Doosri Shift

Raat

Gurugram ki raat mein hospital aur office tower mein zyada farq nahi lagta. Dono glass aur light se bane hue lagte hain—bahar se chamak, andar se thakaan. Main jab second-floor ke staff entrance se andar ghusti hoon, toh mera reflection automatic door ke black glass mein ek pal ke liye dikhta hai: baal tight bun, mask half face pe, uniform pe iron ke do folds, aur aankhon ke neeche woh shadow jo ab makeup se bhi nahi chhup ti.

“Shift pe aa gayi?” security wala bina pooche bolta hai.

“Hmm.”

Locker kholti hoon, apron pehenti hoon, hairnet adjust karti hoon. Night shift ka smell alag hota hai—disinfectant, stale coffee, saline, aur kahin se aati hui anxiety jo shayad kisi ki family ke saath chipak kar andar aati hai. 9 baje ke baad hospital ki awaazein aur tez ho jaati hain. Monitor ki beeping, trolley wheels, kisi corridor mein dabba sa rota hua rishtedaar, lift ke khulne band hone ki dhadak. Main in sab ke beech apna kaam karti hoon, jaise koi aadmi traffic mein apni saans sambhalta hai.

Hand wash, gloves, chart check, medicines, vitals. Bed 14 se bed 18 tak round lagate hue log mujhe nurse kam, signal zyada samajhte hain. Jab main aaun, matlab kuch karna hai. Jab main jaaun, matlab abhi kuch aur ruk gaya.

Phone vibrate karta hai. Screen pe Aarav ka naam.

Main corridor ke kone mein khadi ho jaati hoon aur voice note kholti hoon.

“Ma, aap duty pe ho na? Main so gaya tha phir uth gaya. Aaj school mein maine star banaya. Teacher ne bola, ‘Aarav, very neat!’ Main ne khud hi shoes baandhe. Dekho na, main bada ho gaya.”

Uski awaaz mein woh proudness hoti hai jo chhote bachche sirf do cheezon pe dikhate hain—jab unhone khud kuch kiya ho ya jab unko lagta ho duniya unki maa ko sunegi. Main ek chhoti si smile rok nahi paati.

Aarav six saal ka hai. Mera beta. Bas. Aur phir bhi us sentence ke andar itni duniya hai ki kabhi kabhi saans tight ho jaati hai.

Main reply record karti hoon, “Mera hero. Main sun rahi hoon. Bas ab sone ki taiyari karo. Kal phir school, phir drawing. Theek?”

“Okay ma,” uska short sa reply aata hai.

Main phone lock karti hoon aur phir kaam mein doob jaati hoon.

Raat ke 11 baje bed 16 par Old Rao ko pain ho raha hota hai. Chest ko pakad ke unka chehra kaafi der se ek hi expression mein atka hua hai—gussa, darr, aur kisi purani aadat ki tarah dabai hui sharm. Unki file mein likha hai: seventy, post-op, observation. Par unki aankhen dekh ke lagta hai jaise body ke andar koi aur bhi zinda hai—ek aisa aadmi jo hospital ke white walls se nahi, kisi aur jagah se belong karta tha.

“Daughter,” woh mujhe dekh ke bolte hain, “yeh machine ka awaz band nahi hota kya?”

Main monitor pe nazar daalti hoon. “Abhi zarurat hai, Rao saab.”

“Zarurat kiski hai? Meri ya is system ki?”

Main thoda ruk jaati hoon. Aise questions hospital mein aam taur pe nahi poochte. Woh bas pain ki complaint karte hain ya paani maangte hain ya doctor ko gaali. Rao saab ka gussa shaant hota hai, jaise kisi ne bahut pehle andar hi andar use settle kar diya ho.

“Main aapko pain medicine de deti hoon,” main kehti hoon.

Woh meri taraf dekhte hain. “Tumhari aankhen thak gayi hain.”

Maine aise kai patients dekhe hain jo mera naam nahi yaad rakhte, bas nurse bolte hain. Par unka yeh kehna—thak gayi hain—seedha kahin andar lagta hai.

“Sab thakte hain, Rao saab.”

“Sab nahi,” woh dheere se bolte hain. “Kuch log kaam karte karte apni zubaan bhi kharch kar dete hain.”

Main medicine tray ko ek second ke liye tight pakad leti hoon. Unki baat ka jawab mere paas hota hai, par main deti nahi. Hospital mein kabhi-kabhi jawab dene se zyada zaruri hota hai, bas kahin khade rehna.

Midnight ke baad corridor aur khali ho jaata hai. Bas emergency ka intermittent shor, kitchen se aati chai ki smell, aur ventilation ki sarsarahat. Main nurses’ station pe chart update kar rahi hoti hoon ki dobara phone vibrate karta hai.

Aarav ka naya voice note.

“Ma, aap kab aoge? Papa wali drawing maine cupboard pe chipka di. Main nahi roya. Main brave hoon. Par aap aana jaldi.”

Main ek second ke liye aankhen band kar leti hoon.

Mera ex-husband Gurugram mein hi hai, par Aarav ke life mein uska hona ek dhundla sa concept ban chuka hai—kabhi kabhi ek phone call, kabhi birthday pe ek awkward gift, kabhi ek promise jo poora hone se pehle hi thanda pad jaata hai. Aarav facts ko emotions se alag rakh leta hai. Hum bade log hi unmein dard bharte hain.

Main message type karti hoon: “Subah aakar tumhe cake wala biscuit laungi. Brave hero.”

Send.

Phir chair ke backrest se sar laga ke main bas saans leti hoon. Raat ka pressure har nurse pe ek sa nahi hota. Kisi pe zyada patients, kisi pe kam staff, kisi pe rude doctor, kisi pe family ka pressure. Mera pressure alag hai. Main hamesha do jagah hoti hoon—yahan bed ke paas aur ghar ke door pe, jahan Aarav meri awaaz ka intezaar karta hai.

Aur isi beech mein main khud ko kabhi-kabhi dhund leti hoon.

Rao Saab

Old Rao ko log mostly unke surname se bulate the. First name jaise kisi ne pyar se bola hi na ho. Main jab unke bed ke paas baithti hoon, woh thoda seedha ho jaate hain. Unke haath mein veins bahar nikli hui, skin paper jaisi patli. Par unki awaaz mein ab bhi ek stubbornness hai.

“Tumhara naam?” unhone ek raat poocha.

“Srishti.”

“Achha,” woh bole. “Meri beti ka naam Shakti tha. Meri biwi ko yeh naam pasand nahi tha. Bola tha, ‘tum log ghar mein bhi office le aate ho.’”

Main unki file pe ek nazar daalti hoon. “Aapki family?”