Ink, Leather aur Ek Mauka

Subah ka waqt Lucknow ki us purani gali mein alag hi mahak le kar aata tha. Imran Chacha ke printing press ka shutter jaise hi aadha uthta, andar se ink ki woh teekhi si smell, machine ki dhadkan aur chai ki ubalti hui khushboo ek saath bahar aa jaati. Gali ke kone par chai wala Munna already ready hota—“Chacha, aaj do cutting aur ek adrak wali extra, samjho zara,” aur Chacha bas ek nazar mein samajh jaate ki Munna ki extra cutting ka matlab khud ke liye nahi, press ke aadmiyon ke liye hai.

Faiz usi press mein school ke baad paper stack karta, forms sort karta, kabhi kabhi purane posters ke neeche se dust jhaadta. Par uska dhyan aksar kaam par kam aur gali ke end mein bane khali plot par zyada hota, jahan woh tennis ball aur apne worn-out bat ke saath practice karta tha. Chacha ko jab bhi woh bat dikhta, unke chehre par ek aisi sakht line aa jaati jaise kisi ne machine ka belt galat direction mein chala diya ho. Woh bolte, “Faiz, pehle kaam. Cricket baad mein. Ghar ka chulha press se hi jalta hai, samjho zara.”

Faiz bas “haan, Chacha” bol deta, par andar se uska mann aur tez dhadakta. Usko cricket se pyaar tha, par sirf pyaar nahi—usmein ek zid bhi thi, ek bhook bhi. Woh sabko bolta tha ki usko bas khelna hai, bas gully tournament, school match, aur kabhi na kabhi bada ground. Lekin sach yeh tha ki uske dil ke ek kone mein scholarship ka sapna bhi tha. Woh chahta tha ki ghar par bojh na bane, ki apne pairon par khada ho, ki Ammi ko har baar paise ke liye chinta na karni pade. Par yeh baat woh kisi se nahi bolta tha, khaaskar Imran Chacha se toh bilkul nahi.

Shabnam Aapa, jo next lane mein rehti thi aur har cheez par apni ek alag hi commentary deti thi, in dono ko dekh kar roz naya drama invent kar leti. “Arre wah, ek taraf press ki machine, doosri taraf cricket ki pitch,” woh balcony se awaaz lagati, “ghar mein do-do captain pal rahe hain kya?” Phir khud hi hansi daba kar bolti, “Miyan, zyada serious mat ho, warna chai bhi thandi ho jaayegi.” Log samajhte the woh bas mazaak kar rahi hain, par asal mein woh dono ke beech ki khamoshi ko sabse pehle notice karti thi.

Phir ek din gali mein announcement hui—local gully cricket tournament. Prize simple nahi tha. Winning team ko sports scholarship trial ka chance milna tha. Faiz ke liye yeh sunte hi jaise kisi ne andar se light on kar di ho. Usne bina zyada soche register kar liya. Sameer Coach, jo tournament organize kar raha tha aur kabhi kabhi net practice bhi kara deta tha, ne usko dekh kar bas itna kaha, “Boy, talent hai. Bas discipline mat khona.”

Faiz ne haan toh kar di, par problem turant shuru ho gayi. Practice aur match dates press ke kaam se clash karne lage. Pehle woh ek-do baar jaldi nikal gaya, phir ek din poora afternoon gayab ho gaya. Imran Chacha ko jab pata chala, unka gussa seedha sar se pair tak utar aaya. “Kya samjha hai tu? Cricket ka nasha hai ya zimmedari ka bukhaar?” unhone sakht awaaz mein poocha. “Pehle press ka order niklega, phir jo karna hai karna. Sapne pet nahi bharte, Faiz.”

Faiz ka chehra utar gaya. Usne bhi pehli baar seedhe Chacha ki aankhon mein dekh kar kaha, “Aur agar try hi nahi karunga toh kabhi kuch banunga kaise? Aap bas mana karte ho, samajhte kyun nahi?” Gali mein khade do teen logon ne turant kaan khade kar liye. Munna chai wala toh literally apna glass aadha bhool gaya. Shabnam Aapa ne balcony se bas itna kaha, “Arre wah, final over chal raha hai kya, ya family meeting?”

Chacha ne koi jawab nahi diya. Bas unhone Faiz ko ek nazar dekha—woh nazar sakht bhi thi, thaki hui bhi, aur shayad thodi darri hui bhi. Faiz ko laga Chacha bas control karna chahte hain. Chacha ko laga Faiz family ko risk mein daal raha hai. Dono ek hi roof ke neeche the, par unke beech ek aisi deewar khadi ho gayi thi jo na kaha hua tha, na dikh raha tha, par mehsoos sabko ho raha tha.

Tournament ke din subah se hi press mein halchal thi. Ek important order ka print galat ho gaya tha. Posters ulte order mein nikal gaye the, aur client shaam tak delivery maang raha tha. Babu Lal, jo hamesha chup-chaap kaam karta tha aur apni moustache ke neeche se sab kuch dekh leta tha, pareshan ho gaya. “Chacha, yeh batch toh phir se set karna padega. Time kam hai,” usne dheere se kaha.

Faiz ne apni kit bag shoulder par daali. Aaj match ka pehla round tha. Uske andar ek awaaz bol rahi thi—“Ja, yeh tera chance hai.” Par phir usne press ki taraf dekha. Chacha akela machine ke paas khade the, sleeves rolled up, chehre par tension ka woh familiar sa shadow. Faiz ke kadam ruk gaye. Chacha ne bina dekhe hi kaha, “Jaana hai toh ja. Mera kaam dekhne ke liye main hoon.”

Yeh line sunte hi Faiz ko aur bura laga. Usne socha, “Bas, aaj bhi taana.” Par phir machine ne ek ajeeb si aawaz ki, aur Babu Lal ne fauran kaha, “Arre, roller phans gaya.” Chacha ne ek second ke liye aankh band ki. Faiz ne bag side mein rakha aur bhaag kar press ke andar chala gaya. “Kahan phans gaya?” usne poocha. Chacha ne pehli baar uski taraf dekh kar sirf itna kaha, “Yahin. Jaise har baar kuch na kuch phans jaata hai.”

Dono ne milkar machine kholi. Babu Lal ne ek drawer se folded papers nikale. Faiz ne dekha toh woh tournament ke printed flyers the—uske naam ke saath. Match timings, venue, aur even trial notice. Faiz ka muh khula ka khula reh gaya. “Yeh… yeh kisne print kiya?” usne dheere se poocha.