the nation’s plight.’ One headline read: “Scholars Hold Deep Discussions on Water Crisis in Akarmpur, Another Step Taken Towards Solution!” Outside the village, an old woman, with thirsty eyes, looked at that newspaper, under which was written – “Professor Gyanchand said at the seminar, ‘Water is a fundamental right!'” And then she collapsed, not from knowledge, but from lack of water.

After the seminar, when the water bottles were empty and the echoes of speeches faded into the air, the situation worsened. Now, the ‘Pledge of Apathy’ loomed over the village. Our सरपंच Banaavati Lal, whose unwavering faith in ‘problem-solving’ still persisted, announced yet another ‘grand strategy’: “We must form a ‘Water Solution Committee’! This committee will prepare an ‘in-depth report’ on the ‘water crisis,’ which will pave the way for the future!” And the very next day, a ‘committee’ was formed, comprising the laziest but on paper the most ‘learned’ people in the village. The chairman of this committee was a retired Babu (clerk), Shri ‘Kaagazilaal’ (Mr. Paper Man), who was an expert at counting files but had an allergy to fieldwork.

Committee meetings began. Each meeting involved rounds of tea and samosas, followed by members ‘discussing’ the ‘report.’ Kaagazilaal would ask ‘extremely serious’ questions to each member, such as “Have we correctly defined the water crisis as a ‘problem’?” or “Do we have sufficient ‘positive outlook’?” Three months later, the committee presented a ‘voluminous report’ of 300 pages, detailing the ’causes,’ ‘effects,’ and ‘potential solutions’ to the water crisis. The report contained weighty terms like ‘river interlinking projects,’ ‘rainwater harvesting,’ and ‘public participation,’ but not a single drop of water appeared on the ground. The report was filed in a government office among piles of ‘extremely important’ documents, where it gathered dust. The villagers were happy to see the report, because ‘government work’ had been completed, but their homes still held dry pitchers. One day, a child, crying from hunger and thirst, asked his mother, “Mom, can we squeeze water from this report?” Tears welled up in his mother’s eyes, but no words escaped her parched throat.

The committee’s report, the rally’s slogans, and the ritual’s ashes, all combined to transform Akarmpur into a dry desert. The problem had now become so dire that it was difficult to ignore, yet Akarmpur’s nature remained unchanged. Now, the era of ‘scientific totkas’ began. The village’s greatest ‘scientific baba,’ Dr. ‘Ajeeblal’ (Dr. Strange Red), claimed he had a ‘mantra’ to bring ‘artificial rain.’ He constructed a large ‘apparatus’ with wires and bulbs, which he kept shining day and night, claiming that ‘this will create vibrations in the sky and bring clouds!’ Children would gather around the apparatus, thinking that perhaps candies would emerge from it. The apparatus ran for a week, the electricity bill skyrocketed, but no clouds appeared.

Then, a new ‘reformist movement’ began. Some young people raised slogans for ‘dowry-free marriages’ and ‘inter-caste marriages.’ One day, two lovers, from different castes and without dowry, ran away from the city and came to Akarmpur to get married. The so-called ‘progressive’ people of the village welcomed them like ‘heroes and heroines.’ Their pictures were published in newspapers, proclaiming, ‘Akarmpur brings revolution to society!’ But a few days later, the girl’s family arrived and took them back under threat. The ‘progressive’ people quietly slipped away, knowing that true social change comes not from ‘limelight’ but from ‘grinding effort.’ The village youth were now even more disheartened. They saw that their village’s problems, which were initially small, were only growing larger due to grand events and useless speeches. Their hearts wept, but even their tears had dried up.

In this very Akarmpur, there lived an ordinary young man named ‘Karmaveer’ (Hero of Action). He found all this showmanship distasteful. When the water crisis struck the village, he did not participate in rallies, rituals, or seminars. He quietly, along with some of his fellow youths, went to the village’s oldest well. The well had been dry for decades, filled with garbage. Karmaveer and his companions picked up shovels and began to dig. People laughed at them, “Oh, you fools, the सरपंच performed a ritual, Hawaabaazi led a rally, Professor Gyanchand held a seminar, and Kaagazilaal prepared a report! What will you achieve by digging dirt? Will you change history?” Karmaveer paid no heed to their mocking words.

