Corridor Bench Pe Ek Letter

Chennai medical college ka hostel raat ko alag hi mood mein hota tha. Din bhar ki hustle ke baad jab mess se dinner khatam hota, steel plates ki khanak dheere-dheere fade hoti, aur corridor mein ceiling fans ki awaaz reh jaati, tab lagta tha jaise poora building apni hi saanson mein jee raha ho. Neeche ground floor pe koi junior last-minute anatomy revise kar raha hota, kisi room mein pressure cooker se chai ki whistle aati, aur kisi kone mein do log bina reason ke has rahe hote. In sab ke beech Professor R. Iyer apni usual night round pe nikalte—seedhe, calm, haath peeche jode hue, jaise hostel nahi, kisi silent museum ki inspection kar rahe hon.

Professor Iyer 52 ke the, physiology padhate the, aur unki sabse badi specialty yeh thi ki woh kam bolkar bhi bahut kuch notice kar lete the. Students unhe strict samajhte the, par sacchayi yeh thi ki woh strict kam aur observant zyada the. Unki aankhon se bachna mushkil tha, especially jab koi student fake “I’m fine sir” bol raha ho aur andar se poori tarah toot raha ho. Unke dry humor ka bhi apna fan base tha. Ek baar ek junior ne unse puch liya, “Sir, sleep kitne hours lena chahiye?” Iyer ne bina expression badle bola, “As much as your attendance allows.” Bas phir kya, poora corridor do minute tak hans raha tha.

Us hostel mein Karthik bhi tha—first-year MBBS, 21 saal ka, quiet type, always slightly hunched shoulders aur hamesha apne thoughts ke andar ghusa hua. Roommate gang usko pyaar se “mute mode” bolti thi. Karthik baat kam karta tha, lekin observe sab kuch karta tha. Class mein top karne ka pressure, library mein endless notes, aur hostel room mein late-night silence—yeh sab uski routine ka part the. Uski table ke drawer mein kuch purane letters pade rehte the, father ke naam ke. Un letters ko woh kabhi kholta nahi tha. Bas rakh ke bhool jaata tha, ya shayad bhoolne ka pretence karta tha.

Hostel ke logon ko lagta tha ki Karthik bas introvert hai. “Bhai, isko toh kisi ne bola nahi hoga ‘good morning’ toh bhi chalega,” uska roommate Rakesh bolta tha, jo Rajasthan se aaya tha aur har baat mein apna commentary track chala deta tha. “Nahi yaar,” Chennai ka Arjun bolta, “yeh banda serious hai. Medical student hai, obviously.” Par Karthik ka alag hi scene tha. Woh post box ke paas se guzarta toh do second rukta, phir aage badh jaata. Jaise andar hi andar kuch soch raha ho, phir khud ko rok leta ho.

Professor Iyer ne yeh pattern notice kar liya tha. Unhone ek do baar dekha ki Karthik corridor ke end tak jaake wapas mud jaata hai, jaise kisi invisible line ko cross nahi karna chahta. Ek raat round ke time Iyer ne use third-floor corridor mein akela paaya. Bahar light thodi dim thi, aur bench ke paas Karthik ek aadha likha paper haath mein liye khada tha. Uske fingers kaanp rahe the. Jaise woh us paper ko phaadne hi wala ho.

Iyer ne dheere se pucha, “Letter hai?”

Karthik ne jhat se paper peeche chhupa liya. “Nahi sir.”

Professor Iyer ne usko dekha, phir corridor ke end mein lagi notice board ki taraf dekhte hue bole, “Achha. Toh paper ko itna pyaar kyun de rahe ho?”

Karthik ka face aur red ho gaya. Woh awkward sa smile karne ki koshish mein fail ho gaya. “Bas… kuch nahi.”

Iyer ne uske saamne aake khade hote hue poocha, “Father ko likh rahe ho ya khud se lad rahe ho?”

Yeh line itni seedhi thi ki Karthik ke paas bachne ka koi route nahi bacha. Woh ekdum chup ho gaya. Phir uski aankhon mein jo pressure tha, woh dheere-dheere surface pe aane laga. “Sir… unka reply nahi aaya. Months ho gaye. Maine pehle bhi likha tha. Ab samajh nahi aa raha kya likhun. Har baar lagta hai, ya toh main overreact kar raha hoon, ya phir unhe farak hi nahi padta.”

Uski voice last mein almost toot gayi. Karthik ne apna face turn kar liya, jaise aansu se zyada embarrassment se bach raha ho. Hostel ke corridor mein us waqt bas fan ka noise tha aur door kisi room mein kettle ki halki si whistle. Professor Iyer ne koi lecture nahi diya. Na “be strong” bola, na “parents are always busy” wali generic line.

Woh bas bole, “Aaj sirf ek honest paragraph likho. Perfect nahi. Bas sach.”

Karthik ne unhe dekha, confused bhi, relieved bhi. “Sir, itna simple?”

“Simple cheezein hi usually hard hoti hain,” Iyer ne dry tone mein kaha. “Especially jab ego aur hurt dono same page pe ho.”

Us raat corridor bench pe ek naye ritual ki shuruaat hui. Night rounds ke baad, jab hostel thoda shaant hota, Professor Iyer aur Karthik bench pe baith jaate. Iyer apni file side mein rakh dete aur Karthik ko bolte, “Likho.” Karthik pehle blank page ko dekhta, phir pen ko, phir apne haath ko, jaise koi surgery karni ho. Iyer kabhi uske shoulder pe pressure nahi daalte the. Bas itna bolte, “Jo bhi aa raha hai, likho. Grammar baad mein dekh lenge. Emotional honesty pe marks nahi kat-te.”

Karthik ko yeh baat ajeeb tarah se comforting lagti thi. Usne pehli baar likha, “Dad, I don’t know if you’ll read this.” Bas itna likhkar ruk gaya. Iyer ne kuch nahi bola. Do minute baad Karthik ne aur likha, “I am trying to be the kind of son you can be proud of, but I don’t know what that means anymore.” Phir ruk gaya. Uski aankhon mein woh familiar tightness aa gayi, jo woh din bhar suppress karta rehta tha.