PEENGH 3-

The word sits uncomfortably on my tongue but the meaning and the feeling is not strange. It is familiar, like a long-lost relative who just arrived unannounced and dragged a seat at the family table. Peengh, the word which speaks of unabashed joy, unfettered freedom and a laugh which rolls out from deep within.

Chaliye, ek kahani sunati hoon, hopefully describing the feeling. That feeling of unabashed , unashamed khula hua joy.

Raagini, that was the name given to Pt. OmkarNath Sharma’s granddaughter. Raagini, because when she arrived, he says, she was crying in perfect rhythm. ‘Na ek sur upar… na ek sur neeche. Bas pancham mein awaaz gunj gayi uski.” The family of Pt. Omkar Nath Sharma was well known…too well known, throughout India. He , his older son , Pt. Dina Nath Sharma, His younger son, Alok Nath Sharma, his 17 year old grandson, Raj Sharma were a formidable team of singers, musicians and song writers. And the women?

What about them? Arrey, there must be women in the house and I am sure they must be equally talented. Aha!! I see. You mean that I should have introduced the women too. Hmmm…my bad. Chaliye, milte hain, iss khandaan ke other half se. Better or not, kehna mushkil hai, because the women in this house have never stepped out of the courtyard. The big fat haveli with that big ornate gateway and that little tiny inside gate have never been opened for them. They are talented. No mistake, otherwise the Nath Sharma family would never have got them here, into the haveli. But…kya hai na, unki shaadi ho gayi hai. Bas yahi galti hui hai. Sabhi ne shaadi to kar li aur apne muhn par apni talent par ek big fat lock laga diya. Harrison ka…jo toote se bhi na toote. Vo wala.

The grandmother of the house, Sita Devi,used to play the sitar, now she just plays the role of the matriarch. Guardian of Parampara, pratistha aur Sanskaar. And the sanskaar says, no woman, however talented, will step out and show the world what she can do. Raagini was born with dance in her blood and rebellion in her heart. The only way to silence her crying was to play a tune on the flute or a thaap on the tabla. She would be mesmerized. Her eyes would dart here and there as her legs moved in perfect sync with the music. Her mother Swara watched silently. She knew exactly what awaited her daughter. Because once upon a time, Swara too had carried music inside her.

Years passed. Raagini grew, and so did her love for movement. Whenever riyaaz echoed through the haveli, her body responded before her mind did. Hands swayed, feet tapped, eyes sparkled.

Her father had warned them many times. “Dekho, hamare ghar ki betiyan naachti nahin hain. Us se kaho ki vo padhai par aur ghar ke kaam kaaz mein dhyan de. Ye sab seekh kar bahar tamasha banana hai, kya?” shayad Tamasha hi banana hai but Raagini khud ko rok nahin paati thi. So, ab, Kya?

Raagini would ask her mom everyday, “Ma, I want to learn dance. Pleas ma, tell Baba.” But Swara was silent. She knew the answer. She knew the pain of seeing her talent receive no recognition only derision.

That night at dinner, Raagini gathered all her courage and then when everyone, meaning the male members were seated and served, she spoke to her grandfather, “Dadu, main Dance sikhna chahti hoon. Please mujhe allow karein.” The silence was deafening. Raj, her brother looked up and smirked. Sita Devi, looked thunderous. No one said anything. Pt. Omkar Nath Sharma lowered his hand and raised his eyes. He looked at Raagini very closely. The fact that Raagini swayed to music was not hidden from him yet…He took a deep breath and said, “Ghar par sikho, bahar tak awaz nahin aani chahiye”. What just happened? Everyone was shocked but the verdict was given. Swara looked down with a smile as Raagini crowed, “Thank you Dadu… thank you”.

So came Pt. Jamna Lal to the household and Raagini’s classes started on the terrace, away from the main living rooms and baithak, away from the others in the house. The sound of ghungroo, the thaap of the table, tukras, paltas, tatkar, chakkar…slowly echoed in the lazy afternoons and the women of the house climbed up the stairs to sit and watch Raagini weave magic on the hot terrace. Sometimes Sita Devi hummed a forgotten tune, Swara spoke a half remembered bandish, “bat chalat nayi chuniri rang daari, aiso hatilo Sham murari…” slowly, the terrace became a stage, a hidden stage. A secret peengh where locked-away dreams finally began to sway freely.