Day and night, he and his companions toiled, sweating profusely. Their hands were chafed, their bodies ached, but their minds held only one resolve – water. For weeks, they dug, removed earth, and broke stones. Slowly, some other villagers, who had become disillusioned with these ‘totkas,’ began to join them. They dug small pits, cleaned the silt from ponds, and built small dams to conserve rainwater. This work proceeded slowly; there was no ‘media coverage,’ no ‘awards,’ and no ‘speeches.’ It was simply ‘relentless hard work.’ And one day, as they were digging the final layer of the well, a faint gurgling sound was heard – ‘kal-kal, kal-kal.’ And then, clear, cold water gushed forth from the well. A wave of joy swept through the village. People ran to Karmaveer and his companions, embracing them. But this joy was fleeting.

Karmaveer and his companions drew water from the well, quenching the village’s thirst, but this was only the beginning. The real challenge now lay ahead: changing the village’s mindset. When Karmaveer said, “We must now cultivate the habit of saving water in every home; these useless totkas will achieve nothing,” the very people who had just honored him now began to resent him. “What are you talking about, Karmaveer? Now that water has come, why should anyone work hard? Now we will worship the ‘water deity’ again!”

Sarpanch Banaavati Lal became active once more. He organized a ‘Water Gratitude Rally’ in which he declared himself the ‘Water Man,’ and Karmaveer’s name was nowhere to be heard. Professor Gyanchand organized another seminar, its subject being ‘The Availability of Water and Its Impact on Social Psychology,’ in which he described Karmaveer’s work as ‘unscientific’ and ‘unorganized.’ Kaagazilaal prepared a ‘supplementary report,’ claiming that the water in the well was a result of ‘his original report.’ Karmaveer saw that the people who had been with him moments ago had now returned to the ‘easy path.’ He tried to explain, “Look, this is just one well; the whole village needs water, and we must cultivate the habit of saving water!” But people ignored him. They dismissed him as ‘negative-minded’ and ‘unable to tolerate happiness,’ ostracizing him. Karmaveer found himself alone. His hard work, his sacrifice, his wisdom – all seemed in vain, because the ‘easy remedies’ had so enchanted Akarmpur that they were celebrating their own ruin as a ‘festival.’

Ultimately, Akarmpur’s ‘inherent nature’ once again dominated. When Karmaveer saw that his hard work was merely considered another ‘totka,’ and people had reverted to their old habits, his heart broke. The well he had nourished with his sweat slowly began to dry up again, because people, instead of conserving water, started wasting it, confident that ‘when thirst strikes, a new totka will work.’ The village सरपंच, Hawaabaazi, Professor Gyanchand, and Kaagazilaal had all moved to a new city, where they organized another ‘national seminar’ on ‘Lessons from Akarmpur’s Water Crisis.’ They had now become ‘global experts’ on ‘water management.’

Left behind was Akarmpur – a dry, desolate, and ruined wasteland. People began to die of hunger and thirst. The children who once chanted ‘Water is Life’ were now reduced to whispers of ‘If only… if only we had listened to that Karmaveer.’ An old mother, taking her last breath with a parched throat, looked at her child’s withered face, and a sigh escaped her lips – ‘Alas, this totka! Where has it left us!’ Karmaveer, who was among the survivors, stood on the highest mound of the village, watching his beloved Akarmpur burn, now merely a ‘heap of ashes.’ He tried to shed tears, but his eyes too had dried up. He saw that even there, some people were caressing the dry ground, searching for a new ‘tantric totka’ – perhaps a mantra to ‘transform the desert into a lush green land’! It was surely better to be a human than an angel, but becoming human required so much effort that we chose the easy path of becoming angels, and perished.

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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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

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

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

Some precious moments of life

1. Honoured with ‘Shrestha Navayuvva Rachnakar Samman’ by former Chief Minister of Telangana Government, Shri K. Chandrasekhar Rao.
2. Honoured with Oscar, Grammy, Jnanpith, Sahitya Akademi, Dadasaheb Phalke, Padma Bhushan and many other awards by the most revered Gulzar sahab (Sampurn Singh Kalra), the lighthouse of the world of literature and cinema, during the Sahitya Suman Samman held in Mumbai.
3. Meeting the famous litterateur Shri Vinod Kumar Shukla Ji, honoured with Jnanpith Award.
4. Got the privilege of meeting Mr. Perfectionist of Bollywood, actor Aamir Khan.
5. Meeting the powerful actor Vicky Kaushal on the occasion of being honoured by Vishva Katha Rangmanch.

Today we present his satire Where Trees Were Promised and Titles Were Planted.  

