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 Satire – Kneeling Humanity.
☆ Witful Warmth# 79 ☆
☆ Satire ☆ Kneeling Humanity… ☆ Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’ ☆
The big, fancy shoe store was decorated with shiny glass walls and soft velvet carpets. Rich, important people (VIPs) crowded into the store like a big group of people rushing to get free expensive gifts. Ramsharan had been working there for the last twenty years, bent down on his knees like our country’s weak democracy. His main and only job was to kneel down and measure the feet of these rich customers so that these “big bosses” wouldn’t face any trouble climbing the ladders of their corporate world. Whenever he bent his backbone at a ninety-degree angle to slip a five-thousand-rupee shoe onto a rich customer’s foot, a sharp pain would shoot through his bones. This cry of pain was lost in the soft, foreign music playing in the shop, disappearing just like political promises do after an election. The big owner of the shop often smiled and said, “Ramsharan, there is magic in your hands! Just by looking at a person’s feet, you can tell their social status and the exact size of their bank balance.” Ramsharan would only show a fake, advertising-like smile. His eyes would drift to a large leather box kept behind the counter, which always had a big lock on it—locked up just like the accountability of our government system. What was inside that box was a deep secret that none of the educated employees in the store knew. The key was always tied around Ramsharan’s neck with a dirty thread. People said that Ramsharan had buried all the happiness of his life in this shop, and now he was just a living corpse, holding a PhD in the art of rubbing and pleasing other people’s feet. Even today, when the city’s biggest businessman, Mr. Kapoor, stepped out of his shiny car, Ramsharan was already kneeling on the floor to welcome him. He looked like a slave bowing before a king, a man who didn’t even have a right to his own shadow.
Mr. Kapoor placed his heavy foot on Ramsharan’s knee, just like governments place the heavy burden of taxes on the heads of ordinary citizens. He said with great pride, “Ramsharan, show me a shoe this time that is absolutely royal and spotless, just like my new business deal. The shoe should make the other person’s status look crushed beneath it, and don’t worry about the money!” Taking off his socks, Ramsharan said very softly, “Sir, the size of your feet is the same as last year, but this time the skin on your soles feels a bit harder. Perhaps, while crushing other people’s rights, the human feelings in your feet have died.” Mr. Kapoor could not understand this sharp, hidden insult. He laughed loudly and said, “Ramsharan, you just measure the size of my feet, don’t try to measure the value of my life!” Just then, the manager sitting at the counter raised his neck high and shouted, “Ramsharan, hurry up! Stop this philosophical nonsense and bring out that special Italian leather shoe from the inside cabin. It has been specially imported only for the honor of big bosses like him.” Ramsharan stood up and walked panting toward the dark storeroom inside, where shoe boxes were piled up like a mountain—a mountain as hollow as the false claims of progress made by our country. Reaching there, he pulled out the key from inside his torn shirt and gently touched the mysterious box for a moment. But suddenly, the manager’s angry shout pierced the air like the roar of a hungry wolf. In that closed room, the suffocating smell of corporate greed was so strong that Ramsharan found it hard to breathe. The fog of corporate slavery blurred his eyes, but he controlled himself and walked out with the expensive shoe box.
While putting the new Italian shoe on Mr. Kapoor’s feet, Ramsharan’s hands were shaking, just like the hands of a new clerk taking a bribe for the first time. A single tear secretly fell from his eye and rested on the shiny shoelace. Mr. Kapoor pulled his foot back in disgust, as if his holy foot had been made dirty by touching an untouchable person’s feelings. He snapped, “What is this bad behavior, Ramsharan? How dare you drop your cheap, free tears on my five-thousand-rupee branded shoe? Has your little brain gone completely crazy?” Ramsharan immediately wiped the tear with his torn towel and said, begging for forgiveness, “Forgive me, sir. The bright, blinding lights of this five-star showroom have dried up the human feelings in my eyes, and that water is just leaking out. Don’t worry, this shoe will add a lot of charm to your false pride.” Just then, the glass door of the showroom opened, and an old beggar dared to try to step inside. The security guards, dressed in fancy suits and boots, immediately pushed him out, just like a poor person is kicked out of a country’s financial budget. Seeing that beggar, Ramsharan’s face turned completely white, as if someone had sucked all the blood out of his body. The metal scale he used to measure feet slipped from his hand and crashed onto the floor, making a loud noise that echoed through the store. The manager scolded Ramsharan angrily, saying, “If you want to do this drama, go beg on the streets! Don’t make a show of your poverty in front of our VIP customers.” Ramsharan silently bowed his head because he knew very well that only expensive shoes are sold in this fancy shop; human self-respect is kept here as a free mortgage.
