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 Story – Running Shoes, Halting Breaths.
☆ Witful Warmth# 91 ☆
☆ Stories ☆ Running Shoes, Halting Breaths… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
The room’s temperature was locked exactly at sixteen degrees Celsius. Neither sunlight nor fresh air ever breached this room; there was only a sterile white light that remained awake twenty-four hours a day, ensuring death would face no misunderstanding upon its arrival. On bed number four lay seventy-year-old Deenanath ji. Every three seconds, vapor would condense and then melt away on the oxygen mask strapped to his face. This was the solitary evidence of his being alive, observing which Sister Mary, the nurse sitting on the adjacent chair, was noting down entries in her diary.
It was exactly two o’clock in the morning. This is the hour when the silence in hospital corridors deepens to such an extent that even the sound of dripping glucose droplets mimics the ticking of a time bomb. Sister Mary checked her watch. She knew that Deenanath ji had only a few hours left. Dr. Anand had already clarified during his evening rounds that it was a case of multiple organ failure, and seeing the morning sun would be a miracle.
Suddenly, a slight movement flickered in Deenanath ji’s fingers. With immense effort, he slid his mask to one side. A strange anxiety trembled in his voice, “Mary… has… has he arrived?”
Mary took his freezing hand into her own and said with a reassuring smile, “Who, Deenanath ji? Yamraj (the God of Death)? Oh, his server is currently down; he doesn’t arrive this early.”
Mary’s sarcasm left a dry smile on Deenanath’s face. This was the unwritten rule of this hospice care unit—the final home for terminal patients—where pain was dried up using jokes rather than medicines. Deenanath ji had been here for the past two months. His lungs had given up, yet his eyes remained anchored to the door every single day. He was waiting for someone. It was a wait more petrified than the white walls of this room.
“Mary, my will… everything is fine, right? Will that man from the court arrive in the morning?” Deenanath asked, panting.
“Yes, Baba, everything is ready. Your lawyers have executed everything exactly as you instructed. Just hold onto your heart until morning,” Mary said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Her tone carried a bitter irony—directed not at Deenanath’s immense wealth, but at the sheer helplessness that, despite possessing millions of rupees, was begging for a single breath.
Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed at the door. The heavy thud of boots. Mary was startled. Who could possibly visit at this hour of the night? The door slid open slowly. A tall young man dressed in a sharp suit stepped inside. His face exhibited a peculiar haste rather than exhaustion. He headed straight toward Deenanath’s bed.
The final flame of a dying lamp seemed to ignite in Deenanath’s eyes. He spoke with trembling lips, “Avinash… you have come, my son! I knew you would abandon your job and all your work in London to be with your old father in his final moments.”
Avinash glanced at the time on his expensive luxury watch and, without displaying a shred of emotion, addressed Mary directly, “Sister, where is the doctor? These are some urgent documents that require his signature. I have a flight back to London in the morning; I cannot afford to miss the board meeting. Is he conscious?”
The silence of the room grew sharper. Sister Mary measured Avinash from head to toe. The vulture hidden beneath the glitz of that expensive suit was starkly visible to her. Medical science may not have discovered a drug to make humans immortal, but it had certainly engineered a ventilator to keep such superficial relationships functional.
Mary took a deep breath and said, “Yes sir, your father is perfectly conscious. He has been holding onto his final breaths for the past two months just for this board meeting of yours. Even medical science is baffled as to how a man who cannot survive two minutes without oxygen managed to live for two months, purely out of attachment to his son.”
Avinash felt the sting of this sarcasm, but he lacked the spine to stand straight and face it. He immediately pulled legal documents from his bag and laid them before Deenanath, “Dad, please sign here. After this, you will be liberated from this pain. The doctors are saying there is no hope anyway.”
Deenanath held the pen with trembling hands. Tears flowing from his eyes fell upon the white sheets of the will, causing the ink to smudge slightly. Without reading a single word, gathering the absolute last remnants of his life’s energy, he signed the document. The moment the signatures were complete, Avinash snatched the papers, secured them in his file, and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Dad. I must leave now. I’m running late for the airport. Sister, please take care of him,” Avinash said, stepping toward the door without looking back. He abstained from even touching his father’s cooling body, perhaps terrified that the contagion of death might jinx his multi-million dollar business deal.
“Avinash…” a muffled cry from Deenanath echoed through the room. But by then, Avinash had already crossed the corridor. Even his shadow had vanished.
The same ‘tick-tick’ sound returned to fill the room. Deenanath’s eyes were now fixed blankly on the ceiling. The green lines undulating across the monitor were gradually flattening out. The frequency of the beeps was slowing down.
Sister Mary quietly walked over to the bedside table and picked up an envelope. This was the envelope Deenanath had handed to her a week ago on the condition that it must only be opened when Avinash arrived.
“Deenanath ji, your son has left. Should I open this now?” Mary’s voice was heavy with emotion.
Deenanath simply lowered his eyelids very gently.
Mary opened the envelope. Inside lay another legal document, bearing the official seal of the Ministry of Health. As Mary read the text inscribed on that paper, her hands began to tremble. Her tears spilled over, dripping directly onto the document.
The paper stated that Deenanath ji had already transferred all his properties, factories, and bank balances three months ago to a trust for orphaned children. And the document that Avinash had just rushed away with after securing a signature was not a property will at all. It was a No Objection Certificate (NOC) by which Deenanath ji had authorized the donation of both his eyes, his liver, and his heart to the ailing children of that orphanage upon his death. For that NOC to be valid, the signature of Avinash as a legal heir and witness was mandatory—which he, in his blind haste, had appended without reading.
Beneath the document was a short line written in Deenanath’s own hand: “Son, you never gave me your time while I was alive, but because of this unwitting signature of yours, my death will grant life to someone else today. I have made the greatest transaction of my life… in exchange for your indifference, I have purchased breaths for some children.”
Mary lifted her gaze toward the bed. A straight green line had drawn itself across the monitor screen, and a long, continuous, unending ‘beep’ sliced through the silence of the room. Upon Deenanath ji’s face rested a smile so serene, sharp, and absolute—one that had permanently defeated the world’s most transactional relationship. Weeping, Mary drew the white sheet over his face, but even from beneath that shroud, the brilliant irony shone clearly—the final satire a dying father had delivered to this selfish world with his very last breath
****
© 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 ≈
