The Power of a Wristband

Wristband

Delhi University ke North Campus mein fest ka din waise hi hota hai jaise monsoon mein traffic signal: sab kuch shiny lagta hai, par andar se full jam. Gate ke bahar students ka mela, chai ki tapri par black coffee ke naam pe filter coffee, aur andar loudspeakers se aati announcement—“Please maintain decorum”—jo kisi ko bhi maintain karne ka mood nahi deti.

Aman Khurana ne apna volunteer badge seedha kiya aur wristband ko wrist par aise pehna jaise koi royal entry pass ho. Neon green band tha, thoda sa chhota, lekin uske ego ke liye kaafi bada.

“Arre bhai, idhar aao na,” gate ke paas khade ek first-year ne usse rok kar pucha, “VIP entry kahan se hai?”

Aman ne ek second ke liye apni expression practice ki. Thodi si seriousness, thoda sa busy look, aur bas enough attitude.

“Wahan se,” usne side mein ek narrow lane point karte hue bola, “par abhi crowd manage ho raha hai. Tum log line mein jao.”

Bhai, line mein jao. Yeh sentence bolte hi usse laga jaise usne admission ke baad pehli baar campus control kiya ho.

Uske badge par “Volunteer” likha tha, lekin log usko dekh ke “sir” bol rahe the. Koi pass maang raha tha, koi direction. Ek senior girl ne bina dekhe hi bol diya, “Excuse me, can you please help me with backstage access?”

Aman ke andar kuch spark hua. Main help kar raha hoon? Nahi. Main important hoon.

Woh bas thoda sa aur seedha khada ho gaya, jaise khud fest ka part nahi, fest ka backbone ho.

Uska assignment actually simple tha: registration desk se artist corridor tak messages bhejna, aur agar koi misplaced guest aa jaye toh guide karna. Par Aman ko simple cheezein boring lagti thi. Usko thrill chahiye tha—walkie-talkie ki crackling awaaz, wristband ki authority, aur woh feeling ki bina uske yahan kuch adhura hai.

Usne apne phone se ek selfie bhi li, badge ko thoda angle dekar. Caption nahi daala, bas draft mein rakha. Abhi jaldi kya thi? Pehle stage se guzarta hoon.

Backstage

Backstage ka matlab Aman ke liye ek alag universe tha. Aage wali side mein normal crowd tha—slow moving, sweaty, excited. Backstage mein AC ka feel kam, par importance ka feel zyada tha. Wahan se artistes ke assistants daud rahe the, cables uljhi padi thi, aur ek side mein cold coffee ke paper cups ka tower bana hua tha.

Aman ne ek cup utha liya.

“Volunteers ke liye hai?” usne poocha.

Kisi ne bina dekhte bola, “Haan, le lo.”

Bas. Free coffee. Free access. Free feeling.

Woh artist corridor mein do baar bina kisi ko roke nikal gaya. Ek baar ek music band ka guitarist uske side se guzra aur usne apne aap ko mentally high-five kiya. Normal log ya toh gate pe phase the ya crowd mein crush ho rahe the. Aman? Aman backstage ki hawa mein chal raha tha.

Tabhi usne notice kiya ki kuch students usse dekh rahe hain. Unmein se ek familiar sa face tha—Kabir “Kabs” Malhotra. White sneakers, oversized tee, neck pe locket, aur aisa confidence jaise usne fest sponsor hi kar diya ho.

Kabir ne Aman ko upar se niche tak dekha. “Bhai, tu management se hai?”

Aman ne nonchalantly shoulder shrug kiya. “Haan, kuch aisa hi samajh lo.”

Kabir has diya. “Nice. Media circle mein ho?”

“Hmm.” Aman ne jawab ko vague hi rakha. Vague answers ka apna swag hota hai.

Kabir ke saath do aur log the. Sabne Aman ko dekhkar aur bhi interest liya. Jab log tumhe puchte hain ki tum kaun ho, aur tum exact jawab na do, toh wo tumhe aur bada samajhne lagte hain. Ye Aman ko bahut pasand tha.

Usne apni sleeves thodi si adjust ki. Wristband dikh raha tha. Badge bhi. Aisa lag raha tha jaise ek secret passcode mil gaya ho. Aur fir usne dekha ki VIP lane ke paas khadi ek girl uski taraf curiosity se dekh rahi thi.

