Canvas Par Baapu

Call khatam hua toh kitchen mein thodi der tak sirf knife ka soft tap aur gas ki hiss sunai deti rahi.

“Kaun tha?” Maa ne poocha, bina meri taraf dekhe.

“Gallery wala.”

“Achha.”

Bas itna. Na curiosity, na approval, na warning.

Mujhe uski khamoshi se gussa aata tha. Par us gusse ke neeche ek aur layer thi—shayad frustration ki woh kuch bolti kyun nahi, ya phir woh sab kuch bol ke bhi kis tarah chup ho jaati thi.

Sham ko main studio mein baithi rahi. Kunal ki line dimaag mein atki thi: father ka ghost.

Mujhe ghost word se allergy thi. Kyunki ghost ka matlab hota hai koi aisa jise room mein sab feel karte hain, par koi openly accept nahi karta. Mere ghar mein baapu ka exactly wahi status tha. Present by absence. Aur main us absence ko art mein convert karke shayad apne aap ko prove karna chahti thi ki main is khaali pan ki malik hoon, uski victim nahi.

Maine naye canvas ko uthaya. First stroke diya. Aur pehli baar exhibition ka khayal aaya—log, lights, dekhne wali aankhen. Visibility. Sharm aur bhookh ke beech ka ek dangerous bridge.

Main us bridge par chalna chahti thi. Bas us waqt mujhe nahi pata tha ki uske neeche ka base kitna false hai.

Raju Ka Chehra

Raju ko Kunal ne bheja.

Message aaya: “Model aa jayega. Working-class. Solid face. No drama.”

No drama. Jaise insaan apne saath apni poori zindagi ka load bhi reception par jama kar de.

Raju jab aaya toh usne simple white vest pehni thi, faded jeans, aur pair mein old sandals. Chehre par koi performative confidence nahi. Na shy hone ka show, na artist ko impress karne ka effort. Bas ek aadmi jo samajhta tha ki uska waqt paisa hai aur body uska kaam.

“Namaste,” usne kaha. “Kunal bhai ne bola tha aapko sitter chahiye.”

“Baitho,” maine kaha. “Aur comfort se baithne ki zarurat nahi. Mujhe pose chahiye, relax nahi.”

Usne chair pe baithte hue meri taraf dekh ke kaha, “Achha. Aap pehle hi bata deti toh thoda kum ghabrahat hoti.”

Uski awaaz seedhi thi. Usmein art-world wali fake softness nahi thi.

Main sketchbook khol kar usko dekhne lagi. Uski jawline strong thi, par usmein koi hero wali sheen nahi. Thakan thi. Kaam ki thakan. Aisi thakan jo body ko bilkul seedha rakhne ki aadat dal deti hai. Uski ungliyon ke joints rough the, nails short. Jaisa aadmi jo zyada bolta nahi aur zyada uthaata hai.

“Tum model ho?” maine poocha.

“Kabhi-kabhi,” usne kaha. “Mostly kaam karta hoon. Modeling extra hai.”

“Extra?”

“Haath chalane ke liye paisa mil jaye toh theek hai.”

Main brush line pe focus karte hue boli, “Aadmi ka face kaafi kaam se badal jata hai.”

Raju ne ek corner smile di. “Aapko kaise pata?”

“Main dekh rahi hoon.”

“Main bhi dekh raha hoon,” usne bola, “ki aap mujhe dekh ke kisi aur ko bana rahi ho.”

Mere haath pal bhar ke liye ruk gaye.

Usne mujhe embarrass nahi kiya, bas observe kiya. Jaise uske liye ye nayi baat nahi thi ki log uske face par apni kahani chipka dete hain.

“Tumhe problem hai?” maine poocha.

“Problem?” usne kandhe uthaaye. “Paison kaam ke liye aa gaya hoon. Problem hoti toh baithta hi kyun.”

Pehli session mein woh bas baitha raha. Main uske face ke angles note karti rahi, uski neck ka turn, shoulders ki tension. Har pose mein main baapu ki koi shadow dhoondhti aur har baar Raju ka apna chehra us shadow ko tod deta.

Din ke beech usne apna dabba khola. Bhujia, thepla, ek katori mein sabzi. Kitchen jaisi smell room mein phail gayi.

“Tum yahin khate ho?” maine poocha.

“Kaam ke time kahin aur jaake kya karunga?” usne kaha. “Aur waise bhi, model hoon. Actor nahi.”

Main uski taraf dekh kar muskurayi—thoda, bas thoda.

“Difference?” maine poocha.

“Actor ko dekhte rehte hain,” usne kaha. “Model ko dekh ke bolte hain, ‘theek hai, ab jao.’”

Usmein koi self-pity nahi thi. Bas ek factual fatigue.

Maine sketchbook mein uski aankhen banate hue poocha, “Tum itna seedha kaise bol dete ho?”

“Seedha bolne se kam se kam apni baat yaad rehti hai.”

Woh line mere andar aakar atak gayi.

Do sessions baad usne meri drawings dekh li. “Ye jo aadmi hai,” usne pucha, “ye aapke baapu hain?”

Maine turant brush neeche rakh diya. “Tumhe kisne bola?”

“Kisi ne nahi,” usne kaha. “Pata chal jata hai.”

“Kaise?”

Usne apni roti ka tukda todte hue bola, “Aadmi ka face banate waqt aap usko dekh nahi rahi hoti. Aap uske through kisi aur ko yaad kar rahi hoti ho. Aur jab yaad gusse ke saath ho, toh line mein ek alag sa pressure hota hai.”

Main use ghoorti reh gayi. Uski baat mein na academic tone tha, na art-school ka nakhra. Bas observation.

Maine dheere se poocha, “Tum kis cheez ko dekh ke bol rahe ho?”

Raju ne ek pal ke liye apni roti roki. “Mere abba bhi gaye the. Gussa karke. Phir wapas aane ka bolke. Phir kabhi nahi aaye.”

Room mein ek alag sa silence aa gaya. Is baar silence ne mujhe nahi, usko rakha hua tha.

“Tumne pehle kyun nahi bola?” maine poocha.

“Pehle aapne poocha nahi.”

Uski baat simple thi, par usmein ek seedhi si challenge thi. Jaise woh keh raha ho: tum mujhe object samajh kar dekh rahi thi, aadmi samajh kar nahi.

Uske baad main use sirf father-shape ke liye nahi dekhne lagi. Uske face mein apni akeli aurat ka future bhi dikhta tha—wo dignity jo jeene ke liye kisi se permission nahi leti.

Aur jaise-jaise main usko dekhti gayi, baapu ka face mere canvas se kam hota gaya. Pehle ke jaisa nahi raha. Raju ka presence meri painting mein unwanted truth ki tarah ghus gaya.

Ek din Raju ne chupke se meri room ki wall par lage canvases dekhe. “Aapka ghar bhi painting jaisa lagta hai,” usne kaha.

“Kaise?”

“Jahan jo missing hai, woh hi sabse zyada dikh raha hai.”