☆ Witful Warmth# 51 ☆

☆ Satire ☆ Where Trees Were Promised and Titles Were Planted… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆

In the dust-choked lanes of a forgotten village in Champaran, where only electoral drizzle now refreshes the thirst of hope, once sprouted a noble seedling: the Janhit Utthan Parishad. This was not an institution born of lobbying or LinkedIn connections, but of a frail old teacher—Masterji—who traded his only piece of ancestral land, not for stock options, but for the betterment of the village. Back when devotion had not yet been gobbled up by dopamine-fueled selfies, and when sacrifice did not need hashtags to go viral, Masterji dared to dream of a platform that would channel rivers of altruism. That sacred shrine of public service has now been annexed by a mob of sweet-toothed contractors who flock not to serve but to be served. The walls that once echoed with his maxim, “An institution is a temple of service,” now display laughing faces on election posters. Mahatma Gandhi still hangs there, though rumor has it he occasionally mutters, “Hey Ram! What calamity is this?”

Where once sat councils of virtue—discussing education, sanitation, and green revolutions—the institution’s meetings have been demoted to exhibitions of egos and necktie knots. One fine day, as though an old transistor caught a rogue frequency, ten members stood up simultaneously and cried, “The institution is sinking!” One might have mistaken it for the Titanic’s final scene, had it not been accompanied by the chairman’s candy-store smile. And like a comic twist in a political reality show, the solution proposed was not reform in intent or action, but reform in titles—new president, new vice president, and a minister to complete the trilogy. As if governance was a talent hunt and the prize was a gilded armchair. Not a whisper on principles, but a stampede for positions. Somewhere in the cracked plaster behind Masterji’s garlanded photo, his spirit may well have headbutted the wall.

Gone are the days when meeting agendas brimmed with purpose—children’s education, cleaning of the village pond, and planting of trees. The modern meeting resembles a wedding procession, without the bride. Chairs line up like anxious guests; speeches rain down like confetti, but the issues are conspicuously absent. The only mission now is the mission to capture a better camera angle. The guiding philosophy has been replaced with an inventory of chairs. One veteran, his eyes moist with betrayed faith, whispered, “We used to plant trees; now we plant titles.” This from a man who once pledged his pension to the cause, now left to admire the president’s gold chain while peering into an empty treasury register.

The annual celebration—once a festival of soil and saplings—has transformed into a carnival of banners, drums, and declarations. “Fifty trees planted this year!” the president announced, and the crowd clapped like metronomes. Meanwhile, the village searched for a single sprout. Neither pit nor plant could be found. The trees had evidently taken root in reports, watered and nourished by budget files. A trophy followed—“Best Environmentalist”—handed to the chairman, who stepped up and declared, “Our institution is the mother of society!” A child in the crowd innocently quipped, “Then why does she feel so stepmotherly?” Ah! There lies the whole tale—this mother no longer nurtures, she merely poses.

The institution’s social media handles now read like a satire on benevolence. The same leader, the same cap, the same posture—ad infinitum. Old-age homes became backdrops for photo ops. Fruits were ‘distributed’—or rather, made to hover before the lens—while the elders received smiles more than sustenance. One old man chuckled, “Son, they didn’t give us fruit; they just clicked pictures and vanished.” And thus, the institution transitioned from a service mission to a lighting studio, where emotion was the wallpaper and the spotlight reserved for faces, not causes.

As the curtain drew further, original members were either retired with ceremonial garlands or systematically muted like unwanted tabs on a browser. Masterji, once a living manual of integrity, now only grins from his dusty frame. His grandson once asked, “Grandpa, what does your institution do now?” He sighed and replied, “It’s no longer an institution, son. It’s a flea market for chairs.” The PR firm has taken over the spirit, and truth, it seems, has taken a long vacation. Masterji no longer speaks from the dais; he speaks from the frame. A relic of a time when service was the language of the soul.

Eventually, under the theatrical name of ‘restructuring,’ the institution quietly dissolved itself. No drums, no slogans, just a withered meeting where Masterji’s photo received its final garland. A crack ran down the wall, and those nearby claim they heard a voice whisper, “I created this for service. You used it for selfies.” The institution that once irrigated the barren fields of Champaran with hope has itself turned barren. Now, its tale is preserved in one corner of a modest library, in a frail diary’s final line: “There’s only one letter’s difference between service and power—but the intent is separated by a thousand miles.”

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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’

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