Mitti Ki Khushboo

Mitti Ki Khushboo

Pehla Rukh

Rajouri ki subah naak se uthti hai. Pehli hawa mitti lekar aati hai—woh geeli, ziddi mitti jo Kashmir ki har aurat apne rida ke kone mein chhupaye rakhti hai.

Main, Mehrunisa, jab rasoi mein paon rakhti hoon, meri chappal thas-thas awaaz karti hai. Zameen mujhe yaad dilati hai ke main ab bhi zinda hoon, chahe mujhe apne wajan ka ehsaas kyun na ho raha ho.

Teen saal pehle tak main Arif ki begum thi. Aaj main school ki madam hoon, aur Sakeena ki padosan.

"Thak-thak-thak."

Darwaze pe Sakeena hai—chaalis ki umar paar, zubaan solah saal ki. Dupatta sar pe aise bandha hai jaise jang ke liye taiyaar ho.

"Arre Mehrunisa!" woh andar aate hi chillati hai, "Tumhari khidki se itni thandi hawa aa rahi hai ke ghar ko qabar bana rahi ho kya?"

Main muskurati hoon. Yeh uski mohabbat hai—gaali ke andar chhupi fikr.

"Andar aao. Kahwa banaya hai," main kehti hoon.

"Kahwa? Subah-subah?" woh aankh tairati hai, "Raat bhar so nahi paayi?"

Chulhe ke paas baithkar woh seedha bartan utha leti hai. Sakeena izazat nahi leti, bas le leti hai.

"Sun," woh achanak kehti hai, "aaj main Arif ke bagh ke paar se guzri. Baba Jan ko dekha. Keh raha tha ke ek purana darakht girne ko hai. Uske tane mein zang lag gaya hai."

Mera haath ruk jaata hai.

"Tum kabhi gayi nahi?" Sakeena poochhti hai.

"Kyun jaun?"

Woh meri taraf dekhti hai—woh dekhnan jo dard ko chhant-ta hai. "Kabhi kabhi insaan ko apne dukh ke paas jaana padta hai, Mehrunisa. Yeh Rajouri hai. Yahan dard ko bhi izzat deni padti hai."

Main uski baat ka jawab nahi deti. Sach yeh hai ke main bagh se isliye nahi door hoon ke dukh kam ho jaye, balki isliye ke kahin Arif ki koi aisi baat na mil jaaye jo main sambhaal na sakun.

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Dusra Rukh

School mein Tariq mere class mein hai. Baarah saal ka, patla, aur aankhen kisi budhe ki tarah gehri.

Woh khidki se bahar dekh raha hai—bagh ki taraf.

"Tariq," main awaaz deti hoon.

Woh palat ta hai. "Ji Madam?"

"Kya dekh rahe ho?"

"Us darakht ko," woh kehta hai, "jismein se kal seb gira tha. Baba Jan kehte hain ke uske neeche kuch daba hua hai."

Mera seena tang ho jaata hai.

Shaam ko Tariq mere paas aata hai. "Madam, aap gussa toh nahi hain?"

"Kyun?"

"Kyunki maine bagh ke baare mein kaha."

Main uski taraf dekhti hoon. "Nahin."

Woh khush ho jaata hai, phir seedha bolta hai, "Madam, aap kabhi bagh mein gayi hain?"

Main chup rehti hoon.

"Mere dada kehte the," woh aage badhta hai, "ke bagh mein jo mitti hai, woh sunti hai."

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Teesra Rukh

Agli subah main jaldi uthti hoon. Rasoi se tokri uthaati hoon—kuch seb, rotiyan, ek chhota chaadar. Pata nahi kyun, lekin aaj main bagh jaana chahti hoon.

Raste mein hawa alag hai. Sardi ki narmi hai—kisi ke saans jaisi. Main chalti hoon—school se pehle, ghar se door, apni aadat se hatkar.

Bagh gate pe pahunchti hoon. Lohe ka gate, zang alooda, mazboot. Ek budha aadmi khada hai—safed daadhi, dhundhli aankhen.

"Mehrunisa Bibi," woh kehta hai, jaise mera aana usne pehle se jaan liya ho.

"Baba Jan."

"Aaj aap aayi hain," yeh tasdeeq hai.

"Ji."

"Arif sahib ke bagh mein?"

"Haan."

Woh mudkar andar chalta hai. "Aao."

Darakhton ke beech se guzarte hue Arif ki yaad aati hai—unke qadam, unki khamoshi. Yahan unhone mujhe seb dikhaye the. Yahan unhone kaha tha, "Mehrunisa, yeh bagh meri ammi ki yaad hai."

"Yeh wala darakht," Baba Jan rukkar kehta hai, "yeh wahi hai jiske neeche Arif sahib baithte the."

Main upar dekhti hoon. Darakht purana hai, shakhen faili hui jaise haath. Zameen pe gehri chhaya hai.

"Wahan," Baba Jan ishaara karta hai, "ek patthar hai. Uske neeche... kuch hai."

Mera dil tez dhadakta hai.

"Arif sahib ne kaha tha," Baba Jan zameen ki taraf jhukte hue kehta hai, "teen saal pehle, jab unki tabiyat theek nahi rehti thi. 'Baba Jan, agar main na rahun to is jagah ko mat bhoolna. Yahan kuch hai jo Mehrunisa ko dena hai. Lekin pehle uski marzi ka intezar karna.'"

Meri saansein ruk si jaati hain.

Woh mitti hatata hai. Ek chhota lohe ka dabba nikalta hai. Zang alooda, purana. Upar seb ke phool jaisa nishaan—Arif ka.

"Aap kholo," main kehti hoon, haath kaanp rahe hain.

Woh dhakkan kholta hai.

Teen lifaafe. Ek par mera naam—Mehrunisa. Doosra khaali. Teesra mota, jaise koi duniya chhupi ho.

"Aur yeh," Baba Jan ek chhota kapda nikaalta hai.

Khulta hai. Ek qalam. Peeli lakdi ka, ghisa hua. Maa ka qalam.

Mera gala bhar aata hai. Mujhe yaad hai—meri maa ka qalam, jis se woh mujhe likhna sikhati thi. Main use kahan kho gayi thi?

"Arif sahib ne yeh bazaar se khareeda tha," Baba Jan kehta hai. "Kehte the, 'Mehrunisa ki maa ka tha. Ab Mehrunisa ka hoga.'"

Main wahin baith jaati hoon. Zameen geeli hai, thandi hai. Suraj upar chadhta hai, meri chhaya chhoti hoti hai. Baba Jan chup khada rehta hai.

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Chautha Rukh

Ghar laut kar main khaton ko chhoo karti hoon. Raat ko, jab Ammi so gayi hain, main candle jalaati hoon.

Pehla lifaafa.

Mehrunisa,

Agar tum yeh padh rahi ho, toh samajh lena ke main ab bhi kuch kehna chahta tha aur keh nahi saka. Tum hamesha kehti thi ke main baatein aadhi karta hoon. Shayad sach hai. Main aadha aadmi hi tha.

Mujhe maaf kar dena agar main ne tumhein kabhi yeh na bataya ke bagh mere liye sirf kaam nahi tha. Yeh woh jagah thi jahan main apni kamzori chupata tha. Tumhari khamoshi aur meri khamoshi ek hi table par baith kar chai peeti thi, bas humne kabhi dekha nahi.

Arif

Doosra.

Mehrunisa,