Pink Auto

Pink Auto

Subah Ranchi mein sardi aise ghusti thi jaise kisi ne bina poochhe ghar ka darwaza khol diya ho. Chhaton par dhundh baithi hoti, sadak pe kora sa safed saans sa tairta, aur traffic… traffic toh kabhi nahi sota tha. Horn, brake, gaali, diesel—sab ek hi saath.

Main apni pink auto ke paas khadi thi, dono haath ek-dusre se ragad rahi thi. Ungliyan sunn ho chuki thi, par kaam ruk nahi sakta tha. Auto ka engine khankhankaya toh mujhe apni hi dhadkan ki tarah laga. Roz ka shuru hone wala shor. Roz ka jeena.

Log meri auto ko dekhkar do pal rukte. Kuch hans dete. Kuch aankh nikaal ke dekhte. Kuch bas sar hila kar aage badh jaate, jaise duniya mein pink auto ka hona bhi koi ajeeb khabar ho.

Mere liye ye rang ajeeb nahi tha. Ye meri zid thi.

Pehle main rangon ke baare mein sochti bhi nahi thi. Shaadi ke baad zindagi mein sochne ka waqt hi kahan hota hai. Ghar ka kaam, bachchi ka rona, pati ka gussa, aur roz ka ye darr ki aaj fir se kuch toot na jaaye. Phir ek din sach mein sab toot gaya. Pati chale gaye. Kis tarah gaye, kyun gaye—yeh sawaal kuch log puchte rahe, kuch ne khud jawab bana liya. Mere liye fark kam tha. Ghar mein ek kursi khaali ho gayi thi, aur zimmedariyan aur bhaari.

Tab logon ne pehle taras diya, phir taana.

“Akeli aurat kya karegi?” “Ghar sambhalo.” “Bahar ka kaam tumhare bas ka nahi.” “Auto chalana mardon ka kaam hai.”

Main sunti rahi. Chup rehna mujhe aata tha. Chup rehna hi meri pehli survival skill thi.

Phir maine pink auto li.

Itna pink ki door se hi bole—haan, main hoon. Main dikh rahi hoon. Main chup nahi rahungi.

“Maa!”

Meera ghar ke andar se daudti hui aayi. School uniform aadhi pehni, aadhi neend mein. Uske baal hamesha ki tarah uljhe hue the. Uske haath mein ek mitti se bhara joota tha, jo shayad kal raat se hi uska intezaar kar raha tha.

“Kya hua, beta?” maine poocha.

“Main late ho jaungi.”

“Jaogi kaise late? Abhi time hai.”

Woh mere paas aakar meri auto ko dekhne lagi, jaise roz dekhkar bhi aaj kuch alag dekh rahi ho. “Aaj phir pink wali?”

“Ha.”

“Log dekhte honge.”

“Dekhne do.”

Usne aankh uthakar mujhe dekha. “Tumhe bura nahi lagta?”

Main ne uska school bag uthaya aur kandhe pe theek se rakha. “Lagta hai.”

“Phir bhi?”

“Phir bhi chalana padta hai.”

Meera ne hoth sikod liye. Wo bachchi thi, par har baat seedha dil mein jaati thi. Kabhi kabhi uski aankhon mein apne se zyada sawal hote the.

“Teacher ne poocha tha,” usne dheere se kaha, “meri mummy kya kaam karti hain.”

Main uski taraf palti. “Aur tumne kya bola?”

“Auto chalati hain.”

“Achha kiya.”

“Phir ek ladka bola—aurat auto chalati hai kya?”

Mere hothon pe bina chahe ek halki si hansi aa gayi. “Phir?”

“Maine bola—haan, meri mummy chalati hain.”

Uske bolne ka andaaz aisa tha jaise woh khud se zyada mujh par yakeen karti ho. Main ne uske gaal ko chhua.

“Bahut achha.”

Usne seedha poocha, “Maa, tum thakti ho?”

“Ha.”

“Phir bhi chalati ho?”

Main ek pal chup rahi. Is sawal ka sach bahut seedha tha, aur sach aksar bachchon ke saamne nanga ho jaata hai.

“Chalana padta hai, beta. Tumhari school fees, ghar ka kiraya, sab isi se hai.”

Meera ne thoda socha. Phir bola, “Toh phir ye auto humari family ki sabse important cheez hai.”

Main ne hansne ki koshish ki. “Ho sakta hai.”

Woh khush ho gayi, jaise usne koi bahut badi baat bol di ho. School late ho raha tha. Main use gate tak chhod aayi. Usne mudkar ek baar phir auto ko dekha—pink bonnet, thodi dhool, thoda rang, aur meri mehnat.

Mere liye woh sirf gaadi nahi thi.

Woh ghar ka engine thi.

Chauraha

Stand par pahunchte hi hawa ka mood samajh aa gaya. Auto walon ka chauraha roz ka tha—chai ki tapri, cigarette ka dhuan, ek-do aadmiyon ki bekaar hansi, aur horn ke beech girti hui baatein. Lekin aaj wahan Mahendra Singh khada tha.

Mahendra union boss tha. Umr mein mujhse kuch saal bada, par uska andaaz aisa jaise stand usne kiraye par nahi, janm se pakad rakha ho. Shirt ka pehla button hamesha khula, chhati thodi aage, aur aankhon mein woh confidence jo aksar un logon mein hota hai jinko kabhi “na” sunne ki aadat nahi hoti.

Main auto laga hi rahi thi ki uski awaaz aayi.

“Arre Phoolmati ji,” usne lambi hansi ke saath kaha, “aaj phir pink auto le aayi? Ranchi ko mela bana diya kya?”

Do driver hans pade. Ek ne chai ki tapri ki taraf mudkar kuch aur bola, dusra cigarette ki raakh jhaadte hue meri taraf dekhne laga. Unki hansi mein chubhan thi. Aise jaise main koi beech ki cheez hoon—na poori tarah seriously lene layak, na poori tarah ignore karne layak.

Main chup rahi.

Chup rehna mera purana tareeka tha. Jab koi aurat ko dekhkar muskurata aur us muskurahat mein izzat kam, mazaak zyada hota, tab chup. Jab koi bhare stand par “yeh kaam tumhare bas ka nahi” bolta, tab chup. Jab kisi ne seedha aankhon mein nahi dekha, sirf body ko dekha, tab bhi chup.

Mahendra mere paas aaya. “Sun lo. Route yahan union ka hai. Tumhara alag drama kahin aur karna. Stand pe yeh circus nahi chalega.”

“Main circus nahi kar rahi,” maine kaha. “Jo passenger milte hain, unko le jaati hoon.”

“Passenger?” Uske hoth tedhe ho gaye. “Log mazaak ke liye baithte hain tumhare auto mein. Kaam ke liye nahi. Aurat ho, samjhi? Is line mein tikogi kaise?”

Peechhe se Raju ki hansi phooti. Raju Mahendra ka chamcha nahi, uska shadow tha. Har baat pe haan, har mazaak pe pehle hansne wala.

“Boss sahi bol raha hai,” usne kaha. “Pink auto mein kaun baithta hai? Circus thodi hai.”

Mere haath steering par aur kas gaye.