Naina Verma. First-year lag rahi thi, Noida wali vibe—thodi nervous, thodi wide-eyed. Usne Aman ke badge ko dekha, fir uske walkie-talkie ko, fir seedha uske face ko, jaise woh kisi movie mein important character ho.

Aman ne halke se nod kiya.

Naina ne bhi smile ki. Small smile, par Aman ke liye full spotlight.

Us moment ke baad uska dimag aur bhi fast chalne laga. Aaj agar sahi impression pad gaya, toh campus mein log usko yaad rakhenge. Aur yaad rakhenge ka matlab? Respect. Attention. Importance.

Aur Aman ko importance se bahut pyaar tha.

Green Room

Green room ke naam pe ek room tha jahan ek side sofa tha, ek mirror tha, aur ek corner mein half-finished fruit basket. Meera Sethi wahan table ke paas khadi thi, clipboard haath mein, ek kaan mein phone aur dusre kaan mein duniya ka pressure.

Uski voice calm thi, lekin tone mein woh thakan thi jo sirf wohi samajh sakta hai jo poora din “bas ek minute” sunta raha ho.

“Aman,” usne bina smile ke bola, “artist entry gate pe confusion ho gaya hai. Tum jaake check karo. Aur haan, please, kisi ko bhi bina list ke andar mat aane dena.”

Aman ne turant chest thoda sa expand kiya. “Done.”

Meera ne usko ek second ke liye dekha. “Aur please, pose kam karna. Kaam zyada.”

Aman ka smile thoda sa freeze hua. “Pose?”

“Tumhara walk dekh ke lag raha hai tum event coordinator nahi, poster boy ho.”

Aman ko chubha. Lekin usne bahar se cool hi raha. “Main efficient hoon.”

“Good,” Meera ne dry tone mein bola, “efficiently kaam karo.”

Woh nikal gaya, par andar se usko lag raha tha ki Meera usse samajh hi nahi rahi. Use kya pata, yeh wristband sirf cloth nahi, authority ka symbol hai. Aur jis din authority mil jaye, logon ka attitude automatically change ho jata hai.

Usne artist entry gate par jaake ek misplaced student ko politely bahar ki taraf bhej diya, ek sponsor assistant ko correct lane dikhaya, aur ek volunteer ko bola ki water bottles stage ke left side pe shift karo.

Sab uski baat sun rahe the.

Aman ka dimag bola—देखा? Main naturally fit hoon.

Woh khud ko aur bhi zaroori feel karne laga. Jaise uska role chhota nahi, central ho.

Aur phir asli nasha aaya jab kisi ne usse pucha, “Bhai, tumhara number kya hai? Agar koi issue ho toh directly bol dena.”

Directly bol dena.

Aman ne number diya bhi nahi, bas ek confident nod de diya. Kyunki kabhi-kabhi impression number se bhi kaam chala leta hai.

Selfie Line

Shaam tak crowd aur badh gaya. Stage ke aage DJ set start ho chuka tha, lights blink kar rahi thi, aur students ka enthusiasm temperature se bhi zyada tha. Lines ka apna ecosystem tha—entry line, chai line, washroom line, aur selfie line.

Selfie line, yaani woh jagah jahan log status dekhkar photo khinchna chahte hain.

Kabir ne Aman ko phir pakad liya. “Arre boss, ek minute. Ye side mein jo pass holders hain, unko media wall ke paas le jaana hai. Tu help kar de.”

Aman ko “boss” suna aur andar se kuch aur kick mil gayi. Usne casually haath se gesture kiya. “Haan, chalo.”

Naina bhi usi group ke paas aa gayi thi, shayad apni friend ke saath. Usne Aman ko dekhkar pehle uske badge ko padha, phir uski walkie-talkie ko. “Aap event team mein ho?”

Aman ne answer ko aise shape kiya jaise woh already expected tha. “Haan, sort of.”

“Wow,” Naina ne softly bola. “Aapko sab kuch pata lagta hai?”

Aman ne smile ko halka sa rakha. “Kuch kuch.”

Kabir ne yeh scene dekha aur hans diya. “Bro, tu toh full insider lag raha hai.”

