Narmada Ki Beti

Ek raat maine pucha, “Mai, Trivedi ji hamein itna kyon bulate hain?”

Woh chulhe pe roti sekte hue ruk gayi. “Kyuki logon ko kahani chahiye, Amba.”

“Kaunsi kahani?”

“Jo unhe khush rakhe.”

“Par woh mujhe kyun dikhate hain?”

Maa ne roti palat di. “Kyuki tu unke liye aasaan hai.”

“Aasaan?”

“Logon ko devi banana aasaan lagta hai. Ladki ko insaan rakhna mushkil.”

Maine uska chehra dekha. Woh meri aankhon mein dekhne se bach rahi thi. Tab pehli baar mujhe laga uski awaaz mein koi chhupa hua darr hai. Ek aisa darr jo mere naam se bada tha.

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Kaveri

Kaveri pehli baar town mein ek safed scooter pe aayi. Usne dupatta nahi, helmet pehna hua tha. Uski file bag mein thi aur aankhon mein woh thakaan jo bas shehar ke log laate hain—jaise sab kuch dekh chuke hain aur kuch bhi bharosa nahi karte.

Mandir ke bahar usne mujhse poocha, “Tum Amba ho?”

Main ne haan mein sir hilaaya.

“Main Kaveri. Journalist hoon.”

Journalist shabd se mujhe koi khaas matlab nahi tha. Bas itna pata tha ki woh sawaal poochte hain.

Usne mujhe dekha, phir mandir ki seedhiyon ko, phir Trivedi ko jo door se hamein dekh rahe the. “Kya tum khud maanti ho ki tum Narmada ki beti ho?”

Main seedhi khadi ho gayi. “Haan.”

“Kaise pata?”

“Mai ne bataya.”

“Bas?”

Main thodi ghabra gayi. “Nadi batati hai.”

Kaveri ne ek sec ke liye apni aankhen band ki. Jaise usne koi predictable jawab sun liya ho. “Acha.”

Mujhe woh pasand nahi aayi. Woh aise bol rahi thi jaise main ya to jhooth bol rahi hoon ya bachpana kar rahi hoon. Aur phir bhi, uski awaaz mein koi mazaak nahi tha. Sirf thandak.

“Main tumhari kahani likhna chahti hoon,” usne kaha.

“Trivedi ji likhenge,” maine turant bol diya.

“Wohi toh problem hai.”

Maine uski baat ka matlab nahi samjha, par uske baad usne aur sawal nahi kiye. Bas ghat pe baith kar logon ko dekhti rahi. Mai ne usse paani diya. Usne peena mana nahi kiya.

Shaam ko woh hamare ghar aayi. Chhota kamra, ek fan, ek shelf jismein puja ki thali aur ration ka dabba dono the. Mai ne usse chair di. Woh baithi, par uski nazar idhar-udhar ghoom rahi thi, jaise woh dekh rahi ho ki kahani ke peeche kya chhupa hai.

“Tumhari maa bahut protective hain,” usne kaha.

Mai has padi, par hasi mein khud mazaak tha. “Majboor bhi.”

Kaveri ne notebook khola. “Majboori alag hoti hai. Protective alag hota hai.”

Maa andar se aayi. Usne Kaveri ko dekha, aur uski peeth seedhi ho gayi. “Aap kyon aayi hain?”

“Sach dekhne.”

Maa ne ek chhota sa, thanda sa smile diya. “Sach ka rate kya hai?”

Kaveri us smile se zyada hil gayi. “Mujhe bas baat karni hai.”

Maa ne mujhe dekha. Main chup khadi thi. Tab usne dheere se kaha, “Isko kharab mat karna, madam.”

“Main kharab nahi karti,” Kaveri boli. “Main bas cover hataati hoon.”

Maa ne bina jawab diye haath jod liye, jaise woh kisiko nahi, kisi haadse ko namaskar kar rahi ho.

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Mai

Maine zindagi mein do cheezein bahut sambhal ke rakhi—meri beti aur meri zubaan.

Zubaan isliye, kyunki galat aadmi ke saamne sach bolna mehenga padta hai. Aur beti isliye, kyunki duniya ki nazar us par bahut pehle se thi. Amba paida hui, toh gaon ki budhiya ne kaha, “Iske ghar mein kuch alag hai.” Alag ka matlab logon ke liye ya to shubh hota hai ya shaitani. Hamare jaise gareeb ghar ke liye dono hi risk the.

Trivedi ko maine pehle hi pehchaan liya tha. Woh aadmi jab pehli baar ghar aaya tha, usne Amba ko dekhkar aise muskuraya jaise uske haath mein koi naya geet aa gaya ho. Usne kaha tha, “Is bachchi mein Narmada ka prakash hai.”

Maine us din bhi uski aankhon ka rang dekha tha. Prakash nahi, bhookh.

Hamare ghar mein paisa kabhi extra nahi hota tha. Baba ke jaane ke baad Mai ne sab sambhala. Kabhi kisi ki safai, kabhi kisi ke yahan khana banana. Amba ke school ki fee, kapde, dawa—yeh sab ek-ek din ka hisaab tha. Jab Trivedi ne pehli baar “seva” ke naam pe paise diye, maine mana karna chaha tha. Par usne kaha, “Yeh chhoti si sahayata hai. Baad mein mandir parivaar ka dhyan rakhega.”

Par dhyan ka matlab hota hai control.

Pehle usne Amba ko pooja mein bulaya. Phir festival mein. Phir mahine mein do baar. Phir har baar jab koi donation aata, ya koi sarkari officer, ya koi camera wala. Main samajh gayi thi ki woh meri beti ko bhakti ke kapde mein bech raha hai. Par main chup rahi. Kyunki jab ghar ka chulha bujhne lage, tab moral speech se roti nahi banti.

Mujhe apne is faisle ka bojh har din mehsoos hota tha.

Amba ne jab pehli baar pucha, “Mai, kya main sach mein nadi ki beti hoon?” toh main usse sach bol sakti thi. Bol sakti thi ki mujhe bhi ek raat nadi ke kinare koi mila tha. Ki us raat main bahut kuch samajh nahi paayi. Ki kaun tha, kya tha, yeh sab dhund mein tha. Aur agle mahine jab Amba ka janm hua, tab logon ne jo kahani bana li, maine use todne ki himmat nahi ki.

Par todti toh kya milta? Gareebi aur akeli ladki.

Mujhe Amba ki himmat se pyar tha, par uske sapnon se darr bhi lagta tha. Woh jitni pavitra samajhi ja rahi thi, utni hi nirmal bhi ho ja rahi thi logon ke liye. Aur nirmal cheezon ko log apne hisaab se istemal karte hain.

Jab Kaveri aayi, mujhe turant samajh gaya ki yeh aurat kisi ka bhajan sunne nahi, kahani ka jhooth pakadne aayi hai.

Sham ko jab Amba so gayi, Kaveri ne dheere se mujhse kaha, “Mai ji, kya Amba ko aapne yeh sab bataya tha?”

Maine seedha usse dekha. “Kaun sa sab?”

“Ye ki woh special hai.”