Then came a day when Pandit ji said, “Raagini, you are ready. You should show your talent to the world.” Raagini was stunned as were the women on the terrace. There was silence and then Raagini slowly shook her head, “Nahin, pandit ji, hamari ghar ki auratein bahar apna hunar nahin dikhati.” Pandit ji was sad but he said, “Beta, yahin to tumhari pariksha hai. When you step on the stage, its not just you. It will be every woman of this house who has locked up her wish, her dreams and her talent. You have to show the men in your family that talent is given to all and your dance will not destroy the family , it will enhance their glory. Think about it, please.”

The women all stood in the corner looking at Raagini. Swara wished that she could gather her daughter in her arms and hold her tight as she broke her dreams but then clouds gathered, a lovely soft breeze began to blow and the madhumalati over the rails blew a cloud of fragrant flowers across the terrace. The winds changed and Sita Devi spoke, “Raagini, tum nachogi. Apne liye aur hamare liye. Hum sab tumhein us stage par ghungroo ke saath apni hunar ki pehchaan dete dekhna chahte hain aur ab tum akele nahin, hum sab tumhare saath rahenge.” Raagini was taken aback, “Aap …mere liye….Dadu ke khilaf…Dadi…kya vakei!” Sita Devi smiled, “Nahin beta, not just for you. Ab to ye hamari pehchaan ke liye bhi hai.” A burst of energy just ran around the women standing there. It felt as if assman jhook gaya, dharti naach uthi aur jaise pura sansaar ek saath ek lambi saans le raha ho. Jaise sab ki dhadkane ek saath, ek taal pe, akash nad ki tarah baj uthi ho.

Phir kya, phir aya exam ka din. Rajrang Auditorium mein programme. Everyone was invited. Men, obviously. So sabhi guni jan tayyar ho kar pahunch gaye. The exalted family of Pt. OmkarNath Sharma was seated in the first row. Parda utha, saamne stage par ek spotlight. Ek nartaki, phir Dheere se aur spotlights jisne stage ko jagmaga diya aur jo andhere mein chuppe the, unhein Roshni mein utar diya. “Huh”, Pt. Dina Nath Sharma, Alok Nath Sharma aur Raj Sharma thoda jhuke aur phir sunnn ho gaye. Sita Devi touched the strings of the Sitar and the first note trembled and swept around the audience. Swara  adjusted the mike and the first strains of the allaap began as Raagini turned and struck her feet thupp on the satge. Ghungroo  chehak uthe aur ek saath baj uthe as she turned in a graceful chakkar and became one with the dance.

The family was flabbergasted but the audience ….aha…aisa annad… aisi gayaki…aisa abhinaya…aha…adbhut. As the dance ended and Raagini stood breathless, the audience was silent and then unleashed a tsunami of claps and cheers. People saluted the artistry , the magic of the artists. “Pandit ji, aaj tak humne aapko suna tha. Kya maloom tha ki aisi adbut kala aapke ghar mein chupi hui hai. Hum to Ganga nahaye aisi kala dekh kar. Aapke Parivar ko shat shat pranaam.” Pandit ji was shocked. Even he had not thought that which he had locked up was so big and beautiful. He felt small…literally small as he looked at his wife of decades and her glowing face as she stroked her sitar and blew a kiss to her granddaughter. He understood that maybe it was the fear that she could easily overwhelm him that made him lock her talent up but now as the audience cheered them , he realized his pratistha had increased a thousand fold.

Today, if you visit the haveli, you will find music, dance and rhythm flowing from each corner of the house. Sahi kehta hain, hunar ko chupaya nahi ja sakta, na usse pinjare mein band kar ke rakha ja sakta hai. Vo to khusbbo hai, phalegi zaroor thik usi tarah jis tarah jhula asman choo hi leta hai. Bas ek dhakke ki zaroorat hoti hai aur vo kitni zor se lagana hai, vo to aap hi jano.

