दोस्ती का हिसाब
एक रोज़ बस यूँ ही दोस्ती का हिसाब करने बैठे मस्ती, समझदारी, वफ़ादारी और बेवक़ूफ़ी के नाम हिस्से बटे कुछ दोस्त इधर बटे और कुछ यार उधर बटे कुछ तो ऐसे थे जो सोच से ही छटे एक रोज़ जब यूँ ही दोस्ती का हिसाब करने बैठे सिर्फ़ मस्ती करने वाले दोस्तों की कसर न दिखी बेवक़ूफ़ियों और बेवक़ूफ़ों की गिनती भी कम न थी जब आढ़े वक़्त ने आज़मा के देखा तो एक-आध वफ़ादार भी मिले एक रोज़ जब यूँ ही दोस्ती का हिसाब करने बैठे हमने जाना की कुछ दोस्त ऐसे भी थे जो किसी भी खेमे में न बट सके कुछ नायाब जो दोस्त से ज़्यादा थे, कुछ वो जो दोस्ती के ही क़ाबिल न थे
मौक़ा
क्यों परेशान से दिखते हैं लोग हर तरफ़ आख़िर है क्या इस बेचैनी का सबब इतनी दुनिया में दुनिया से नाराज़गी क्यों है भला छोटी छोटी बातों पे क्यों ख़ून उबलने है चला तेरे मेरे का फ़ासला तो पहले भी कम न था मगर इतनी नफ़रत ऐसा रंज-ओ-ग़म न था कुछ तो होगा इलाज कोई तो होगी दवा मिल के फूकेंगे तो शायद चलेगी बदलेगी हवा कहाँ इतिहास में सियासतदारों ने अमन की राह चुनी है एहतराम और मोहब्बत के धागों ने इस देश की चादर बुनी है निकलेगी आवाम घर से तो कुछ तो हालात बदल पायेंगे वरना यूँ बोलते बोलते तो फिर से पाँच साल बीत जायेंगे
भेलपूरी वाला
एक दिन की बात है कुछ तीस बत्तीस बरस पहले की भारी सा बैग लटकाए स्कूल के बाद घर अपने मैं पैदल जा रहा था खुली स्लीव ढीली टाई राह पड़े किसी कंकर को अपने काले जूते का निशाना बना धुन अपनी में चला जा रहा था यकायक पीछे एक साइकल की घंटी बजी मटमैला कुर्ता पहने एक सज्जन सवार था जानी पहचानी सी सूरत थी उसकी आवाज़ में उसकी अनजाना सा प्यार था “बैठो, मैं छोड़ देता हूँ बेटा” बोला वो मुस्कुराते मेरी हिचक को भी वो भाँप रहा था “तुमने पहचाना नहीं मुझे लगता है लेकिन तुम को मैं हमेशा रखूँगा याद” सवाल मेरे चेहरे पे पढ़ के वो बोला “पहले ग्राहक थे तुम मेरे जिस दिन रेडी लगायी थी मैंने” ये सुन याद और स्वाद दोनों लौट आए सालों तलक जब कभी भी बाज़ार जाता उसकी आँखों में वही प्यार नज़र आता शायद वही मिला था उसकी भेलपूरी में चाव से हमेशा जिसे मैं था खाता सुना अब वो इस दुनिया में नहीं है याद कर उसको आँखों में नमी है कहता था सब को हमेशा कहूँगा दुनिया की सबसे अच्छी भेलपूरी वही है
The Benefactor
If one were to hear how Dheeraj and Uma got together, the story would have all the elements of a typical Bollywood potboiler. Love at first sight, strife, parents opposed to the relationship, you name it! Theirs is a relationship most of their friends swear by. But this is not a testament of their love, it’s a tale about how they started their married life.
It must have been the late eighties or the early nineties at best. Dheeraj was in the final year of his Bachelors in Science. Our man however harboured hopes of becoming a poet…a “shaayar”. Never had the courage to tell his father though!
The evenings in the boys’ hostel of Jamia Millia were renowned for their “mehfils”. Aspiring shayars would gather and exchange views over endless rounds of tea & cigarettes into the wee hours of the morning. Dheeraj under his pen name “Gaafil” had gained considerable repute. A name that had started finding a mention in the haloed corridors of the Sahitya Akademi.
