Meri shaadi mein teen din bache the jab woh courier aaya.
Ghar mein us waqt pandrah log the. Mummy kitchen mein halwai ke saath ladh rahi thi, chachi ko lag raha tha ki hall ke parde badalne chahiye, aur mere chhote bhai ne subah se teen baar poocha tha ki DJ ka advance diya ya nahi.
Main sofe pe baithi thi, mehndi ke design ke photos scroll kar rahi thi, aur soch rahi thi ki mujhe kuch feel kyun nahi ho raha.
Bell baji. Bhai ne darwaza khola. “Didi, aapka courier.”
Brown envelope. Bade size ka, thoda bhaari. Mera naam — Meera Sabharwal — upar likha tha.
Printed nahi. Haath se.
Aur main us handwriting ko gyarah saal se nahi dekhi thi, phir bhi pehchanne mein ek second nahi laga.
Aapke saath bhi hua hoga. Kisi ki likhaawat dekhte ho aur dimaag se pehle body react karti hai. Mere haath thande ho gaye. Envelope pakde hue main wahin khadi rahi, aur chachi peeche se bol rahi thi ki parde ka colour ivory hona chahiye ya cream.
Maine kaha, “Main upar ja rahi hoon, ek minute.”
Apne kamre mein darwaza band karke maine envelope ko bistar pe rakha aur bas dekhti rahi.
Sender ka address nahi tha. Sirf mera naam, aur ek chhota sa “By hand / Courier” ka sticker jo shop wale ne lagaya tha. Matlab kisi ne khud jaake kisi courier shop se bheja tha — online order nahi, koi automated cheez nahi. Koi gaya, counter pe khada hua, mera naam likha, paise diye.
Gyarah saal.
Gyarah saal mein maine uska naam sirf do baar liya hai. Ek baar apni behen ke saamne, ek baar apni therapist ke saamne. Dono baar maine turant topic badal diya tha.
Yahan main ek baat saaf kar doon, kyunki aage sab isi pe depend karta hai.
Main Rohan se khush thi. Hoon. Yeh koi aisi kahani nahi hai jismein ladki apni shaadi se bhaag jaati hai kyunki usko pehle wala yaad aa gaya. Rohan achha aadmi hai — sach mein achha, woh wali achhai jo dikhaawa nahi hoti. Mummy ko unki tabiyat ke baare mein mujhse zyada yaad rehta hai. Mere kaam ko samajhta hai. Do saal se hum ek doosre ko jaante hain aur us do saal mein usne ek baar bhi mujhe chhota mehsoos nahi karaya.
Main khush thi. Aur us envelope ko dekh kar mera haath kaanp raha tha.
Dono cheezein ek saath sach thi. Aaj tak hain.
Maine envelope kholne mein bees minute lagaye.
Andar ek plastic pouch thi, aur us pouch mein kaagaz the. Bahut saare.
Sabse upar wala nikala.
Ruled paper. School wali copy ka page, upar se phaada hua, kinare abhi tak lehredaar. Aur us par meri apni handwriting thi — meri seventeen saal wali handwriting, jo ab mujhe theek se apni bhi nahi lagti.
“Aakash,” likha tha. “Agar tumne ye padh liya to iska matlab main himmat kar gayi.”
Maine page palat ke rakh diya. Saans nahi aa rahi thi.
Woh mere khat the. Mere apne. Sab ke sab.
Gyarah saal baad, kisi ne mere likhe hue khat mujhe wapas bhej diye the.
Neeche se mummy ki awaaz aayi. “Meera! Beta, neeche aa, decorator aaya hai.”
Maine kaha, “Aayi!”
Aur main wahin farsh pe baithi rahi, chalis khaton ke beech, jinmein se ek bhi maine gyarah saal se nahi dekha tha.
Neeche mere ghar mein pandrah log meri shaadi ki taiyari kar rahe the.
Aur upar, band darwaze ke peeche, main us sawaal ke saath akeli thi jiska jawab mujhe nahi chahiye tha:
Kisi ne aaj hi kyun bheja?