Lucknow ke old city mein shaam ka waqt alag hi rang lekar utarta tha. Galiyon mein dhoop ki aakhri dhool tairti thi, aur hawa mein kabhi kebab ki khushboo, kabhi sardi ke pehle narm se jhonke ki tarah purani kitaabon ki smell ghul jaati thi. Ek tang si gali ke end par madarsa-library thi—neele paint ka kuchh hissa utar chuka tha, darwaze par peetal ka purana handle, aur andar shelves aisi jaise har kitaab ne apni alag saans sambhaal rakhi ho. Wahan shaam ko chai bhi dheere banti thi, aur khamoshi bhi bade adab se baithi rehti thi.
Professor Faraz Khan har haftay isi waqt aate the. 52 saal ke, safed kurte par hamesha ek seedhi si waistcoat, aankhon mein chashma, aur chalne mein woh old-world patience jo sirf un logon mein hota hai jinhone zindagi ko jaldi mein samajhne ki koshish hi na ki ho. Woh shelves ke beech aise ghoomte jaise koi purana naqsha padh rahe hon. Bahar se log unhe bas “project assign karne wale professor” samajhte the, lekin andar se unka dil bahut ziddi tha—unhe lagta tha ki old city ki bhooli hui histories ko bachana unki duty nahi, unka qarz hai.
Imran Siddiqui aksar library ke kone mein milta tha. 21 saal ka, patla sa, chup sa, aankhon mein thakaan aur chehre par woh expression jo un logon ka hota hai jinhone zyada kuchh bola nahi hota, lekin sab kuchh feel kiya hota hai. Engineering chhod chuka tha. Ghar ke pressure aur apni confusion ke beech kaat-ta hua sa din, aur raat ko apne hi khayalon se thoda haar jaata tha. Abba ki shop par kabhi-kabhi madad kar deta, warna library mein chai lane ya purani files ulatne mein Library Aapa ka haath बटा देता.
Faraz Khan ne pehli baar Imran ko tab dhyaan se dekha jab woh ek purani register ki entries par ungli phira raha tha, jaise numbers nahi, unke peeche chhupi hui kahaniyan padh raha ho. Faraz ne dheere se poocha, “Kuchh dhoondh rahe ho, beta?”
Imran ne thoda sa jhijhak ke jawab diya, “Nahi sir... bas dekh raha tha. Ye purani writing... ajeeb si lagti hai.”
Faraz ne bas itna kaha, “Ajeeb nahi. Zinda hoti hai. Bas sunne wala chahiye.”
Imran ne us din kuchh aur nahi bola, lekin woh line uske andar kahin atak gayi.
Library Aapa, jo 60 ke paar ki thi aur jinke haath mein files aise rehti jaise woh unki paidaishi cheez ho, dono ko dekh kar samajh jaati thi ki kaun sach mein interested hai aur kaun bas timepass. Unki aankhon mein ajeeb si teekhi narmi thi. Ek din chai dete hue boli, “Faraz sahab, ye ladka kam bolta hai, par sunta theek hai. Aise log kam milte hain.”
Faraz ne halka sa muskura kar kaha, “Isi liye to dekhta hoon.”
Woh catalyst ek shaam aaya jab Faraz ne Imran ko library ke old room mein bulaya. Table par ek simple recorder rakha tha, kuchh typed pages, aur ek notebook.
“Imran,” Faraz ne calmly kaha, “tumne engineering chhodi hai. Theek hai, abhi uska gham mat karo. Ek aur kaam karna hai.”
Imran ne hairani se dekha. “Mujhse?”
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“Tumse. Apne mohalle ke buzurgon se baat karo. Unki yaadein record karo. Oral history project hai.”
Imran ka chehra aur bhi band sa ho gaya. “Sir, main toh engineer bhi nahi ban paya... ye kaise karunga? Mujhe to proper interview lena bhi nahi aata.”
Faraz ne recorder uski taraf dhakel diya. “Koi scientist banne ko nahi keh raha. Bas insaan banke suno. Teen cheezein likh lo: kaun the, kya yaad hai, aur kya chhoot gaya. Itna kaafi hai.”
“Par sir, log sunenge bhi?” Imran ne dheere se poocha.
“Jab tum seriously sunoge, tab woh bolenge,” Faraz ne kaha. “Kaam ka weight tabhi hota hai jab tum usse seriously lo.”
Imran ne recorder haath mein liya. Woh chhota sa device uske liye kisi zimmedari se kam nahi lag raha tha. Faraz ne usse kuchh questions diye—purani dukaanein, school ki yaadein, partition ke baad aayi families, kis gali mein pehla handpump laga, kis masjid ki azaan ki awaaz pehle poore mohalle ko jagati thi. Imran ne notebook ko dekha aur pehli baar mehsoos kiya ki shayad uske haath mein bhi kuchh sambhalne layak aa gaya hai.