Uma had just completed her BA in Journalism and had joined the Mass Communications program at Jamia. Incidentally poetry was a passion of hers and in the few months that she had spent in Jamia “Gaafil” and his poetry had a special corner in Uma’s heart. I did say the story has the elements of a pot-boiler didn’t I?
It took two years of travelling in the same “U Special” and Uma Parthasarathi joining the Mass Communications program for Dheeraj Singh to find courage to speak with her. Notes with poetry and walks from the bus stand eased them into falling in love with each other.
Time fleeted. Dheeraj was now a part of a theatre troupe and Uma had found employment with one of the TV News channels. Their offices were in Connaught Place and the Coffee House became their haunt.
Neither of their parents were for this relationship. While Dheeraj’s father was opposed to the concept of love in general, Uma’s father had a range of issues. For starters, Dheeraj was a North Indian, to top that he was younger that Uma and finally he barely was earning! The only voice of reason was Uma’s mother who very pragmatically suggested Dheeraj change the one thing he could; find a job!
Everyone at the Coffee House knew and rooted for Dheeraj and Uma. Their standard order comprising 1 Veg Cutlet, 1 Plate Idli, 1 Masala Dosa and 2 Coffees would be ready to serve even before either of them reached the cash counter to place the order. The cashier Rampal Yadav an elderly gentleman, would look forward to Dheeraj and Uma each day.
They would take the same seat every day discussing everything ranging from work to the new ways their parents would come up with for them to separate.
“Add 3 plates of Gulab Jamun to the usual today Chacha,” said Dheeraj to Rampal ji as he approached the counter. “It’s celebration time!”
“What’s special? Are you getting published finally?”
“Even better Chacha! We got married!!”
Both Dheeraj and Uma seemed happy. Rampal ji couldn’t but help notice how pretty Uma was looking in her Kanjeevaram. They did make a fabulous couple indeed.
They kept their marriage a secret from their parents till they could no longer keep it one. The pressure was mounting on Uma to get married and she was left with no choice but to reveal the truth.
Dheeraj and Uma set off house hunting.
“Three thousand a month and three months rent in advance,” Dheeraj said, concern writ large in his voice.
“Don’t worry, I have fifteen grand saved up,” said Uma reassuringly. “It’s small but I love it. Plus Patel Nagar to CP is also convenient.”
During the course of the next few months they went about converting the house they had rented into a home. Of course, their meetings at the Coffee House continued.
“It’s gorgeous and I know it would be just perfect for our setting.” The excitement in Uma’s voice was palpable. She was talking about a sofa-set she had seen at Panchkuian Road.
“I should be hearing from the agency too. I have penned a few jingles for them. We could use that money.”
“Who said anything about buying it?” Uma said.
“Okay, atleast tell me where you saw it. Let me check it out too.”
The next day when Dheeraj walked upto the cash counter Rampal ji hesitantly said, “Need a loan beta?”
Dheeraj who perhaps was not in the best of the moods erupted saying, “Doesn’t that signboard behind you say No Credit Chacha ji.” Rampal ji did not push the matter further. Dheeraj and Uma finished their lunch and left.
“Hey!! That’s the one I was talking about!” Dheeraj and Uma were walking back home from work that evening when she pointed out to a hand-cart laden with a sofa. The man seemed to be asking for directions.
“Hmm…nice indeed,” Dheeraj commented. They climbed up the stairs to their first floor apartment secretly yearning for the sofa.
Uma had just put the kettle on the boil when the door-bell rang. She opened the door to find the man who was pushing the hand-cart at the door.
Uma turned and gave Dheeraj who had joined her a hug.
“You are so bad!! You wanted to surprise me did you?” said Uma playfully punching Dheeraj.
Dheeraj was too dumbfounded to react.
“You have the wrong address…I think,” he said hesitantly, aware that Uma would be left heart-broken.
“You are Dheeraj Singh. Aren’t you?” asked the cart man.
Dheeraj nodded.
“Then this is yours,” he said pointing to the sofa-set.
“Or else,” he continued, “Pay me the charges and I shall carry it back.”
Dheeraj looked at Uma almost as though seeking agreement and said, “Okay leave it here. I shall pay a visit to the shop tomorrow.”
The sofa set placed where she had always imagined it. “We could probably give some advance and pay the balance in installments,” Uma suggested.
The following day Dheeraj and Uma skipped lunch at the Coffee House and made their way to Wadhera Furniture House on Panchkuian Road.
“The sofa set has been paid for. We only deliver against full payment,” the shop owner said. “An elderly gentleman had come down, he saw the piece in the show window, made payment in cash and gave this delivery address.”
“Could it be Appa?” Uma wondered aloud. “I did mention that I really liked a sofa-set when I was speaking with Amma the other day.”
“There’s a public telephone nearby, call them.” Dheeraj said. “Tell them that we shall pay them back gradually.”
“Hello Appa! Thank you so much Appa! I knew you would come around one day,” Uma gushed as she spoke.
“Wrong number.” With that a curt voice at the other end of the line disconnected the call. Uma started sobbing uncontrollably.
Sensing the situation Dheeraj suggested that they take the rest of the day off, grab a bite at the Coffee House and head home.
“Where’s Rampal ji today?” Dheeraj asked the person manning the cash counter.
“Oh! I am sorry he passed away. Did you know him?”
“What…..how???!!!!” Uma shrieked.
“He was crossing the street on Panchkuian Road a few days back, when he met with an accident. Must have been six or six thirty in the evening. A car jumped the traffic signal and ran over him. Right outside Wadhera Furniture House….”
It’s twenty years since they got married. Dheeraj and Uma have two lovely daughters now. Dheeraj is a Creative Director in one of the leading ad agencies and Uma an Editor with the same news channel that she had joined.
If ever you are invited to their residence, you shall find that the pride of their house still is the sofa-set and a picture frame with Rampal ji’s photograph on the wall right behind it.
One One Lovely
I have never been a happy traveler. It is not that I do not enjoy the journey or look forward to the destinations. I do. But there is something about starting a journey that makes me sick. The deep down in the gut kind of sick if you know what I mean. Many years of travelling has reinforced my belief in the concept of travelers luck. Most of us do not think about it. Then again there are those of us who are designated to be living proofs of Murphy’s Law that states “If something CAN go wrong, it WILL go wrong!!” Have you have ever missed a flight because of a flat-tyre en-route to the airport or been the guy in the check-in line who has been told the flights full or the guy after the guy who got bumped up to first class? Get the drift?
They say it sometimes takes the exception to prove the rule. What I am about to narrate is precisely that, the one exception to my travel woes!
It had all the makings of another painful travel. An exigent situation at one of our sites had warranted unplanned travel. I needed to reach Hoshiarpur from Delhi the next morning. Train was the most recommended mode and no amount of “quota” hunting had been able to secure a reservation. The best available was a wait-listed ticket whose current status was “RAC” (Reservation Against Cancellation). A silver lining considering there were still over 4 hours for “Chart preparation” or so the travel-desk had said washing its hands from any consequence.
Finished work rushed home, took a shower, threw in a change of clothes into my overnighter and I was at platform number 3 of the Old Delhi Railway Station well in time for the charts to be put up. For those of you who find all the terms I am using un-familiar you have missed real drama in your life.
Getting back.
The charts did not have delight to throw my way. My ticket status was still RAC. Entitled to travel but not with the pleasure of a full berth. An overnight journey on a 6ft by 21/2ft plank that too shared with a stranger. The prospects of the night ahead weren’t bright.
The train rolled in on schedule and I settled (as much as one can) on my side of the shared berth. It was seat number 7. A side berth, the kind where the facing backrests fold down to form the “berth”. My overnighter tucked neatly under the seat, I waited. The S2 coach of the Delhi-Hoshiarpur Express was filling up fast yet there was no sign of my co-passenger.
I started reading my Jeffery Archer and plonked my feet on the seat facing mine to allow movement in the aisle. I felt the train starting to move. Aha! I thought to myself, was there a possibility?? I didn’t dare build on it lest my castle got “poof”ed away. I went back to my book.
You know a good thing when you see it. Even better if it’s coming straight at you. Especially so, if it’s an insanely beautiful girl. She had make up on and was wearing a kurti over a sharara, not really the stuff one would wear when they were travelling by second class!
“Ath number tuhada ai?”
I was too dumbstruck to respond. Even if I had not been I still couldn’t have responded since I had no idea what she had said. It was Punjabi yes, it strangely sounded very different from the kind I was used to in Delhi.
She figured I was lost and switched over to English.
“Are you on seat number 8? The TTE just assigned it to me,” she said holding the ticket literally on my face! The tone had “Look, I am no push-over” embedded in it.
“No. This is seven. Eight is the one above,” I said equally curtly pointing to the berth above. I was also disappointed that she wasn’t the one I was going to be sharing the berth with. Extremely so since nothing further was said. The girl put her bags on the berth above, placed her juttis atop the fan and settled in.
There still was no sign of my mysterious co-passenger. The TTE came to check the tickets. With him was a swarm of passengers holding out tickets rolled with currency notes inside. I didn’t even ask regarding my chances. I intended to enjoy the sole possession of the berth till it lasted.
It lasted till about mid-night. Side berths aren’t really conducive to sleeping. I had folded down the backrests. I was lazily stretched across reading my book and didn’t realise when I dozed off. I still had my book on my chest when a felt a slight nudge. The book fell over.
“Sorry sir!”
It was an army jawan in his fatigues. He was placing his sack underneath.
“I have been given seat 7 too,” he said. He went into the restroom and returned having changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.
“You sleep aaram se sir,” he said “I will adjust.”
He was atleast six feet tall and had a stocky build. He was dark and had a moustache with a flourish, almost menacing. Adjustment was something I was actually dreading.
He told me about how he was travelling on a warrant. They were moving to some location. There were other jawans from his battalion who were on the train. That’s where he had been all this while. The rest had turned in. He kept on obviously having forgotten that it was he who had asked me to sleep “aaram se”.
I too was a little tentative. I wasn’t sure whether to take him up on his invitation and sleep or to be courteous. Sharing a berth in the train is akin to a dance. There are protocols to be adhered to, the question of personal space and yes the wait for a comfortable state being achieved. But the jawan did not seem to be the kind who could be rushed. One thing I would concede, he was delightfully gentler than his appearance suggested.
He was trying to get something out of his bag. I kept looking my patience running out and sleep getting the better of me. I was also cold. The problem inside a second class coach is that it gets stuffy if you close the windows. Leaving just the shutters down allows for circulation. In my rush I hadn’t packed my blanket! It was the late October while it wasn’t really winter yet the air had a nip in it.
He pulled out a blanket and two stainless-steel tumblers. He searched a little more and pulled out something wrapped inside a hand towel. It was a half-bottle of Old Monk rum! He sat legs crossed on the berth.
“One one lovely sir?” he asked holding out a glass in which he had poured out a very generous peg.
I said no and thanked him for the offer.
“Have sir, one lovely is good. Long cold night sir…” he persisted.
Now, anyone who has spent time in an engineering hostel is bound to succumb to the allure of Old Monk. I was no different. I took the glass and waited while he poured one for himself wondering if he had forgotten to pull out bottle of cola.
Before I snapped out of my thought, he knocked his tumbler against mine and said, “Cheers”. He gulped his drink down and wiped his moustache. I followed suit. I could feel the warmth of the alcohol spread instantly.
“Something to eat sir?” he stood up and disappeared somewhere into the darkness of the other coach. He returned a few minutes later. He had something wrapped in a newspaper. He untied the string and opened the package to reveal onion bhajiya.
“Not hot sir but nice sir,” he said holding them out in front of me.
“Sorry sir but no Campa Cola sir. They finished,” he said apologetically.
I told him that wasn’t necessary and thanked him again for sharing it with me.
“No problem sir. We sharing berth so it’s like house,” he continued “Family means sharing sir. So only.”
He poured out a drink for each of us.
“One more lovely sir,” he said.
We repeated our gulping down act. While we munched on the remaining bhajiya he pulled out his wallet and showed me the picture of his wife and one year old. He told me about his routine. In the couple of hours that we had been together, I began to feel I knew everything there was to know about him.
The alcohol and sleep were kicking in hard now. He seemed to sense it and called it a night.
We stretched our legs out, him on the outside I on the inside. He put the blanket ensuring both our feet were covered. I dozed off.
I woke up to the sound of the tea vendor shouting out, “Chai! Garam chai!”
I was alone on the berth, the jawan nowhere to be seen. I panicked. There had been far too many instances of people having been offered sedative laced food and drink.
Cursing myself I threw aside the blanket and reached under the seat to check for my overnighter. I heaved a sigh when I found it intact in its position the way I had kept it the night before. I felt guilty of having suspected the jawan of wrongdoing.
The train lazily moved into the Hoshiarpur station. I had waited for the jawan to return but he hadn’t.
As I prepared to alight, the girl from berth number eight requested help with her luggage.
“Lucky you,” she said, “Seems as though your co-passenger didn’t turn up.”
“He did,” I said, “It was one of the jawans from the battalion that’s moving on this train. He must have gone back and joined his mates.”
“Really!!” she said sounding surprised.
We got off.
“Gurleen,” she said holding out her hand.
“Sorry I was rude to you last night. I was pulled out of a friend’s engagement ceremony and literally forced onto the train. I have a site inspection this morning,” she said pointing out to the logo of a renowned certification agency on her laptop bag.
I shook hands with her. “Same story here. But I had a chance to shower and change,” I said. “You aren’t going for the Schools Project are you?”
She was indeed! For a change travel hadn’t been all that bad.
I saw a group of jawans gathered near the tea stall. I excused myself and walked upto them.
“I am looking for one of your friends,” I said. I described the jawan who I had spent the night talking to. None of them seemed to place him. I was surprised. I told them about the rum and the bhajiyas he said he borrowed from his friends.
The tea stall owner had in the meanwhile overheard our conversation.
“Daruwala Fauji naa hai ji osda,” he spoke in an accent similar to Gurleen’s. What he told me baffled me further. He told me the legend of Daruwala Fauji. He told me that he was seen on trains that pass through Hoshiarpur. Said to have accidentally fallen off a moving train in a drunken state many years ago. He continues to share his love for a tipple with others. There were others who have seen him he said.
I walked back not believing what I had just been told.
We have been married for fifteen years now. Gurleen still doesn’t believe my story. One thing even she cannot refute though is how the blanket came into my possession!
One one lovely..anyone?!
Memories
Memories are like the rain At times, a passing drizzle That brings welcome relief At times, a downpour With no end in sight There are times You want to reach out And every drop That falls in your palms Sets you aflutter Yet on occasion You're caught unaware Drenched and lashed Soaked in muddy despair Washed green leaves Pitter and Patter Bring a song to your lip And a spring in your step Then there are gloomy dark days Not a ray breaking through Every droplet weighing you down Drowning you each passing minute Memories are like the rain A little, leaves you wanting for more A lot, and your only friend is regret!
The Colour of Love
Dear God Only you know when You made this blunder You sent down Adam and Eve And for them you created this world to live You added colour and made things bright But this fickle human mind you created Was filled with emotions To each of them man gave a colour And added to the commotion Red for passion, Blue for fright Green for jealousy though not quite But the colour of love man just couldn’t decide So dear God send down a colour A colour so new and pleasant A colour that spans ages The past, the future and the present A colour to paint this world with And make a place worth living It just might be her colour and mine You just have the name to find!
A Summer Crush
A school boy's crush Nothing more than that A summers infatuation They said it wouldn't last No problems no worries Not a care for the world Two young hearts skipped a beat Only to beat together in rhythm Hand in hand we walked many a mile Stole kisses in the park Boy what a summer it was Gave each other more than just our hearts Summer ended twas time part Promises were made meaning to be kept Seasons changed winter came The flame survived through letters exchanged The spring flowers blossomed Another summer was nigh Sparks they flew again when we met And the flame it burnt bright But this summer was different from the one before Made for each other was the new country lore We lived for the next year And the year after next Saying to one other With each parting kiss Just one more summer And we'll get through Twenty five summers gone We are still here Enjoying this summer Believing there'll be another and another one!
Wish…Come True!
I wake up in the morning I see your face before me I close my eyes and open them again Making sure I'm not dreaming I mumble a prayer and thank the power above All our years together in a moment flash by A smile spreads on my face I realise what I have in front of me Is all that I ever wanted love to be A constant companion, a partner in all my crimes What I see is my wish…come true!
Walk With Me
Long walks on moonlit nights Hand in hand on sandy shores On the hills on an upward climb Tearing down the slope Ambling on lazy winter days A careful trudge through a muddy puddle Even on a blazing afternoon No matter where we are How hard or long the journey My all weather friend, my other half It's you I'd want to walk with me