Aman ne shoulder shrug kiya, but his ego was now on a swing, high and higher. Log usse dekh rahe the. Ladki impress ho rahi thi. Kabir jaisa banda usse notice kar raha tha. Aur sabse important—woh khud ko normal student se alag mehsoos kar raha tha.

Usne ek aur cold coffee li, is baar permission ke bina.

Tabhi uske paas se ek junior volunteer bhaagta hua aaya. “Aman bhai, stage ke side pe ek mic issue hai.”

Aman ne dekha, phir selfie line ko. Uska ek part bola—jaane de, main yahan important lag raha hoon.

Par dusra part bola—main yahan kaam ke liye hoon.

Aur fir usne apne aap hi answer de diya. “Main dekhta hoon.”

Usne move kiya, lekin uska step abhi bhi thoda dramatic tha. Jaise hero entry aur duty, dono mix ho gaye hon.

Power Cut

Power cut aise aaya jaise fest ne breath hold kar li ho.

Ek second tak sab lights full bright. Dusre second mein stage ka half part dark, music ruk gaya, aur crowd mein ek collective “oooooh” nikla. Phir thodi si murmuring, phone flashlights, aur confused volunteers ka huddle.

Meera ka face pehli baar tense hua. “Backup generator kahan hai?”

Kisi ne bola, “Check kar rahe hain.”

“Kahan se check kar rahe hain?” Meera ki awaaz sharp ho gayi. “Mujhe exact location chahiye, not ‘check kar rahe hain’.”

Aman ne dekha ki log idhar-udhar bhag rahe the. Stage side pe ek artist assistant panic mein tha, aur crowd barrier ke paas students push kar rahe the, kyunki darkness mein har koi suddenly adventurous ho jata hai.

Meera ne usse dekha. “Aman, crowd ko side lanes mein redirect karo. Abhi. Aur woh red folder mere green room table se lao. Jaldi.”

Aman ne ek second mein haan bola aur daud gaya.

Yeh daud pehli baar show ke liye nahi thi. Yeh daud kaam ke liye thi.

Usne crowd ko loud but calm voice mein bola, “Please left side se move karo, main exit open karwa raha hoon. Please phone flash on rakho aur barrier ko push mat karo.”

Koi uski baat sun raha tha. Koi nahi. Par woh ruk nahi raha tha.

Phir usne ek volunteer ko pakda. “Tum gate two pe jao, aur security ko bolo extra rope line le aaye.”

Dusre ko bola, “Artists ka green room side clear rakho.”

Teesre ko bola, “Generator room ka contact number kis ke paas hai? Abhi.”

Aman ka kaam suddenly real ho gaya. Uska pose, uska swag, uska VIP thrill—sab side mein chala gaya. Ab sirf problem thi.

Aur problem ke beech uski asli skill bahar aayi.

Woh fast tha. Observe karta tha. Logon ke expressions padh leta tha. Kahan crowd jam hoga, kahan confusion fail sakta hai—sab samajh raha tha. Ek volunteer ka haath kaanp raha tha, usne uska walkie-tie pakad ke bola, “Mere saath बोलो, main help karta hoon.”

Meera ne usko dekha, aur uski aankhon mein pehli baar irritation nahi, recognition tha.

“Red folder?” usne pucha.

Aman ne bina soche bola, “Mila. Aur artist set list bhi safe hai.”

“Good.”

Sirf good. Lekin us good mein pehli baar trust tha.

Thodi der baad issue aur badh gaya jab pata chala ki ek important sponsor guest ka phone aur access pass green room ke bahar chhoot gaya hai. Agar woh missing raha, toh tamasha aur bada ho sakta tha. Meera already overworked thi, aur ab uske kaam ka pressure aur बढ़ गया.

Aman ne bina puchhe bola, “Main laata hoon.”

Meera ne uski taraf dekha. “Tujhe pata hai kis ka hai?”

“Abhi pata kar leta hoon.”

“Time?”

“Denge hi.”

Usne jaldi se desk ke side se ek pass uthaya, security ko inform kiya, aur corridor mein bhaag gaya. Under the half-working lights, uska badge ab pehli baar decoration nahi lag raha tha. Uski movement mein purpose tha.

Woh phone aur pass leke wapas aaya, aur us moment mein Meera ne sirf ek baar usse dekha. Bas ek baar. Par itna kaafi tha.