Ghar par, jab usne abba ko project ke baare mein bataya, toh jawab umeed se thoda sakht hi aaya.
“History ka record banaoge?” abba ne apni chai ki pyaali table par rakhti hui kaha. “Pehle engineering complete kar lo. Ghar ka future paper par nahi, degree par tikta hai.”
Imran ne nazar neeche rakhi. “Abba, sirf ek project hai. Library ke professor ne bola—”
“Professor ne bola toh ho gaya?” Abba ki awaaz mein gussa kam, tension zyada tha. “Beta, duniya shauk se nahi chalti. Kal mujhe kuchh ho gaya toh tum kya karoge? Ye photo, ye kahani, ye project... inka kya karega koi?”
Imran ke paas jawab nahi tha. Sach yahi tha ki woh khud bhi sure nahi tha. Kya woh is project se bas apni failure se bhaag raha tha? Ya kahin sach mein uski koi direction yahin thi? Us raat usne recorder ko bed ke paas rakh diya aur der tak ceiling ko dekhta raha.
Agli subah jab woh mohalle mein gaya, toh pehla reaction kuchh khaas encouraging nahi tha. Retired tailor chacha ne hans kar kaha, “Arre miya, ab tum history-wistory likhoge? Isse roti thodi na chalegi.” Purane naat reader ne bas itna bola, “Hamari yaad mein kya rakha hai, sab bhool hi jaayega.” Ek ex-school peon ne adha puraani aankhon se dekha aur kaha, “Bachche, kaam ki baat karo. Ye sab neta logon ka kaam hai.”
Imran ka confidence aur neeche aa gaya. Phir bhi usne recorder on kiya.
“Chacha, bas do minute. Aapki purani dukaan ka naam kya tha?”
“Naam? Naam se kya hota hai?”
“Phir bhi... yaad ho toh.”
Yeh sun kar chacha thoda soft hue. “Bada Bazaar ke paas thi. ‘Siddiqui Emporium’ nahi, kuchh aur... haan, ‘Noor Tailors’. Tab kapde bhi silte the aur baatein bhi.”
Imran ne pehli entry likhi: Noor Tailors. Kapde aur baatein dono silti thi.
Jaise-jaise woh logon se milta gaya, usse samajh aane laga ki yeh sirf purani baatein nahi hain. Ek retired muazzin ne bataya kaise ek school ki bell missing ho gayi thi aur poore mohalle ne ek mahine tak azaan aur school timing ke beech apni routine adjust ki thi. Ek buzurg aurat ne partition ke baad aayi apni family ki ek suitcase wali kahani sunayi—us suitcase mein kapde kam, yaadein zyada thi. Ek shopkeeper ne bataya ki pehle gali ke kone par jo paan ki dukaan thi, uske pichhe ek chhoti library chalti thi jahan teen ladke chupke se Urdu ke ashaar padhte the.
Imran ko pehli baar laga ki mohalla ka har kona ek file hai, har deewar ek note, har purana chehra ek living archive. Aur phir usse abba ka chehra yaad aaya—woh sakht tone, woh control, woh baar-baar engineering complete karne ka pressure. Pehle toh woh usse bas dabav lagta tha. Ab woh thoda alag lagne laga. Jaise koi aadmi jo apni feelings seedhi nahi bol sakta, isliye duty ke through pyaar dikhata hai.
Ek din Imran ne retired tailor chacha se poocha, “Abba hamesha aise hi the?”
Chacha ne silai machine ke paas se nazar utha kar kaha, “Aise kaun nahi hota, miya? Tension sabke ghar mein hoti hai. Farq sirf itna hota hai ki koi hans ke chhupa leta hai, koi daant ke.”
Yeh line Imran ke andar jaise baith gayi. Usne pehli baar socha ki abba ka pressure rejection nahi, fear ho sakta hai. Fear ki unke baad Imran ka future kahin gir na jaaye. Fear ki duniya uske saath narmi na karegi. Is realization ne uske andar ka bojh thoda halka kiya, kyunki ab woh khud ko sirf naraaz baap ka beta nahi, ek dar se bhare insaan ka beta samajh pa raha tha.
Faraz Khan ne Imran ke kaam ko dekhte hue kabhi overpraise nahi kiya. Woh bas notebook dekhte, audio files sunte, aur kabhi ek line bol dete—“Yahan detail kam hai.” Ya phir, “Is sawaal mein aur sabr chahiye.” Lekin unki aankhon mein ek naya bharosa tha. Ek shaam jab Imran ne unhe apne transcripts dikhaye, toh Faraz ne chupchaap pucha, “Yeh sab tumne khud note kiya?”
“Ji sir.”
“Bina kisi ke bataye?”
Imran ne sar hila diya.
Faraz ne glasses utaar kar table par rakhe. “Toh phir samajh lo, tum sirf student nahi ho. Tum memory ke keeper ban rahe ho.”
