Narmada Ki Beti

Main has di. “Special? Madam, gaon ke har gareeb bachche ko koi na koi special bana deta hai. Kisi ko devi, kisi ko bhakt, kisi ko shikar.”

Kaveri ne pen rok diya. “Toh aap maanta hain yeh banaya gaya hai?”

Main chup rahi.

Usne aur softly poocha, “Aap kis se bachane ki koshish kar rahi thi?”

Mujhe laga kamre ki hawa ruk gayi hai.

Main boli, “Apni beti ko.”

Par woh aadhi sachchai thi. Puri nahi.

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Trivedi

Trivedi ko kahaniyan pasand thi. Kyunki kahani mein jo dikhta hai, woh hi sach lagta hai.

Usne Amba ko kabhi “beti” nahi kaha. “Prateek,” kehta. “Aashirwad,” kehta. “Narmada ka sandesh,” kehta. Aur jab koi cheez naam se zyada kaam ki ho, toh usse insaan samajhna mushkil ho jaata hai.

Jab Kaveri aayi, usne usse turant pehchaan liya—shehar ki woh aurat jo dharm ko nira drama nahi, business bhi samajh sakti hai. Bahut khatarnaak kisam ki aurat.

Mandir ke office mein usne Kaveri ko chai pilayi aur bola, “Aap log sach likhte hain ya sensation?”

Kaveri ne bina muskuraye kaha, “Jo likhne layak ho.”

“Phir to Amba aapki story hai.”

“Ya aapki.”

Trivedi ne halka sa hans diya. “Main toh bas seva karta hoon.”

Usne Amba ka istemal kiya tha, haan. Par uske dimaag mein yeh shabd ganda nahi tha. Use lagta tha duniya mein jo cheez logon ko jodti hai, usko manage karna hi governance hai. Bhakti, fear, hope—sab ek hi plate mein parose ja sakte the.

Usne Amba ke naam par donations liye, local netaon se stage share kiya, aur jab kabhi koi media wala aaya, toh usse ek aisi story di jismein miracle aur poverty ek doosre ko dhak dete. Amba ki aankhen, uski ma ki khamoshi, nadi ka background—sab perfect package tha.

Par Kaveri package ko khol rahi thi.

Woh gaon ke aurton se mil rahi thi. School ke records dekh rahi thi. Ghat pe baithkar logon ke phone mein recorded videos maang rahi thi. Trivedi ne sab notice kiya.

Ek raat usne Mai ko bulaya. “Aapki beti ko zyada expose mat kijiye. Log jalan karte hain.”

Mai ne seedha jawab diya, “Aur aap?”

Trivedi ne aankhon mein bahut halki si narazgi dikhayi. “Main toh bachata hoon.”

“Bachana aur rakhna alag hota hai,” Mai boli.

Usne pehli baar us aurat ko seriously dekha. Gareeb aurat, par aankhon mein thoda sa steel.

“Mai ji,” usne madhur awaaz mein kaha, “Amba ko yahan se upar le jaane ka mauka mil raha hai. Aap kyun rokti hain?”

Mai ne thandi saans li. “Kyuki upar jaakar girne ki jagah zyada hoti hai.”

Trivedi samjha nahi ya samajhkar bhi anjaan raha. Uske liye Amba ki pehchaan ek aarti thi, jo jitni badi hoti, utna hi mandir chamakta.

Usne socha tha woh kahani ko sambhaal lega.

Usne yeh nahi socha tha ki nadi bhi gawah hoti hai.

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Nadi

Main sab dekhti hoon.

Patthar, pair, khoon, phool, diya, jhooth.

Mujhe log maa bolte hain. Main maang nahi karti. Main yaad rakhti hoon. Jo mujhe samajhkar aate hain, unhe main thodi der ke liye shanti deti hoon. Jo mujhe apna samajhkar bechte hain, unhe main bas behne deti hoon.

Amba mujhe sun sakti hai, kyunki uske andar abhi bhi bachpan ki woh jagah bach gayi hai jahan awaaz pe bharosa hota hai.

Lekin awaaz bhi do tarah ki hoti hai—ek jo sambhalti hai, ek jo khol deti hai.

Jab Kaveri ne qareeb aakar sach ki khushboo pehchaani, tab Amba ke andar ka paani hilne laga. Jo pehchaan use di gayi thi, uske neeche kuch aur tha—ek maa ka darr, ek aurat ki majboori, ek bachchi ka haq.

Aur sach, jab hilta hai, toh pehle dard deta hai.

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Kaveri

Kaveri ne town mein do din aur rukne ka faisla kiya. Usne local hospital ke register, school attendance, aur mandir ke donation records check kiye. Uske sawalon se logon ko pehle irritate hua, phir darr. Darr ka matlab hota hai kuch na kuch chhupa hua hai.

Ek dopahar woh Mai ke saath baithi. Mai choolhe ke paas baithi hui sabzi kaat rahi thi. Kaveri ne quietly kaha, “Aapne Amba ko kabhi bataya nahi ki uski paidaish ke waqt kya hua tha?”

Mai ka haath ruk gaya.

“Batana zaroori tha,” Kaveri ne dheere se kaha. “Kyuki uski identity ka aadha hissa yahin hai.”

Mai ne sabzi ka tukda katori mein gira diya. “Identity? Aap shehar se aayi hain na. Wahan words se logon ka pet bhar jaata hoga.”

“Mai ji—”

“Main bataun?” Mai ki awaaz pehli baar kaanpi. “Amba ko maine janm diya. Bas. Us din raat ko Narmada mein bahut tez bahaav tha. Main akeli thi. Koi doctor nahi, koi gaadi nahi. Ek aadmi tha. Mandir ka hi. Trivedi ke pehle wala sevak. Usne kaha tha, ‘Is bachchi ko chhod do ghat pe. Log isse nadi ki den samjhenge.’”

Kaveri ki aankhen phail gayin.

Mai ne nazar neeche rakhi. “Maine chhoda nahi. Main use ghar le aayi. Par agle din se log kehne lage yeh bachchi vapas aayi hai. Koi bolta, nadi ne thukraya hai, koi bolta nadi ne chuna hai. Trivedi ne usi mein apna makhan laga diya.”

“Wo aadmi?”

“Mar gaya. Ya kahin hai. Mujhe kya pata. Par us din ke baad se meri beti meri nahi rahi. Sab ki ho gayi.”

Kaveri ne bahut der kuch nahi bola. Phir poocha, “Aur aap? Aapne usse sach kyon nahi bataya?”

Mai ne uska jawab dekhte hue kaha, “Kyuki sach se pehle roti aati hai.”

Kaveri ne notebook band ki. Uske chehre pe pehli baar gussa tha—Trivedi par, system par, aur shayad khud us kahani par jise woh “miracle” samajh kar aayi thi.

“Main isko publish karungi,” usne kaha.

Mai ne sir utha ke dekha. “Aur phir?”

“Phir log jaanenge ki yeh miracle nahi manipulation hai.”

Mai ne ek lamba saans liya. “Log jaan lenge toh kya badlega?”

Kaveri chup rahi.

Mai ne feeke se bola, “Amba badal jaayegi.”

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Amba

Sach mujhe tab mila jab mujhe sabse kam uski umeed thi.