When the afternoon passed and the crowd of rich people—who shop worth lakhs just to kill their boredom—grew thin, Ramsharan secretly went into the dark inside cabin. He unlocked the mysterious box. There were no gold or silver coins inside. Instead, it held a very old, torn pair of cheap rubber flip-flops (hawaii chappals) covered in dust, along with a few old pieces of newspaper that were as torn as the poverty statistics of this country. Ramsharan held those old slippers close to his chest and began to cry bitterly. His painful sobs echoed off the air-conditioned walls of the closed room. Air conditioners can cool the air, but they cannot cool the burning fire of a broken heart. Kissing the slippers, he wept, “Every morning I sit here measuring other people’s feet and guessing their wealth, but I could never buy the right size of shoes for your feet from this store.” Just then, the manager walked in without knocking. Seeing Ramsharan in this state, he wrinkled his eyebrows and asked, “Ramsharan, what is this madness? Why have you hidden this smelly junk right under the nose of this VIP showroom?” Ramsharan made a sharp, sarcastic reply while wiping his wet eyes, “Sir, this is not junk. This is the mirror of my true reality, which I look at every night. I need it so that while polishing the shoes of these big rich men, I don’t forget that I am a human being too.” The manager treated this deep, emotional answer as the nonsense of an uneducated servant and said, “Go sell this philosophy outside on the footpath! Get out now, a new rich customer has come who wants to buy the most expensive shoes for his beloved son.”
Ramsharan sat back on the floor on his knees in his usual serving position. He began to measure the feet of the rich man’s little child, who was throwing a tantrum in his mother’s lap, twisting around just like politicians twist for power. Looking at Ramsharan’s bent back and torn clothes, the child’s mother said with great hatred and pride, “Look, son! If you do not study hard and become a big officer, you will also have to sit at people’s feet like this, cleaning their shoes. This will be your worth in life.” These words pierced Ramsharan’s heart like a burning nail. Without saying a word, he gently slipped a beautiful, soft velvet shoe onto the child’s foot—a shoe that cost more than a poor man’s lifetime savings. Suddenly, the spoiled child kicked Ramsharan hard right on his face. A thin stream of blood flowed from Ramsharan’s dry lips and dripped onto the floor. The entire showroom fell dead silent for a second. But instead of apologizing, the educated parents laughed and said, “He is just a child, a little naughty! Anyway, he is used to making everyone dance to his tunes. And since he is the son of a rich man, kicking is his natural right!” Ramsharan wiped his own blood from the floor with a trembling finger. With a painful smile, he said, “It’s okay, ma’am. A kick from a rich man’s child is nothing less than a royal blessing for poor people like us.” Seeing this heartbreaking and bitter scene, tears of shame came into the eyes of some of the new salesmen standing there. But in the cruel system of this showroom, Ramsharan’s suffering was still far from over.
In the evening, when it was time to close the store and locks were being placed on the glass doors, the owner called Ramsharan into his office. Handing him a white envelope, the owner said in a very cold, uncaring voice, “Ramsharan, you are old now. Because of your shaking hands, our VIP customers face a lot of trouble. Therefore, this is the final settlement of your salary, and you don’t need to come from tomorrow.” Ramsharan looked at the envelope, which held the price of his twenty years of loyalty in the form of a few paper notes. He then took off the key from around his neck, placed it on the owner’s glass table, and said, “Sir, just allow me to take that box kept inside, because my real account is closed within it.” The owner laughed cruelly and said, “Take away that junk! Anyway, it was ruining the high standards of our branded showroom. But before you leave, tell me, what kind of romantic relationship do you have with those torn slippers?” Ramsharan lifted the heavy box onto his old, bent shoulders. Walking toward the door, he wept and said, “Sir, twenty years ago, my only son was walking barefoot just outside this showroom. To protect the expensive shoes of your VIP customers from getting stained, and out of fear of losing my job, I chased him far away. While running, he was crushed and killed under the wheels of a rich man’s speeding car. These torn slippers belonged to his bare feet. To find his size, I have been searching for my lost life in the feet of every rich child who walked into this store. I wanted to give my dead son a perfect pair of shoes just once. But this showroom only taught me how to measure other people’s feet; it did not teach me how to stitch my own son’s shroud.” Hearing this, the soft carpet beneath the owner’s feet seemed to slide away. That luxury showroom drowned in the sea of an old father’s tears—an end that no one had ever imagined.
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© Dr. Suresh Kumar Mishra ‘Uratript’
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