Chai, Chart aur Chhoti Si Team

Surat ke old-but-gold rental house mein subah ka alarm se zyada strong ek cheez thi — Pooja Mehta ka mood. Aur us mood ka target aksar same hota tha: Imran Khan, 26, jo ground floor ke corner wale room mein rehta tha aur ghar mein aise ghul-mil gaya tha jaise rent ke saath tension free bonus aaya ho, bas Pooja ko woh bonus kabhi samajh nahi aaya.

“Imran, gate lock phir se ulta laga diya?” Pooja ne kitchen se awaaz lagayi, haath mein cutting chai ka mug aur face par woh expression jo seedha bolta tha, “Mujhe patience ka EMI bharna pad raha hai.”

Imran ne newspaper fold karte hue bina dekhe bola, “Ulta nahi, tight lagaya hai. Aapko bas har cheez mein issue dhoondhna hota hai.”

“Issue? Bhai, kal scooter parking mein tumne meri cycle ke saamne apni scooter aise chipka di thi jaise society ka last parking slot tumhare dada ji ne reserve kiya ho.”

“Cycle ko nuksaan nahi hua na?”

“Logic ki baat mat karo. Tumhari aadat problem hai.”

Imran ne bas ek thandi si saans li. Woh waise hi quiet type tha — zyada bolta nahi, aur jab bolta tha toh aisa lagta tha jaise unnecessary words pe tax lagta ho. Textile shop mein kaam karta tha, subah office, shaam ghar ke chhote-mote kaam, aur beech mein apni duniya mein khoya hua. Pooja ko woh hamesha careless aur thoda stubborn lagta tha. Imran ko Pooja unnecessarily controlling lagti thi, jaise ghar ka har spoon uske mood board pe fit hona chahiye.

Aur beech mein the Mr. Mehta — Pooja ke father, 58 saal ke, retired small business owner, old-school pride ke saath. Unka recent injury ke baad ghar par rest chal raha tha. Right leg mein problem thi, doctor ne bol diya tha, “Zyada chalna nahi, time pe medicine, light food, aur stress bilkul nahi.” Bas problem yeh thi ki unke ghar mein stress free environment ka naam tak nahi tha.

Har subah ek fixed routine hota tha. Lukewarm coffee. Medicine reminder. Pooja ka laptop aur design files. Imran ka office bag. Aur un dono ke beech chhote-chhote taunts, jaise ghar ke walls bhi sun-sun ke bore ho gaye hon.

“Water bill tumne dekha?” Pooja poochti.

“Dekha. Main ne nahi peeya itna paani.”

“Funny. Bahut funny.”

“Thanks. Aap bhi try karo.”

Shanti Aunty, next door wali neighbour, jo society ki unofficial news channel thi, balcony se yeh sab sun ke apne aap hi commentary deti thi. “Arre baap re, aaj phir live show chal raha hai. In dono ka toh daily episode hai. Kabhi kabhi lagta hai TV serial wale inke ghar se script uthate honge.”

Par Shanti Aunty sirf gossip queen nahi thi. Woh sabki halat bhi samajh jaati thi. Unke paas woh nazar thi jo surface pe drama dekhti thi, aur andar ka stress bhi pakad leti thi. Bas unka tareeka thoda alag tha — pehle baat, phir chai, phir solution.

Us din subah kuch alag hua. Mr. Mehta ki tabiyat achanak down ho gayi. Unka chehra peela pad gaya, aur woh apni chair pe hi thoda jhuk gaye. Pooja ne panic mein thermometer nikala, Imran ne paani diya, aur Shanti Aunty ne boundary cross karte hue bina knock kiye entry maari.

“Arre, kya hua? Doctor ko call kiya?” unhone ek saans mein poocha.

“Kar rahi hoon,” Pooja ne stretched voice mein bola, but uski ungliyaan phone pe kaanp rahi thi.

Doctor ne check-up ke baad strict instructions diye. “Diet ka dhyaan rakho. Time pe medicine. Homemade food. No oily stuff. Aur stress toh bilkul nahi.”

Pooja ne sir hila diya, par uske face pe woh expression tha jo bol raha tha: “Great. Ab main job bhi karun, ghar bhi sambhalun, aur father ka ICU-free rehab bhi.”

Imran ne notice kiya ki medicine ka time miss ho raha tha. Kitchen mein jo khana ban raha tha, woh bhi doctor ke diet chart se kaafi door tha. Pooja idhar laptop pe client calls le rahi thi, udhar father ka BP check kar rahi thi, aur beech mein khud ko sambhalne ki koshish kar rahi thi.

Tab pehli baar Imran ne bina pooche ek kaam kiya. Usne kitchen mein jaake simple dalia banayi, Mr. Mehta ki medicine side table pe rakh di, aur ek chhota sa note chipka diya: “8 baje khana. 9 baje medicine. Water bottle full.”

Pooja jab wapas aayi aur yeh dekha toh uski eyebrows upar chali gayin. “Tumne yeh kyun kiya?”

Imran ne seedha jawab diya, “Kyuki kisi ko karna tha.”

“Main kar rahi thi.”

“Dikhta nahi tha.”

Pooja ko woh line chubh gayi. Intrusion bhi laga, aur relief bhi. Kyunki sach yeh tha ki uske paas itna bandwidth hi nahi tha. Woh strong banne ka natak kar rahi thi, par andar se thak chuki thi.

“Tumhe permission leni chahiye thi,” woh boli.

“Medicine ke liye bhi permission?” Imran ne dry tone mein poocha.

“Har cheez ke liye.”

“Phir help ka matlab kya reh gaya?”

Pooja ne jawab nahi diya. Mr. Mehta ne bas dono ko dekha, aur ek kaam kiya jo fathers kabhi-kabhi bina lecture diye kar lete hain — unhone thoda sa khanghaara, aur bola, “Dono kam bolke kaam zyada karo. Mera BP tum logon ke ego se upar nahi jana chahiye.”

Shanti Aunty, jo side mein khadi thi, almost khush ho gayin. “Wah, Mehta ji. Seedha heart pe baat.”

Uske baad ghar mein ek awkward but practical alliance shuru hua. Imran office se aane ke baad grocery le aata, medicine timing set karta, aur dinner ke liye light khana bana deta. Pooja food list, doctor notes, aur work calls ko manage karti. Mr. Mehta ki room side table pe ek medicine chart lag gaya, jisme colors se timings mark ki gayi thi. Red for morning, blue for afternoon, green for night.