Rent, Recovery aur Roti ke Beech

Subah ke saath hi Mr. Harish Bhatia ki building mein ek fixed sa routine start ho jaata tha, jaise koi old-school machine ho jo bas time pe chalti hai. Indore ke is old-but-lively apartment block mein unki balcony se pehle chai aati thi, phir newspaper ka fold, phir monthly bills ka हिसाब, aur uske baad tenants pe ek nazar — kisne light jalayi rakhi, kisne parking mein cycle tedhi khadi ki, kisne garbage time pe nahi dala. 58 saal ke Harish Bhatia retired government clerk the, aur retirement ke baad bhi unka discipline bilkul government file ki tarah tight tha.

Log unko thoda grumpy bolte the, kuch “control freak” bhi, aur kuch seedha “Bhatia sahab ka mood kabhi bhi off ho sakta hai” type. Lekin building ke andar rehne wale log ye bhi jaante the ki agar kabhi koi pipe leak ho gaya, ya lift atak gayi, ya kisi tenant ki salary late ho gayi aur woh time pe rent dene mein awkward feel kar raha ho, toh Bhatia sahab hi sabse pehle system ko sambhalne aa jaate. Unka style bas thoda rude-looking tha, intention nahi.

Problem ye thi ki recently unki hernia surgery hui thi. Aur surgery ke baad jo reality aati hai na, woh bahut hi unglamorous hoti hai. Na koi hero music, na koi dramatic recovery montage. Bas bed se uthne mein dikkat, slow walk, medicine timing, heavy lifting mana, aur sabse badi baat — kisi aur pe depend karna. Aur Harish Bhatia ke liye dependence ka concept hi ek chubhne wali cheez tha.

Neelam Bhatia, unki wife, is waqt ghar ki unofficial manager, nurse, accountant aur emotional firewall sab kuch ek saath ban chuki thi. 55 saal ki Neelam ko dekh ke lagta tha ki woh kisi bhi situation mein do kaam ek saath kar sakti hain, aur teesra kaam complain karte hue bhi nipta dengi. Unki awaaz mein waise hi sharpness thi jaise knife se aloo kat rahe ho. “Harish, zyada mat hilna,” woh bolti, “aur mujhe phir se ye mat kehna ki main sab kar lunga. Haan haan, kar loge, bas hospital phir se jaana padega.”

Harish Bhatia aur Neelam ki daily argument routine ka part thi. Aur in sabke beech second floor pe rehne wala Sameer Khan apni life quietly jee raha tha. 31 saal ka Sameer IT professional tha, remote work karta tha, aur Delhi-NCR ke logon ki tarah nahi, woh zyada bolta nahi tha. Polite, soft-spoken, observant — aisa insaan jo building mein sabko yaad hota hai, par kisi ko disturb nahi karta. Subah laptop, din bhar calls, aur shaam ko thoda sa walk ya chai. Family se door rehne ka uska apna ek silent loneliness tha, jo usne kabhi loud nahi kiya.

Sameer ne pehle bhi notice kiya tha ki surgery ke baad Bhatia sahab kaafi struggle kar rahe hain. Kabhi grocery bag uthate waqt face pe strain, kabhi stairs pe slow movement, kabhi medicine ki strip haath se gir jaati. Sameer ne ek do baar bas “Sir, help chahiye toh bol dena” type bola tha, normal courtesy ki tarah. Par Harish Bhatia ko ye sab already suspicious lag raha tha. Unke dimaag mein seedha logic tha: “Aaj help, kal favor, parson discount.”

Ek din ka scene aur bhi interesting ho gaya. Subah se hi Bhatia sahab ka mood kharab tha. Unko ek urgent file dhoondhni thi, medicine lene ka time ho gaya tha, aur kitchen mein Neelam ne kaha tha ki aaj zyada chalna mat. Upar se fridge mein jo dahi rakha tha woh kisi ne galti se piche push kar diya tha aur woh unki reach se bahar tha. Chhoti-chhoti cheezein, par surgery ke baad wahi mountain lagti hain.

Harish Bhatia ne ghur ke ghar ka hall dekha, jaise hall unka personal enemy ho. “Neelam, woh brown file kahan rakhi hai?” “Wahi cupboard mein, jahan tum khud rakh ke bhool gaye the,” Neelam ne bina dekhe jawab diya. “Main bhoola nahi, bas…” “Bas kuch nahi. Aur medicine time pe le lo.” “Le lunga.” “Harish, ‘le lunga’ ka matlab 40 minute baad mat lena.”

Tabhi door pe halka knock hua. Sameer tha, ek small grocery bag leke. “Aunty, sir, market se aa raha tha. Socha medicine aur jo list aapne kal boli thi, le aaya hoon. Agar theek ho toh rakh deta hoon.”

Harish Bhatia ki eyebrows aur bhi upar chali gayin. “Aapko kaun bola?” Sameer ne calmly kaha, “Aapne hi toh kal bola tha ki medicine ka stock khatam ho raha hai. Main bas le aaya.”

Ye “bas” word Bhatia sahab ko aur chubha. Unko laga Sameer over-familiar ho raha hai. “Dekhiye, Sameer ji,” woh thoda tight voice mein bole, “tenant hain aap. Is tarah se ghar ke kaam mein ghusna theek nahi hota.”

Sameer ka face ek second ke liye blank hua, phir normal. “Sir, ghusne ka intention nahi tha. Bas help kar raha tha.”

“Help?” Harish Bhatia ne thoda sarcastic tone mein bola, “Help ke peeche aksar expectation hoti hai.”

Neelam ne turant head turn kiya. “Harish! Kya bakwaas kar rahe ho?” Par damage ho chuka tha. Sameer ne kuch nahi kaha. Bas bag side table pe rakha, aur quietly bolke nikal gaya, “Theek hai sir. Koi issue nahi.”

Uske baad building mein ek awkward silence sa phail gaya. Sameer ne do din tak formal distance maintain ki. Na groceries, na medicine, na lift mein extra conversation. Bhatia sahab ko pehle laga ki good, line clear ho gayi. Par phir unka hi ghar aur zyada heavy lagne laga. Neelam already thak chuki thi, aur Harish Bhatia ko har kaam ke liye us par depend karna pad raha tha, jo unke ego pe continuously sandpaper jaisa kaam kar raha tha.