Imran ne pehli baar seedha unki aankhon mein dekha. “Sir, mujhe laga tha main kuchh khoya hua hoon.”
Faraz ki awaaz dheemi thi, lekin pakki. “Kuchh cheezein khoti nahi, beta. Bas kisi aur ka intezaar karti hain.”
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Project complete hone mein do mahine lage. Imran ne audio notes banaye, short transcripts likhe, aur kuchh handwritten observations bhi jode. Usne sirf facts nahi, tone bhi sambhali—kis buzurg ki awaaz mein hansi thi, kiski baat mein dard, kiski yaad mein mitti ki khushboo. Library Aapa ne files ko secure karne mein madad ki, aur ek din quietly boli, “Achha kaam kiya hai, miya. Ab is library mein tumhara bhi naam likh lenge.”
Imran ne hichkichake kaha, “Aapa, main toh bas—”
“Bas-was kuchh nahi,” Aapa ne beech mein toka. “Jo sunta hai na, woh sabse bada kaam karta hai.”
Submission wale din Faraz ne project ko bahut dhyaan se dekha. Phir bas itna kaha, “Good. Bahut good.” Professor Faraz ke liye yeh praise ka sabse gehra version tha.
Usi hafte abba ne bhi files aur recordings dekhni shuru ki. Imran unke saamne kuchh bol nahi raha tha, bas chupchaap table ke dusri taraf baitha tha. Abba ne ek recording sunte hue volume thoda badhaya. Ek retired muazzin ki awaaz aa rahi thi: “Pehle yahan har baccha gali ke naam se pehchana jaata tha...”
Abba ne tape rok di. Kuchh der tak khaamosh rahe. Phir bole, “Ye sab tumne khud suna?”
Imran ne dheere se kaha, “Ji.”
Abba ne sirf ek baar uski taraf dekha. Unki aankhon mein koi dramatic emotion nahi tha, na koi lambi speech. Bas ek softening thi, jaise sakht mitti mein thodi nami aa gayi ho. “Theek hai,” woh bole. “Sambhaal ke rakhna. Kaam ka lag raha hai.”
Bas. Itna hi. Lekin Imran ke liye yeh approval se kam nahi tha.
Uske baad mohalla mein log usse alag nazar se dekhne lage. “Arre woh recording wala ladka,” koi kehta. “Usse batao, purani gali ka naam kya tha?” koi aur bolta. Imran ab pehle ki tarah chup toh rehta, lekin uski khamoshi mein confidence aa gaya tha. Woh ab sirf time kaatne nahi, yaadein jama karne aata tha. Aur jab koi usse poochta, “Iska kya fayda?” toh woh bas halki si smile ke saath kehta, “Fayda yeh hai ki bhoolne se pehle likh liya.”
Faraz Khan ne ek din madarsa-library ki window se bahar dekhte hue kaha, “Imran, tumne apne mohalle ko document nahi kiya. Tumne usse dobara sunna sikhaya.”
Imran ne unki taraf dekhkar kaha, “Aur aapne mujhe sunna sikhaya, sir.”
Faraz ne bas halka sa sar hila diya. Unke chehre par woh satisfaction tha jo sirf us mentor ko milta hai jise pata ho ki uska student ab uski shadow mein nahi, apni roshni mein chal raha hai.
Shaam phir se wahi thi—dhoop ki dhool, purani kitaabon ki smell, aur chai ka slow routine. Faraz apni kursi par baithe the, Library Aapa files sort kar rahi thi, aur Imran shelf ke paas ek naye box par labels laga raha tha: Oral Histories, Old City, Lucknow. Usne us label ko dekh kar ek lambi saans li. Engineering ka chapter shayad band ho chuka tha, lekin life ka page abhi khula tha—aur is baar us par uska apna naam tha.
Us raat jab woh ghar gaya, abba ne bas itna poocha, “Library se late ho gaya?”
Imran ne kaha, “Haan, thoda kaam tha.”
Abba ne nazar uthaye bina jawab diya, “Theek hai. Kal subah shop pe bhi aa jana.”
Woh pehle jaisa order tha, lekin usmein pehle jaisi sakhti nahi thi. Imran ne samajh liya—yeh direct approval nahi, lekin silent acceptance hai. Aur kabhi-kabhi ghar mein itna hi kaafi hota hai.
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Acchhi Lagi Kahani? Apne Doston Se Share Karna Na Bhoolen! 💖
Storydilse ke pyare readers, dil se shukriya ki aapne yeh kahani padhi. Aapka pyaar, waqt, aur saath hi humari sabse badi himmat hai. Umeed hai Imran aur Faraz ki yeh kahani aapke dil tak pahunchi hogi. Aise hi storydilse ke saath jude rahiye, aur apna pyaar banaye rakhiye. Dhanyavaad!