Exposed

Power restore hone ke baad stage par crowd ne relief ki cheekh maari. Lights aaye, music resumed hua, aur fest ne phir se saans li. Jaise kuch hua hi na ho.

Par backstage mein ek aur drama ready tha.

Kabir, jo pehle se hi Aman ke around suspiciously interested tha, ne usko side mein bulaya. “Bro, ek honest question.”

Aman ne thoda sa head tilt kiya. “Puch.”

Kabir ne smile mein thoda taana rakha. “Tu sach mein management se hai ya bas wristband ka fayda utha raha hai?”

Aman ka chehra ek second ke liye stiff hua.

Kabir ne aage bola, “Maine tujhe VIP lane mein teen baar unnecessary ghoomte dekha. Aur abhi tu was clearly acting like you’re more than a volunteer.”

Naina bhi wahan thi. Usne kuch nahi bola, bas dekh rahi thi.

Aman ke paas do raaste the. Ek, woh apni image bachaye, thoda aur ghumaye, aur shayad Kabir ko chhota prove kar de. Doosra, sach bol de.

Usne apne badge ko dekha. Us wristband ko dekha jo ab light ke neeche aur bhi ordinary lag raha tha.

Phir usne seedha bol diya, “Haan. Main volunteer hoon. Bas.”

Kabir blink kiya. “Toh phir?”

Aman ne kandhe seedhe kiye. “Toh phir main kaam kar raha hoon. VIP nahi hoon, but jo kaam diya tha, woh kiya hai.”

Kabir ne kuch bolne ke liye munh khola, par Meera wahi aa gayi.

“Enough,” she said. “Aman ne aaj jo kiya, usse fest smooth raha. Agar tumhe problem hai toh mujhe bolo, not him.”

Kabir ka expression thoda sa down ho gaya. “Main bas—”

“Bas kya?” Meera ka tone quiet tha, but final. “Logon ko label karna easy hota hai. Kaam sambhalna nahi.”

Aman ko pehli baar laga ki uska fake aura crack nahi hua, balki uske andar kuch sahi build hua hai.

Naina ne dheere se bola, “Mujhe laga tha aap... matlab, you know.”

Aman ne halka sa Aur us shaam, Metro ke platform par khade hoke Arjun ne pehli baar bina ghabraye apni maa ko call kiya.

“Ma, main theek hoon,” usne dheere se kaha, jaise khud ko bhi yakeen dila raha ho. “Aaj office se late aaunga. Par aaunga.”

Doosri side se kuch seconds ki khamoshi rahi, phir maa ki awaaz aayi, soft aur thodi shaky, “Bas aa ja, beta. Daal ban rahi hai.”

Arjun muskuraya. Itna simple sentence, aur uske andar itni garmi. Pichhle kuch hafton se jo bhi uske andar jam gaya tha, woh jaise dheere-dheere pighalne laga. Noida ki building ki glass walls, boss ki harsh tone, ghar ka pressure, future ka darr—sab kuch ek saath uske kandhon par chadh baitha tha. Par aaj, kuch alag tha. Shayad thakaan ab bhi thi, par uske andar bhaagne ki jagah dekhne ki himmat aa gayi thi.

Usne platform ke corner par khadi Meera ko dekha. Woh apne tote bag ko dono haathon se pakde bheed ko observe kar rahi thi, jaise poori city ka noise bhi uske andar ki shaanti ko disturb nahi kar sakta. Arjun ne usse pehle kabhi itna dhyaan se notice nahi kiya tha. Har roz office ke pantry mein milti thi, ek cup chai, do formal smiles, aur kabhi-kabhi weather par chhoti si baat. Bas itna hi. Lekin aaj, jab usne usse apna almost-empty lunch box share karte hue kaha tha, “Aap bhi kha lo, warna phir se sirf coffee pe survive karoge,” tab uski baat mein mazaak kam, concern zyada tha.

“Tum ghar ja rahe ho?” Arjun ne poocha.

Meera ne haan mein sar hilaaya. “Maa wait kar rahi hongi. Aaj unke liye vegetable momos le ja rahi hoon. Delhi mein sabko lagta hai rajma-chawal hi emotional support hai, but mere ghar mein momos bhi kaam kar jaate hain.”

Arjun hansa. “Sahi hai. Emotional support carbs.”

