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 Stories – The Passenger.
☆ Witful Warmth# 88 ☆
☆ Stories ☆ The Passenger… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
It was 7:30 in the evening at Delhi’s Sarai Kale Khan bus terminal. In that stifling June heat, the wind blew as if an old man were blowing into a clay stove.
Rajiv sat on his old suitcase, taking sips of his miserable tea. The taste of the tea was exactly like his life—bland, tasteless, yet something he had to force down his throat out of sheer necessity. Right then, a notification chimed on his phone. It was a ride-sharing request on the Safarnama app. The route was Delhi to Lucknow.
The car belonged to Rajiv an old WagonR that no longer ran just on petrol, but on Rajiv’s luck. He accepted the request. The co-passenger’s name was listed as ‘Musafir’ The Passenger.
When the passenger came and sat in the back seat, Rajiv caught a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror under the car’s cabin light. A cold shiver ran down his spine.
It was Pallavi.
The very same Pallavi who, exactly seven years ago at this very Sarai Kale Khan terminal, had let go of Rajiv’s hand and left in a gleaming Audi in search of a better future. Today, that same Pallavi was sitting in the back seat of his junk WagonR.
Rajiv cleared his throat. “Madam, the route is long. We will stop at a dhaba at night.”
Looking out the window, Pallavi said in a cold voice, “Please get me there quickly, bhaiya. My mother is not well.”
Bhaiya. (Brother)
It felt as though someone had snuffed out a burning cigarette right on Rajiv’s heart. The journey from being his life to being called ‘bhaiya’ over those seven years wasn’t just a matter of three letters; it was steeped in a lifetime of helplessness. Look at the irony—the woman for whom Rajiv had once traversed all of Delhi was now being carried in his car for a fare of three hundred rupees per seat. It was the same caravan, the same roads, the same life… only the destinations had changed.
The car was tearing down the Yamuna Expressway at a speed of eighty. On the radio, Kishore Kumar was weeping, “Jeena kya ji ka janjal…” (What is life but a web of troubles…)
“Is the AC not working properly?” Pallavi interrupted from behind. There was a strange tremble in her voice.
Rajiv looked in the mirror. Pallavi’s face had turned pale. There were dark hollows under her eyes. She was continuously rubbing her hands together as if she were freezing, even though the temperature outside was well past forty degrees Celsius.
“It’s an old car, Madam. It runs only as much as it groans,” Rajiv said, hiding his bitterness behind sarcasm. “I heard your husband owns big cars? Then why this junker?”
Pallavi did not answer. She just kept staring into the void.
Suddenly, a violent jerk hit the steering wheel. In the glow of the headlights, a shadow appeared standing right in the middle of the road. Rajiv slammed on the brakes with all his might. The tires shrieked. The car screeched to a halt right in front of a large milestone by the roadside.
Rajiv was panting. He looked outside; there was no one there.
“What happened?” Pallavi asked. Her voice now sounded even heavier, echoing unnaturally.
“Someone… someone was standing there, I think,” Rajiv said, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“No one comes in front of anyone on this road, Rajiv. Everyone is left alone at their own destinations,” Pallavi said softly.
Rajiv gasped. Pallavi had called him Rajiv, not bhaiya. And her voice… why did it sound so hollow?
At two in the morning, the car stopped at a deserted roadside dhaba. A strange silence hung over the place. No truck drivers, no other vehicles. Just an old man sitting with a lantern.
Rajiv got out. Pallavi followed him. Both sat down on a woven cot.
“Will you have tea?” Rajiv asked.
“Yes, without sugar. I am afraid of sweetness now,” Pallavi said, looking down at her fingers, which bore no rings.
Rajiv noticed that Pallavi was barefoot. Her feet were caked in dust and covered in strange blue bruises.
“How did you end up in this state, Pallavi? Where did that Audi guy go? Your luxurious destination?” The resentment suppressed inside Rajiv erupted as sarcasm.
Pallavi let out a dry laugh. There was so much agony in that laugh that even the dhaba’s lantern flickered. “Destination? The only true destination is the crematorium, Rajiv. Everything else is just a transient inn. The Audi I ran after brought me to the streets in just two years. Daily beatings, abuse… and then one day…” She fell silent.
“And then one day what?” Rajiv asked, caught between curiosity and a mounting shudder.
“One day he threw me out of the moving car. Right onto this expressway.” Pallavi lifted her eyes. Her eyes had no pupils just a deep, terrifying blackness.
The clay cup of tea slipped from Rajiv’s hand and shattered, spilling onto the ground.
“What… what nonsense are you talking?” Rajiv’s throat went completely dry. Terrified, he stepped back.
“I am telling the truth, Rajiv. It has been exactly seven years today. Every day, I get into some car on this road, hoping someone will take me home. Today, I found your car.” Pallavi stood up. A strange odor of decay was now emanating from her body.
With trembling hands, Rajiv pulled out his phone. He opened the Safarnama app to check the passenger’s profile. There was no ride booked under the name Musafir. Instead, a news article was open on the screen, likely recommended by the internet based on his location.
The headline read: “Body of woman found on Yamuna Expressway seven years ago still unidentified.” Below it was a seven-year-old photograph of Pallavi.
The ground slipped from beneath Rajiv’s feet. He was about to scream when the old man from the dhaba placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Sir, who are you talking to? There is no one here. You have been sitting alone on this cot crying for the past half hour.”
Rajiv turned around. The cot was empty. Pallavi was not there. Only his broken clay cup lay shattered on the ground.
He ran back to his WagonR. He flung the door open. The back seat was empty. But lying on the seat was an old, dust-covered anklet. The very same anklet Rajiv had bought for Pallavi on their first Valentine’s Day by scraping together his pocket money.
Rajiv collapsed to his knees in the middle of the road. Rain suddenly began to pour heavily from the sky, as if nature itself were mocking his helplessness.
The woman Rajiv had hated for seven years, the one he had cursed for abandoning him… she wasn’t even in this world. She had perished long ago. And here he was, wandering around with his broken car and broken luck, thinking he was the one who was alive.
Rajiv pressed the anklet tightly against his chest. The rainwater and his tears merged, flowing down the asphalt. He began to wail agonizingly. His cries pierced through the silence of the expressway.
It was the same caravan, the same roads, the same life… and today, both stood at the exact same destination. Both were unclaimed, both were lost, and both were dead one in body, and the other in soul.
In the silence of that night, only one person (or perhaps a shadow) wept, while somewhere far away, a passenger wandered on, searching for their next destination.
****
© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
Contact : Mo. +91 73 8657 8657, Email : drskm786@gmail.com
≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈
