City of Joy: Cute si Love Story

City of Joy: Cute si Love Story Category: Romance Labels: Kolkata Nostalgia, Tram Journeys, Artistic Vibes, Poetic Romance, Rainy Encounters ---

Chapter 1: Pehli Mulaqat - The Rainstorm

Main Riya, 25 saal ki, Siliguri se Kolkata aayi thi... sirf apne sapno ko rang dene. Graphic designer by profession, lekin dil se main ek artist thi. Mere paas hamesha ek canvas bag rehta tha - jismein meri sketches, mere khayal, meri duniya basi rehti thi.

March ka mahina tha. Kolkata ki garmi apna asar dikhane lagi thi, lekin aaj... aaj baarish ka asar tha. Main College Street se aayi thi, Art College ke paas se ek nayi sketchbook kharid kar. Mashi ka ghar Bhowanipore mein tha - Mashi, meri mausi, jiske yahan main rehti thi apne internship ke dauraan.

"Riya, jaldi aana, baarish aane waali hai!" Mashi ka phone aaya tha.

Lekin main... main toh bas tram ka intezaar kar rahi thi. Kolkata ki tram - kitni purani, kitni khoobsurat! Yeh modern duniya mein bhi apni jagah banaye hue thi. Main tram stop pe khadi thi, apne canvas bag ko sine se lagaaye, jab achanak...

Phat!

Aasmaan ne apna raag suna diya. Baarish... aur woh bhi aisi ki bas! Log bhaag rahe the, chaatein khul rahi thi, lekin main... main bas tram ka intezaar kar rahi thi, kyunki mujhe pata tha ki yeh baarish Kolkata ki shaan hai.

Tram aayi. Purani si, hari rang ki, jaise koi itihas ki kitaab ho. Main andar gayi, bheed thi, lekin ek seat mil gayi window ke paas. Maine apna bag zameen pe rakha, canvas ko apne paas hi rakha. Baarish ki boondein window pe takra rahi thi, aur main... main bas yeh sab dekh rahi thi.

Tabhi ek awaaz aayi.

"Excuse me, yeh seat khaali hai?"

Maine upar dekha. Saamne ek ladka khada tha. White kurta, jeans, baalo mein thodi gel - seedha sa, simple sa, lekin aankhon mein kuch alag sa tha. Woh aankhein... jaise Rabindranath ki kavita padhti hain.

"Ha... haan, baithiye," maine kaha.

Usne baithte waqt muskuraya. "Baarish dekh ke aap bhaagi nahi?"

"Nahi," maine kaha, apne canvas bag ko aur paas kheenchte hue. "Main toh bas... yeh sab dekhna chahti thi."

"Kolkata ki baarish alag hi hoti hai," usne kaha, window ki taraf dekhte hue. "Jaise koi purana geet ho, yaadein le aati hai."

Maine usse dekha. Kaun tha yeh? Itna poetic? "Aap...?"

"Oh, sorry! Main Joy. Joy Banerjee. School teacher hoon - South Point mein History padhata hoon."

"Riya," maine kaha. "Riya Sharma. Graphic designer. Siliguri se."

"Siliguri?" Usne eyebrows uthaye. "Wahan se Kolkata? Culture shock nahi hua?"

"Thoda... lekin acha lag raha hai. Yeh city... purani hai, jaise koi painting ho."

Tabhi... Phat! Phat! Phat!

Baarish aur tez ho gayi. Tram ke khidki se paani andar aa raha tha. Maine jaldi se apna canvas bag uthaya, lekin... ek badi boond sidha mere sketchbook pe gir gayi.

"Oh no!" main cheekhi.

Main jaldi se tissue nikaalne lagi, lekin Joy ne pehle hi apna rumal nikaal diya - ek purana sa, dhula hua, lekin saaf rumal.

"Ruko, ruko!" usne kaha, aur mere canvas ko apne paas kheench liya. "Yeh geele ho jaayenge!"

Usne apne haathon se mere sketches ko cover karne ki koshish ki. Tram hil rahi thi, aur hum dono... kaise pata nahi, ek doosre ke kaafi kareeb aa gaye. Uske haath mere canvas pe the, aur mere haath uske haaton ke upar... hum dono paani ko rokne ki koshish kar rahe the.

"Yeh... yeh mere kaam hain," maine kaha, awaaz thodi kamzor thi. "Mere bachpan se..."

"Main samajhta hoon," usne kaha, mujhe dekhe bina. "Art... art kisi ki jaan hoti hai."

Humne milkar canvas ko ek plastic cover se dhak diya - jo mere bag mein tha. Lekin tab tak... hum dono thode geele ho chuke the. Uske kurte ke kone pe paani ke cheetein, aur mere dupatte pe bhi.

"Sorry," usne kaha, pehli baar mujhe aankhon mein dekhte hue. "Aap geele ho gayi..."

"Nahi, nahi, it's okay," maine kaha. "Aapne toh meri... meri jaan bachayi."

Woh muskuraya. Woh muskaan... jaise koi purana ghar ho, garam chai ho, aur baarish ho.

"Waise, aap kahan ja rahi hain?" usne pucha.

"Bhowanipore. Mashi ke ghar."

"Oh! Main bhi usi taraf. Tollygunge. Dida ke saath rehta hoon - meri daadi."

"Dida?" maine pucha.

"Bengali mein daadi ko Dida kehte hain," usne samjhaya. "Woh... woh meri duniya hain. Unhone hi mujhe Rabindranath ki kavitaayein padhai hain."

Maine kuch feel kiya... kuch ajeeb sa. Yeh ladka... alag tha. Aaj kal ke ladkon jaise nahi. Usmein koi rawaayat thi, koi tehzeeb.

Tram chal rahi thi, baarish bahar ho rahi thi, aur hum dono... baatein kar rahe the.

"Aapko trams pasand hain?" usne pucha.

"Bahut," maine kaha. "Siliguri mein bhi hain, lekin yahan... yahan alag hai. Yeh... yeh jaise time machine ho."

"Exactly!" usne kaha, excited ho kar. "Dekhiye na, yeh wires upar, yeh purani seats... yeh sab toh British time ki hai. Lekin phir bhi... zinda hai."

"Jaane kyun, mujhe lagta hai ki yeh sab dekh ke main acha design kar paati hoon," maine kaha. "Purani cheezon mein kuch baat hoti hai."

"Purani cheezon mein jaan hoti hai," usne kaha, aur phir apni pocket se ek chota sa notebook nikaala. "Dekhiye, main bhi... shayari likhta hoon. Kabhi kabhi."

Mujhe dekhne diya. Uske haath mein ek purana sa notebook tha, aur usmein... usmein kavitaayein thi. Bengali mein, Hindi mein, English mein.

"Yeh... yeh aapne likha?" maine hairani se pucha.

"Ha. Bas... dil mein aaya toh likh diya. Dida kehti hain ki shabd garam hote hain, unhe thanda nahi hone dena chahiye."

Kya baat thi! Main toh bas dekhti hi reh gayi. Yeh ladka... teacher tha, poet tha, aur kuch aur bhi... kuch jo main samajh nahi pa rahi thi.

"Waise, aap kya sketch karti hain?" usne pucha.

"Bas... jo dikhta hai. Log, sadkein, baarish..." maine kaha, aur phir sharma kar, "Aur trams."

"Trams?" usne muskuraya. "Kal ko main aapke sketch mein aa jaun toh?"