Meera bhi muskura di. Phir dono ke beech woh familiar silence aa gayi, lekin ab awkward nahi thi. Metro aayi, log dhakke maarte hue andar ghuse, aur Arjun ne automatically Meera ke liye thoda space banaya. She noticed. Bas ek chhota sa nod diya, par us nod mein thanks bhi tha, aur shayad yeh bhi ki duniya itni rough ho sakti hai, phir bhi kuch log bina bole softness rakhte hain.

Train ke andar, Dilli ki shaam unki aankhon ke saamne slide hoti rahi—flyovers, traffic lights, roadside chai stalls, aur unke reflection ke peeche chalti hui city. Arjun ne bag ki zipper kholi, andar se ek folded paper nikala. Woh resignation letter nahi tha. Woh ek list thi—chhoti si, messy handwriting mein.

1. Ghar pe maa se bina phone ke baat karni hai. 2. Apni health ko “baad mein” nahi rakhna. 3. Weekend pe kuch naya seekhna hai. 4. Kisi se bolna hai ki help chahiye. 5. Khud ko har waqt late, weak, ya behind feel karna band karna hai.

Usne list ko dekha aur phir pocket mein rakh liya. Kuch promises loud nahi hote. Kuch bas andar kahin seedhiyon par baith jaate hain, aur jab tak insaan ready na ho, tab tak chup rehte hain.

Next station par Meera utar gayi. Platform ke edge se pehle usne palatkar kaha, “Arjun, kal office mein agar boss phir se tumhe extra work de, toh ‘haan’ bolne se pehle ek second sochna. The world won’t end.”

“Tum kaafi dangerous advice deti ho,” Arjun ne kaha.

“Main bas practical hoon,” Meera boli, aur phir she smiled that small, steady smile which somehow felt like a window opening in a stuffy room.

Woh chali gayi, aur Arjun ne first time notice kiya ki Delhi ki evening mein bhi light hoti hai—sirf neon aur brake lights nahi, balki woh light jo kisi ke ek sahi sentence se kisi aur ke andar jalti hai.

Ghar pahunchkar maa ne darwaza khola aur seedha uske chehre ko dekha. “Aaj thoda halka lag raha hai,” unhone bola.

Arjun jhijhka, phir bag side mein rakhkar unke pair chhu liye. “Haan, Ma. Shayad main pehli baar thoda seedha chal ke aaya hoon.”

Maa ne uske sar par haath phiraya. “Toh theek hai. Daal thandi ho rahi hai. Aur haan, kal subah doctor ke paas chalenge. Tu bolta raha na ki neend nahi aa rahi.”

Arjun ne surprised hoke unhe dekha. “Aap—”

“Main maa hoon,” woh muskurayi, “and I notice things.”

Us raat, dinner table par, jis silence ne ghar ko mahino se bhar rakha tha, usmein pehli baar zyada jagah nahi thi. Chhoti-chhoti baatein thi—office ka lunch, aunty ki gossip, electricity bill, aur next Sunday ki market list. Normal, ordinary, boring cheezein. Lekin Arjun ko woh sab ek miracle jaisa laga.

Dinner ke baad usne apna phone uthaya. Boss ka missed call tha. Pehle jaisa hota, uska stomach tighten ho jaata. Par is baar usne sirf screen ko dekha, phir phone table par rakh diya. Kal jawab dega. Ya shayad kal bhi nahi. Pehli baar usne apne din ka ending kisi aur ke mood par nahi chhoda.

Woh balcony mein aaya. Neeche gali mein chaiwala cup dhokar stack kar raha tha, ek bachcha cycle seekh raha tha, aur door kisi ghar se TV ki awaaz aa rahi thi. Delhi, apni pure chaos aur tenderness ke saath, uske saamne phaili hui thi.

Arjun ne gehri saans li. Hawa mein ab bhi dhool thi, thoda exhaust, thoda rain ka promise. Par uske andar, kahin ek naya space ban gaya tha—jahan fear ke saath-saath possibility bhi reh sakti thi.

Usne pocket se folded list nikali, aur uske neeche ek naya line likha:

6. Khush rehna bhi ek skill hai.

Phir usne paper fold karke wapas rakh diya, jaise koi chhoti si amanat ho.

Neeche se maa ki awaaz aayi, “Arjun, chai peeyega?”

Woh muskuraya, balcony ka darwaza band kiya, aur andar chala gaya.

Khatam