 

PEENGH

The word is unfamiliar, but the feeling is not.

In the north, where wheat bends under a wide blue sky, they call it Peengh.
Where I come from, where the rice bows low and heavy, it is Doli.

Different words. Same rhythm.
Up. Down. Rise. Fall.

Let’s call it a swing. A jhula.

In the courtyard of a sprawling haveli by the river stood a mango tree.
Old even then. Generous with shade. Home to a koel that announced every morning before the sun fully arrived.

And from one of its highest branches hung a swing.
Nothing grand—just a wooden plank and two thick ropes.

But it held the sky.

Every morning, children ran to it.
Every evening, the courtyard filled with the sound of laughter that refused to stay contained.

She was always the highest.

Dupatta flying, head thrown back, feet kicking against the wind as if she could outrun the earth itself.

Then one day, the swing was empty.

“Chalo, chalo, move away!” the gardener waved the children off.
The haveli was being dressed up.

The daughter of the house was getting married.

The same girl who once flew on the swing now sat still for hours.
Hands painted. Eyes lowered. Movements measured.

Somewhere, without saying it aloud, she knew—

something had ended.

Time, as it does, moved on without asking anyone.

The haveli aged.
The paint dulled.
The gates stayed closed longer than they opened.

The swing frayed.
The tree bent a little more each year.

The children grew into people with places to be, voices to soften, laughter to edit.

And then—Teej.

As if remembering itself, the house woke up.

The tree straightened.
The swing was restrung—strong ropes, polished wood.
The air filled with dholak beats, mehendi-darkened hands, songs that were bold and just a little wicked.

Women climbed onto the swing—hesitant at first, then not.

Heels kicked off.
Heads tilted back.
Laughter—full, throaty, unapologetic—rose again.

For a day, the world loosened its grip.

And then—it tightened again.

She returned.

Not as a bride.

Not as a daughter visiting.

But as something people did not know where to place.

She stayed inside.

The anklets were gone.
The vermilion had been wiped clean.
Her hands—empty.

“Not a widow,” they whispered.
“Something else.”

That word travelled faster than truth ever does.

No one asked her what had happened.

No one saw the night she stood outside her own door.
No one heard the sound of something inside her breaking—not loudly, just enough.

No one noticed how she stopped finishing her sentences.

The call came too late.

By the time her father reached her, she was smaller than he remembered.
As if she had been folded into herself.

The doctor spoke in low, careful tones.
Words like loss.
Words like damage.
Words that do not leave once they enter a room.

Her father stood there, holding her hand, searching her face.

Not for answers.

For the child who used to wait by his desk with a drawing in hand.
For the girl who trusted the world because he told her it was safe.

He did not find her.

Her mother did not weep.

She stood very still. Then she said, quietly but without tremor—

“We are taking her home.”

That was all.

But something shifted.

Back in the haveli, doors opened again.

Not to guests.
To air.

The father stood at the threshold of her room more often than he sat.
As if guarding not just her—but the time he could not return.

They did not speak of what had happened.

But they did not pretend it hadn’t.

Days passed.

Then one afternoon, the sky changed.

Heavy. Waiting.
The kind of stillness that comes before rain breaks everything open.

The wind arrived first.

Not gently.

It pushed through windows, lifted curtains, unsettled the quiet that had settled too comfortably.

It moved through her room like it remembered her.

Come.

She looked out.

The mango tree swayed—not tired now, not defeated.

Alive.

The swing moved.

Not much. Just enough.

Waiting.

She stepped out.

Slowly at first.
Then faster.

The ground was warm beneath her feet. The air thick.

The first drop fell.

Then another.

By the time she reached the swing, the sky had given in.

She sat.

Held the ropes.

For a moment, she did nothing.

Then—

she pushed.

Once.

Again.

Higher.

The rain soaked through her clothes, her hair, her skin.
The wood was slick beneath her hands.

The swing rose.

The world tilted.

And something inside her—something that had been held down, pressed flat, silenced—

rose with it.

Her feet kicked the air.

