Spiti: Road to Redemption

Spiti: Road to Redemption

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Chapter 1 — Delhi Ke Andhere, aur Ek Bhai Ki Yaadein

14 September, 2:14 a.m.

Laptop ka neela light mere chehre pe tha, par main uski taraf dekh nahi raha tha. Meri aankhein balcony ki taraf thi, jahan se Gurgaon ki lights dikhti thi — circuit board jaise, zinda par bekaar. Arjun ne yeh baat kahi thi, uski doosri chemo se ek raat pehle. Us waqt main hansa tha. Aaj wohi lights mujhe dekh rahi thi, jaise pooch rahi thi — "Tu kahan hai?"

Screen par email thi. Legal se. Q2 billing discrepancies. Unka word tha. Mera word tha "fraud" — jo maine apne manager ke kehne pe kiya tha, taake Arjun ka hospital bill chal sake. Gyarah hafte. Barah hafte. Phir... phir woh chala gaya.

Maine laptop band nahi kiya. Bas utha, apne drawer ki taraf gaya. Wahan ek photo thi — Arjun aur main, Manali trip, 2019. Usne wohi Himalayan 350 khadi ki thi jab usne kaha tha, "Bhai, ek din hum Spiti tak jaayenge." Hum gaye nahi. Woh chala gaya, main reh gaya, aur woh bike parking mein khadi rahi.

Parking mein gaya. Bike neeli light mein chamak rahi thi. July mein li thi "weekend rides" ke liye. Sohna se aage kabhi nahi gayi. Aaj uski chaabi haath mein li, aur ek ajeeb sa sukoon mila — jaise Arjun ne kuch keha ho.

4 baje tak bag pack tha. Documents pehle — woh emails, woh proof ke manager ne kaha tha "find a way." Maine rakhe thay kyunki Arjun hamesha kehta tha — "Rakkh bhai, sach kahin na kahin likha rehta hai."

Maa ka phone aaya 6 baje. "Aman, office nahi gaya?" "Trip par hoon, Mummy." "Akele? Arjun ke baad tu akele..." "Signal ja raha hai, baad mein baat karta hoon."

Jhoot tha. Signal theek tha. Par sach nahi de sakta tha — ke main bhaag raha hoon, ke kal 11 baje meeting hai jahan mujhe apne manager ka naam lena hai, ya apna guilt accept karna hai.

NH-5 par 5:30 baje tha. Thandi hawa chehre pe thi. Pehli baar teen saal mein kuch mehsoos ho raha tha — dard nahi, par kuch ajeeb sa sukoon. Bhaagne ka sukoon.

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Chapter 2 — Raste Mein, aur Ek Anjaani Dosti

Chandigarh cross karte hi haath waise hi mundi hue thay jaise keyboard par hote thay. Bike jhuki, par main nahi — main toh pehli baar jhuk nahi raha tha, seedha ho raha tha.

Ropar ke paas ek dhabe pe ruka. Malik, jinki baayein baju roti jaisi moodi hui thi, ne chaach aage ki bina poochay. Maine peeti, aur unhone dekha — dekha woh chehre pe jo three saal se tha. "Pehli baar akele?" Maine sir hilaaya. "Pahad sab sambhal leta hai," bole. Maine nahi poocha kya. Shayad pata tha.

Wahin ek ladka mila — Sameer. Mumbai se, MBA, bada bag, bada smile. "Bhai, Spiti? Mera bus chhoot gaya." Maine mana kar diya. "Same road hai na, Kaza tak?" "Mera bike, tera nahi." Usne haath jode. "Petrol aur khana, bas."

Maine usse dekha. Nadaan tha. Par kuch usmein Arjun jaisa tha — wohi enthu, wohi "sab theek ho jayega" wala attitude.

"Chain tight karni aati hai?" Maine poocha.

"Nahi, par—"

"Seekh."

Usne seekha. Dus minute lagaye, ungliyan kaanpti thi, par kiya. Maine usse pillion pe baithne diya. Bolta raha — Mumbai, uski girlfriend, uski "soul-searching" wali trip. Maine suna. Kam bola. Par sunna aasan tha. Khud se baat karna aasan nahi tha.

Raat ko Pooh ke paas uski battery gayi. Usne flashlight nikali. "Bhai, teri chain phir loose hai." Maine kaha, "Tight kar." Usne kiya. "Mechanical engineer banne wala tha, phir MBA kar liya. Haath abhi yaad hain."

Hum saath gaye. Uske bolne mein koi farak nahi tha — par uski presence ne meri andar ki khamoshi ko hila diya. Akele hone ka iraada tha, par ab akelepan mein kuch ajeeb sa dard tha. Shayad isiliye usse saath rakh liya.

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Chapter 3 — Kaza, aur Ek Ladki jisne Meri Duniya Hila Di

Rekong Peo teen din baad. Bike ki awaaz kharab ho gayi thi — khas-khas, jaise koi saans le raha ho.

Bus stand pe ek buddha mila. "Pehli baar?" Maine haan mein sar hilaaya. Usne ladoo diya, bina poochay. "Pahad ke liye." Maine khaya. Gyarah saal pehle ka taste — jab zindagi mein invoices nahi, sirf mithai thi.

Kaza ki bus do baar tuti. Pehli baar Pooh ke paas — axle. Driver ne gaali di. Main aur Sameer last kilometer paidal chale, jahan road nadi ki taraf mudti hai.

Wahin usse dekha.

Cycle gira hua tha. Front wheel alag, ek ladki meri umar ki — spoke pe jhuki hui, haath mein wrench jo bolt se bada tha. Uske baal aage giray hue thay, mujhe dekh nahi rahi thi. Par uske haath... uske haath pe purane nishaan thay. Burns. Scars. Jaise kisi ne bohot kuch pakda ho, bohot dard saha ho.

"Tyre nahi, spoke," usne bola, upar na dekh kar. "Tera Royal Enfield, chhota puncture hai. Main dekh lungi. Baith."

Main baitha. Sameer bhi. Usne kaam kiya — spoke tight ki, chain check ki, oil leak notice ki. Jab finally upar dekhi, meri saans ruk gayi.

Woh... khoobsurat nahi thi. Khoobsurat kam hota hai. Woh real thi. Uski aankhein thaki hui thi, par jagmaga rahi thi. Uski smile mein woh thakan thi jo sirf woh log jaante hain jo raat bhar kaam karke bhi subah uth jaate hain.

"Naam?" Maine poocha.

"Riya. Top of the World Brew chalati hoon. Do saal se. Papa ke baad."

"Main—"

"Aman," usne kaha. Maine nahi bataya tha. "Tere bike ki registration pe tha. Aur tu wohi look de raha hai jo har akele aane wala deta hai — 'main kyun yahan hoon' wala."

Sameer hansa. "Bhai, yeh toh psychic hai."

Riya ne usse ghoora. "Tu kaun?"

"Sameer. Mumbai. Soul-searching."

"Oh, woh," usne kaha, aankhein roll karke. "Cafe mein roz aate hain. 'Find themselves' karte hain. Main unse coffee ke paise leti hoon. Self-discovery free nahi hai yahan."