Canvas Par Baapu

Ghar Ka Khali Pan

Baroda mein humare ghar ka khali pan aisa tha jo dikhta nahi tha, bas rehta tha. Jaise subah ka fan chal raha ho aur uski awaaz itni familiar ho gayi ho ki uske rukne ka ehsaas hi na ho. Jaise dining table par teen logon ke liye plates rakhi hon, par ek plate hamesha thodi saaf lage—kisi ke use na karne se zyada, kisi ke laut ke na aane se.

Main 27 ki thi, aur ghar ke andar ab bhi wohi bachpana lekar ghoom rahi thi jo baapu ke jaane ke baad usi din se mere andar jam gaya tha. Main painter thi, par sach bolun toh pehle main memory ki painter thi. Ya us cheez ki jo memory bhi poori nahi ban paayi thi. Baapu ka chehra mujhe yaad nahi tha, bas unka absence yaad tha. Unka shirt rack ka ek khali hook, unki chai ki adhoori aadat, aur mother ki aankhon mein woh static si thakan jo kabhi roshni ki taraf nahi mudti thi.

Maa subah uthti toh kitchen mein hoti. Chai ki patti ka dabba khulta, burner jalta, pressure cooker ki seeti, sab apni jagah. Wo ghar ko chalati thi jaise koi apni saans ko control kar raha ho. Bolti kam thi. Kabhi lagta tha uski awaaz ghar ke plaster mein soak ho gayi hai. Main usse “Maa” bolti aur woh sirf “haan” mein gardan utha deti.

Baapu ki baat ghar mein seedhe nahi hoti thi. Unka naam koi le bhi de toh uske baad ek chhota sa khaali space aa jata. Jaise sabne collectively decide kar liya ho ki kuch cheezein bolne se aur bhaari ho jaati hain. Unki ek purani shirt ab bhi almari mein thi. Unka steel ka cup, jismein ek side se dent tha. Ek pair chappal ka rack mein pada tha, doosra kab ka kho gaya tha. Maa ne kabhi un cheezon ko hataaya nahi. Shayad isliye nahi ki woh unse pyaar karti thi. Shayad isliye ki unhe hata dena kisi aur sach ko accept karna hota.

Main apne room mein paint karti thi. Khidki se aane wali roshni canvas par girti aur main us roshni ke around cheezein banana shuru karti—ek kandha, ek neck, ek haath, kabhi ek shadow. Baapu ka face kabhi poora nahi aaya. Jaise yaad ke paas chehra nahi, sirf outline ho.

Main unki tasveer nahi banati thi. Main unka rehna aur na rehna banati thi.

Ek din mother darwaze ke paas khadi thi. Main ek canvas par kaafi der se kaam kar rahi thi. Brush ke strokes fast the, jaise agar main thodi bhi dheemi hui toh jo andar jama hai woh nikal kar mujhe hi dekh lega.

“Khud ko itna mat thakao,” usne bas itna kaha.

Maine brush rok ke bhi uski taraf nahi dekha. “Kaun thak raha hai?”

Usne kitchen ki taraf mudte hue bola, “Jo andar se bhara ho.”

Mujhe uska jawab pasand bhi aaya aur bura bhi. Kyunki mere andar kuch tha—bahut kuch—par uska naam mujhe nahi aata tha. Main usko gussa keh deti, kabhi longing, kabhi obsession. Sach shayad in sabka mix tha.

Meri room ki wall par kuch incomplete canvases lage the. Ek mein aadmi ka half-profile. Ek mein chair. Ek mein bas light ka grey pool. Har painting ka subject alag tha, par sab mein ek common cheez thi—kuch missing.

Kabhi kabhi mujhe lagta, agar main us missing cheez ko bilkul sahi paint kar loon, toh shayad woh dard ka shape le lega. Aur shape milne ke baad dard manageable ho jayega.

Main galat thi. Par us waqt mujhe lagta tha control hi cure hai.

Maa ne mere room mein jhaankte hue ek din kaha, “Paint mein itna mat ghus ja. Khana kha le.”

“Khane se kya hoga?” maine bina palat ke kaha.

“Jitna tumhara kaam hai, utna hi tumhara badan bhi hai,” usne bola. “Dono ko alag mat samajh.”

Main hansi thi ya nahi, yaad nahi. Bas itna yaad hai ki us waqt mujhe laga woh mujhe samjha nahi rahi, measure kar rahi hai. Jaise main ek aadat hoon jo zyada badh gayi ho.

Aur shayad main waqai ek aadat ban gayi thi—baapu ke naam par sochne ki, unki kami ko apni pehchaan banane ki.

Gallery Ki Baat

Kunal ka phone aaya toh main kitchen mein thi. Maa aloo chheel rahi thi. Main sink ke paas khadi thi, apne brush stains wale haath ko dekh rahi thi. Screen par unknown number tha. Utha liya.

“Ira?” usne poocha. “Kunal speaking. Gallery se.”

Maine mother ki taraf dekha. Wo aloo ke chhilke ko packet mein daal rahi thi, jaise kuch bhi unusual hua hi na ho.

“Ji?” maine kaha.

“Your work—bahut strong hai. Raw. Honest. Actually, honest word overuse hota hai, but here it fits.”

Uski voice mein polished enthusiasm tha. Aisa enthusiasm jo aksar talent ke liye nahi, possibility ke liye hota hai.

“Mujhe aapka kaam Instagram pe mila,” usne continue kiya. “Father, absence, memory—there’s something there. Hum ek exhibition plan kar sakte hain.”

Mere haath ne sink ka edge pakad liya. “Father, absence, memory. Aapko teen keywords mil gaye toh exhibition ho gayi?”

Woh halka sa hansa. “Nahi, but audience ko story chahiye hoti hai. Story ke bina art bhi thoda inaccessible ho jata hai.”

Maine seedha kaha, “Main accessible nahi banana chahti.”

“Arre, accessible ka matlab cheap nahi hota,” usne turant smooth kiya. “Bas personal angle ko thoda articulate karna padega. Tumhare kaam mein father ka ghost hai.”

Maine almost khud ko khol ke usko suna diya. “Mere baapu ghost nahi hain.”

“Of course. I mean metaphorically.”

“Metaphor bhi nahi.”

Mother ne aloo chhod kar meri taraf ek baar dekha. Phir phir se kaam mein lag gayi.

Kunal ne apni baat ghumaai. “Dekho, isko personal pain mat samjho. Isko narrative samjho. Market mein people connect with unresolved things.”

“Mera unresolved aapke market ke liye nahi hai.”

“Bilkul,” usne smoothly bola. “But think about visibility. A good show can change your trajectory.”

Trajectory. Word itna clean tha ki mujhe ganda laga.