Her head fell back.

And then—

she laughed.

Not carefully.

Not softly.

But fully.

The kind of laughter that does not care who is listening.

 

Thunder answered.

The wind wrapped around her.

The tree held.

On the verandah, her parents stood still.

They did not call her back.

Higher.

The past did not disappear.

But it loosened its grip.

For the second there,
she was not what had been done to her.

She was not what had been taken.

She was not what they had named her.

 

She was movement.

Breath.

Sky.

 

The swing soared.

And this time—

she did not hold back.

 

 

DHOLA AUR MARU

रेगिस्तान की रेतों में, इक प्रेम कहानी बसी थी,

ढोला नाम का राजकुमार, मारू रानी की हँसी थी।

 

बालपन में बंधा था बंधन, दो दिलों का मेल हुआ,

पर समय की चाल में, प्रेम का संदेश ही धुंधला हुआ।

 

मारू बैठी पाली में, ढोला दूर नरवर में था,

संदेशों की राहें बंद थीं, मन में प्रेम मगर गहरा था।

 

हर दिन वो ऊँटों से पूछे, “क्या ढोला आएगा?”

हर साँझ वो तारे गिनती, “क्या संदेशा लाएगा?”

 

ढोला को थी दूसरी रानी, मालवणी नाम सुहानी,

वो प्रेम में डूबा था, भूला अपनी बचपन की कहानी।

 

मारू ने भेजे संदेश कई, साधु बन कर आए कई,

पर मालवणी ने रोके सब, प्रेम की राहें हुईं कठिनाई।

 

एक दिन साधु ने चाल चली, गीतों में प्रेम जगाया,

ढोला का दिल फिर जागा, उसने मारू को अपनाया।

 

ऊँटों पर सवार हुए दोनों, रेगिस्तान की राह चली,

मालवणी ने भेजे सैनिक, प्रेम की राह फिर मुश्किल हुई।

 

मारू ने वीणा उठाई, स्वर में जादू बिखेरा,

सैनिकों के मन को छू लिया, प्रेम ने फिर से घेरा।

 

ढोला-मारू संग चले, रेतों में प्रेम की छाया,

राजस्थान की धरती ने, फिर अमर गाथा गाया।

 

आज भी जब ऊँट चले, रेतों में गीत सुनाई दे,

ढोला-मारू की प्रेम कथा, हर दिल को छू जाए रे।

 

Flying High

The joy of running with the wind in your hair,

Of endless circling with hands outstretched

Of feeling as if the wind picked you up

And flung you right into the clouds

Of dancing barefoot in puddles

Making the world shake with your laugh

Of knowing that there will be hands to

Catch you and guide you to the ground.

Knowing that I can fly high in the sky,

Yet my string is in safe hands

Connected to the ground , yet free.

 ADVENTURE WITH GRANDMA

My grandmother, like all grandmothers, is old. Very old. She has white hair and wrinkles. When she laughs, her eyes disappear into the wrinkles. One minute here and the next gone!! Her lap is the softest and I can just curl up and sleep there for ages, soothed with her worn, callused yet soft hands at my brow. She is always dressed in shades of white with a huge dot of red on her forehead. I have never seen her idle. Her hands are always busy. Busy with making the perfect pitha, grinding rice and dal in that terribly heavy stone and mortar. I swear that thing weighs a ton. She says that she got it on her back from her village to Grandpa’s village. Really!!! I am not sure if she is serious or just joking with me. When I was small, I loved sleeping cuddled up with her. She has a lovely fragrance, a fragrance that holds me safe and loved. Who would have thought this gentle old lady was a firebrand during the freedom struggle. This is her story.

Yashoda Devi, the eldest daughter of the Zamindar of Baligaon. Yashoda Devi was just 10 years old when her marriage was fixed with a demure, young, teacher from Cuttuck. He was Baidyanath, who had come to Baligaon as a teacher at the village school. Zamindar Babu was charmed by the young man's wit and intelligence. “He will be perfect for my eldest daughter,” he thought and called him to the main house. “Baidyanath, I would like to meet your parents. Write to them and tell them I will come to Cuttuck in a week. I am thinking of marrying my daughter to you. Do you have any problem with that?”

