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 Silent Weeping.
☆ Witful Warmth# 90 ☆
☆ Stories ☆ The Silent Weeping… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
Deep within some hidden corner of my childhood memories, a particular scene remains frozen to this day—the swirling dust of the village fair held at the outskirts, the stifling summer heat, and cutting through it all, an old, creaking bicycle. Tied to the carrier at the back of that bicycle was a split bamboo frame, packed with colorful toy trumpets, plastic dolls, clicking clockwork partridge carts, and bright red-and-yellow cellophane pinwheels fluttering in the wind. He wasn’t merely a toy seller; it felt as though he arrived carrying an entire universe of happiness directly upon his back. When the bell of his bicycle rang, it felt as if a fresh breath of air had filled the lungs of every child in the neighborhood. But today, looking back, it seems that as we grew up, the entire world of that bicycle man was lost somewhere. Now, neither is that bell heard, nor is that familiar face visible in the dust of the fair. It feels as if the blinding speed of time has snatched the very pedals from that poor man’s feet.
In this new era of online shopping, where happiness comes packed at the mere touch of a screen and gets delivered right to our doorsteps, the grimy bundle of that poor peddler has begun to look like a heap of junk. Every morning he wakes up, replaces the slipped chain of his bicycle, and pedals with all his might—but the stubborn wheel of time has sped far ahead of him. Beneath the glittering debris of this modern market, his hopes and his small craft have suffocated and died. People rightly say that a hungry man cannot sing praises of the Divine, but here, an entire life has turned into an endless hymn of hunger. It breaks my heart to think that the person who wears away his heels just to scatter a few moments of smiles on the lips of others’ children for a few rupees, often has his own innocent children sleeping on an empty stomach at night, crying themselves to sleep. The dirt on his torn shirt and the odor of his sweat hold the final testimony of honesty, which this ruthless world simply refuses to see.
A fair once signified the coming together of relationships and the sharing of joy, but now fairs too have become corporate. Amidst massive pavilions, ticketed amusement rides, and VIP passes, that bicycle man is driven away right from the main gate. “Get out of here, don’t block the way!”—when an influential security guard or a policeman barks these dismissive words at him, it is not just his bicycle that retreats; his very self-respect is left bleeding internally. Dragging his worn-out slippers, he walks away with his head bowed and stands beneath the shade of some tree. Witnessing his utter helplessness and his silent lament, the heart of the heavens must surely tremble. He never begged from anyone, he never desired unearned wealth; he had merely nurtured his toys with the droplets of his sweat, yet this cruel world gave him this very reward for his honesty.
Now, it seems he is no longer just a toy seller, but the final shroud of our departed innocence, growing progressively soiled. The more modern we become, the more callous we turn. We feel pity for starving animals and unleash oceans of empathy on social media, yet the sob of this living, dying human being standing right before us fails to reach our ears. The dilapidated frame of his bicycle, with its handlebar now bent and its seat torn, spewing out cotton, is a perfect mirror of his life. Every single day, he sets out for a new battle, fully aware that in this market, his defeat has already been predetermined.
Even his voice now seems to have choked within the alleys. Once, at his single cry, the entire neighborhood would leap to life: “Come take it, little master—the flying bird, the clicking horse!” Now, that voice lies buried somewhere beneath the alarms of wristwatches and the loud noise of mobile reels. People shut the high doors and windows of their houses so that the outside dust and destitution do not breach the interior. He stares at the closed doors, licks his lips with his parched tongue, and moves forward without a word. His back is bent, his hair has grayed prematurely, and the veins on his hands bulge out like the branches of a withered tree. He has become a living ghost, searching for his lost life within this settlement of humans.
In the end, when he vanishes completely from the pages of history, we might look at his photographs and say, “Yes, there was once such an era.” But by then, it will be far too late. Upon the altar of our progress, we would have sacrificed an incredibly innocent and honest existence. Whenever you happen to find that dust-laden plastic pinwheel from some old cupboard, do pause and think whether a lamp was lit in the seller’s house that evening or not. That bicycle man is not a character from a story; he is a culture taking its last breath, agonizingly dying right before our eyes—a death over which no mourning will be observed, nor any tears shed. The final bell of his bicycle will merely echo somewhere in the wind and fall silent forever, while we remain absorbed in our well-decorated world, forgetting that someone’s entire existence was sacrificed to our indifference.
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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
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≈ Blog Editor – Shri Hemant Bawankar/Editor (English) – Captain Pravin Raghuvanshi, NM ≈
