Surili

Main kuch bol nahi paayi. Ma kabhi kabhi mujhe utna hi samajh leti thi jitna mujhe khud samajh aata tha. Bas uska tareeka alag tha—thoda sakht, thoda impatient, par bilkul andha nahi.

Raat ko usne mujhe chhupke se ek old notebook di. “Isme jo sur likhe hain, unhe repeat kar lena.”

“Tumne likhe?”

“Main bhi kabhi gaana seekh rahi thi,” usne kaha aur aankh churali. “Bahut pehle.”

Main notebook khol ke dekhne lagi. Neat handwriting, thoda tilted Bengali script mein sur, lyrics, aur side mein chhote chhote remarks—“yahan saans lo,” “yahan zor mat lagao,” “yahan aankhen band kar sakti ho.” Mere gale mein ek ajeeb sa knot bana. Ma ne ye notebook kab likhi thi? Kab socha tha ki uski beti stage pe jayegi? Ya ye sab bas uske khud ke liye tha—kisi purani zindagi ka ek secret?

“Ma,” maine dheere kaha, “tum kabhi gaana chhodna chahti thi?”

Wo kitchen sink ke paas khadi thi. Usne paani chalaya, phir band kiya. “Har roz.”

Itna kehke wo palti nahi. Mujhe laga agar main aur poochungi to wo toot jayegi, aur main usse sambhalna nahi jaanti thi. Isliye main chup rahi. Aur uski peeth dekhte hue pehli baar mehsoos kiya ki Ma ka pressure sirf ambition nahi, ek regret bhi tha. Wo mujhe aage dhakel rahi thi kyunki khud ka ek hissa peechhe reh gaya tha.

Jhagra

Audition se ek din pehle ghar mein woh hua jo hamare ghar mein kam hota tha: seedha, bina taiyari ka jhagra.

Main dupatta press kar rahi thi. Ma kitchen mein dal ka tadka de rahi thi. Radio pe koi purana news bulletin chal raha tha. Sab normal tha, isi liye aur kharab.

“Ye pin idhar mat rakh,” maine bina dekhe bola. “Kal subah milengi nahi.”

“Mil jayegi.”

“Ma, tumhara ‘mil jayegi’ ka matlab hota hai ‘phir se dhundhna padega’.”

Usne spoon tik se rakha. “Toh khud rakh le na.”

“Main rakh rahi hoon.”

“Par mere according nahi rakh rahi.”

Maine kapda zor se pressboard pe patka. “Tumhare according hi sab kuch karte karte hi main darne lagi hoon.”

Silence.

Ma ne gas band ki. “Kya bola?”

“Sach bola.”

“Sach?” uski awaaz ab thodi unchi thi. “Sach ye hai ki main din bhar kaam karke aati hoon, aur tujhe bas ek din stage pe khada hona hai, bas ek din, aur tu usse bhi drama bana rahi hai.”

Mera munh khul gaya. “Drama?”

“Ha. Drama. Har cheez se pehle rona, har cheez se pehle darna.”

“Tumhe kya pata main kya mehsoos karti hoon?”

“Main maa hoon.”

“Iska matlab ye nahi ki sab pata hai!”

Ye bolte hi mujhe khud se hi dar laga. Ma ka chehra sakht ho gaya. Chhote kitchen mein hawa aur tang lagne lagi.

“Main tujhe force kar rahi hoon?” usne kaha. “Koi zabardasti kar rahi hoon?”

“Kar toh rahi ho.”

“Tu na jaaye, isliye bol rahi hoon.”

“Par mujhe lagta hai tum mujhe apne liye bhej rahi ho.”

Ye line nikalte hi mujhe samajh aaya maine kaun sa ghaav chhed diya. Ma ke haath ke paas spoon ka handle kuch der tak wahi ka wahi raha. Phir usne dheere se pucha, “Mere liye?”

Maine kuch nahi bola.

“Main apne liye kuch karne ki koshish bhi karun, toh tujhe problem hai?” uski awaaz ab kamzor lag rahi thi, aur isse zyada khatarnak kuch nahi hota. “Main tere liye nahi kar rahi? Teri tution, teri fees, tera ye sab—”

“Main paise ki baat nahi kar rahi.”

“Toh kiski baat kar rahi hai?”

Main chup rahi. Kyunki main kehna chahti thi: tum mujhe isliye stage pe bhejna chahti ho kyunki tum khud kabhi wahaan nahi gayi. Kyunki tum apna adhoora pan meri awaaz mein bharna chahti ho. Kyunki mujhe gaate dekhkar tumhe lagta hai shayad tumhara ek purana version bach jayega.

Par maine itna saaf nahi bola. Main bas bol pari, “Tum mujhe saans nahi lene deti.”

Ma ne ek second mujhe dekha, jaise samajh rahi ho ya samajhna nahi chahti ho.

“Saans?” usne dheere se kaha. “Teri saans ke liye hi toh itna kar rahi hoon.”

“Par meri saans meri hai.”

Uske chehre pe ek ajeeb sa thakan aa gayi. “Theek hai. Phir kal mat jaana.”

Main freeze ho gayi.

“Jo karna hai, khud kar,” usne kaha, aur is baar awaaz mein gussa kam, naraazgi zyada thi. “Maine kuch nahi kaha.”

Wo palat ke sink ki taraf chali gayi. Main wahi khadi rahi, pressboard ke paas, aur pehli baar samjha ki maaon ka gussa kabhi kabhi bas thakawat ka bhari version hota hai. Phir bhi mujhe dard hua. Maine socha tha wo mujhe roke gi, samjhayegi, kuch aur bolegi. Par usne nahi bola.

Raat ko main terrace pe baithi rahi. Niche light poles, door se horns, aur pados ke ghar se TV ki behri hui awaaz. Ma ne mujhe awaaz nahi di. Na dinner ke liye, na daantne ke liye. Isse mujhe aur zyada ghabrahat hui. Main chhupke se kitchen mein gayi to uska tiffin box rakha tha, packed. Saath mein notebook bhi. Aur ek note: “Khali pet mat jaana. Aur haan, kal jhagda bhool jana.”

Main ne note ko der tak dekha. Phir pehli baar mujhe laga Ma mujhse zyada khud se khafa thi.

Guru-mashai

Guru-mashai se meri mulakat ek ghar jaisi jagah pe hui—unke chhote se music school mein, jahan deewar pe Rabindranath ki photo thi aur floor pe purane darri. School ka naam unhone hi nahi, sabne “Guru-mashai’r bari” rakh diya tha. Unki awaz dheemi thi, par usme ek aisa weight tha ki koi bhi room chup ho jaata.

Ma mujhe wahan le gayi thi, bina poochhe. “Ek baar sun lo,” usne kaha tha. “Phir khud bolna jo bolna hai.”

Main kursi ke kinare baithi thi, haath mein dupatta moothi ki tarah daba ke. Guru-mashai ne bas ek baar dekha. Unki aankhen tez nahi thi; woh aankhen aise thi jaise pehle sunti hain, phir dekhती hain.

“Gaao,” unhone kaha.

Mera gala band ho gaya.

Ma ne piche se dabav dala. “Surili, ga.”