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 Short Story – Those Who Never Return.
☆ Witful Warmth# 80 ☆
☆ Short Stories ☆ Those Who Never Return… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
The stuffy, damp smell in the room was still exactly the same as it used to be when Avinash was alive. The old, half-open door of the wooden cupboard seemed to mock me like a broken jaw. As I sat down on the floor to clear up his scattered world, a thick layer of dust crunched beneath my feet. After Avinash’s sudden death, the silence in this house screamed so loudly that it felt like it would burst my eardrums. The moment I put my hand into the topmost shelf of the cupboard, my fingers touched an old diary with yellowed pages. From inside that very diary, a folded piece of paper fell down. On it, it was written that you will get this only when I am gone far away. For a second, my heart skipped a beat, and the air froze in my lungs. There were a few ink stains on that paper that had spread because tears had fallen on them. I felt as if an invisible hand was squeezing my neck, and even the sunlight coming through the room’s window began to prick me like an icy needle. What a cruel joke of death this was, that a person who had the skill of hiding everything his whole life left behind a clue just as he passed away—a clue that was pulling me toward a burning furnace.
I opened that paper, and Avinash’s familiar, messy handwriting was right in front of me, looking like some mysterious script. He had written, “Rahul, I know you always thought of me as a stone-hearted person because I never answered your expectations. But the truth is that I wanted to save you from the quicksand whose other end connects straight to the secret locker hidden behind this cupboard.” Just then, I heard the sound of footsteps outside in the lobby, and my whole body became soaked with sweat. I turned around in fear, but only the silence stood there, spreading its long fingers. Right then, Mother called out from the kitchen, “Rahul, what are they doing there for so long? Did you find something there?” Controlling my shaking voice, I said, “No, Mother, there is nothing here except old junk and dust.” Mother took a long, cold breath and said, “The sooner his things are taken out of this house, the better it is, because his memories have now started to eat away at this home.” The strange mix of hidden pain and hatred in Mother’s voice deeply shook me, forcing me to think about what terrible sin Avinash had committed that even his own mother could not forgive him.
I sat back down on my knees in front of the cupboard and pushed the heavy wooden frame with all my strength to one side. On that part of the wall, there actually was a small iron door that had rusted over because it had been closed for years. Wondering where the key could be, I suddenly remembered the black thread around Avinash’s neck, which he never took off his body, even while sleeping. That thread was now tied around my hand as his last memory, and a small brass key was hanging from it. When I turned that key in the lock, the small door opened with a sharp squeaking sound, and a velvet box was kept inside it. The moment I opened the box, my eyes widened in shock because it contained someone’s medical reports and some legal documents. Suddenly, the window shutter banged loudly, and I felt as if Avinash was standing right behind me, whispering into my ear. A gust of wind entered that closed room, giving me goosebumps and making me feel scared of my own shadow.
As I read the papers, tears began to flow from my eyes and fall onto the report, blurring the words written there. According to that report, Avinash had blood cancer and was standing at the very last stage of his life, but he had kept this secret hidden from the whole world. The next part of the letter was in my hand, in which he had written, “Rahul, if I had told you that I was going to die, you would have left your studies and wandered from door to door for my treatment. I did not want to see that begging look of pity for me in your eyes, which sick people usually get. I purposely fought with you so that you would start hating me, and you wouldn’t feel too much pain after I was gone.” Reading this broke my heart, and I began to cry like a madman in that empty room where there was no one left to listen. Throwing my hands in the air, I cried out, “Why did you do this to me, Avinash? Was I such a stranger to you that you kept me away from the biggest truth of your life?” The silence of the room swallowed my questions, and his smiling picture hanging on the wall made me cry even more.
Just then, my eyes fell on the very last page of the letter, where something was written that completely pulled the ground out from under my feet. It was written there, “Rahul, you might think that the disease was the cause of my death, but the truth is that the donor the doctor had arranged to save me was none other than the clue to your real parents. The woman in this house whom you think of as your mother is actually my biological mother, but you were never a part of this family. I adopted you when your parents were killed in an accident, and I always kept this a secret so that you would never feel the sadness of being an orphan.” My heart started beating loudly, and my head began to spin because the identity I had considered as my life collapsed like a house of cards in a single moment. I could not understand whether I should cry over Avinash’s death or over my new, empty reality that stood bare in front of me.
Then, the door of the room slowly opened and Mother came inside, holding a glass of water in her hand. When she saw the papers scattered on the floor and my tearful eyes, the glass slipped from her hand, crashing down and spilling water all over the floor. With trembling lips, Mother said, “So, you finally found out what Avinash wanted to hide until his very last breath.” Holding out that last piece of paper toward Mother, I asked, “Mother, is it true that I am not your son, and Avinash put his own life at stake to save me?” Mother sat down on her knees, hugged me tightly, and said through her tears, “Avinash loved you very much, Rahul. He saved all the money for his illness for your studies abroad and died himself without any treatment so that you could live a wonderful life.” The end of that incomplete letter did not happen with Avinash’s death, but with the death of the identity I had believed to be true. Now, in that lonely room, there were only two helpless people crying for a man who had worn a mask of hatred but had given them the greatest love in the world.
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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
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