“Your great grandfather could be very decisive. It was all decided before anyone could even blink. I was married but nothing really changed. I was still in my parents house and your grandfather was now working in Cuttuck. My father wanted me to finish my schooling so we came to Bhubaneshwar. My father had set up the house there and the school was nearby. My second sister and I were to be schooled.”

“Did you go then, Aai?” I asked. I could not imagine her going to school with a school bag, “ and did you wear a uniform, like I do?” I was very curious. My grandmother shook with silent laughter. “Ah no no. No uniform. We used to wear half sarees but I did not go to school. It was a missionary school and they were very strict. I felt very patriotic at refusing to study angrezi but now I wish I had at least studied the language.”

“Anyways, our house in Bhubaneshwar was a big rambling one. It had so many rooms and passages. Half of the house was quite abandoned. My father was always busy but our mother stayed with us. We had servants to help us in the house. Our tutor used to come home to teach us.” She paused to make a pan from her pandan. There was a process in preparing the pan and her fingers moved elegantly as she wiped the pan and cut slivers of areca nut. “It was a time of great chaos and upheaval. Everywhere was a cry for freedom and everyone was affected by it. We had no sense of the urgency but one day it was brought to us quite suddenly and with clarity. That day, Masterji had gone back early. My mother and I were looking over some patterns for embroidery, when we heard knocking. The servants were in the kitchen and in the back rooms so I went to see who it was”.

My grandfather had come in at that time and was listening to her, with a smile on his lips. She looked at him and said, “I had never thought that I would see your grandfather in such conditions. Though we were married, we still had to start living together so it was a shock to see him standing there with another person who was shot in the shoulder. He just nodded at me and asked me to quickly close the door and help him with his friend. I was standing there with my jaw hanging open. My mother shut the door with a snap. She quickly brought medical supplies.There in the closed room my mother and I treated the wounded man.”

She picked up a hand held fan and waved it about. “After first aid, we took him to a room at the very back of the house. It was rarely visited by anyone. There, we fashioned a bed for him. I went to the kitchen and feigned hunger. Maharaj ji grumbled but I was his favourite so he quickly made me some food. I ran back to the room with food and water. Your grandfather’s friend was unconscious but he was very hungry. I have not seen any person wolf down food so fast.”

“Arrey, I had been hungry for the two days. We were travelling at night and had to stay hidden at night. The police were on the look-out for us. There was only one place I knew where we would be safe.”

My Grandma continued with the story,“My mother was always careful. She sent for her trusted servant and asked him to contact my father. Meanwhile, we were not aware of what was happening outside. I just couldn’t concentrate on my studies. Then a few days after the incident, my sister and I were coming back from the market and we were stopped at the checkpost. The police asked our driver all sorts of questions. I kept my ears open and thus I learned that there was a notice against your grandfather and a reward for his capture.”

“What happened then?Was Grandpa captured?” I asked with my heart in my mouth. “No”, said Grandma, “All thanks to me. I came back and told your Grandpa how the police were searching for him. He was troubled as he had been planning to go out that night with important letters to his compatriots.” “Then, what happened?” I asked. The story was at its most suspenseful best. My grandma said, “Nothing happened. I told grandpa that I would help him with the letters but I had no idea how.”

“Then how did you help?”I asked. Grandma looked at me and said, “I will tell you later. Now it is dinner time and I still have to cook. Tell me, what will you eat? Rice, dal and fish fry or Chakuli pitha with dal.”

“Aai, that’s not fair. I want to know what happened”. I said and I am sure even you are interested but Aai… she will not say anything now. Hopefully, after dinner, I can ask her to continue the story. Till then, hold on to patience as I am holding on.                 

So, where were we? Ah, I remember now. Nani had stopped the story right at the moment it reached a fascinating twist—and for what? For dinner! Well, after dinner, we were all sitting out on the terrace. Nana and Nani owned a lovely little house in Puri, where all of us—siblings, uncles, and aunts—would gather during every vacation. That night, just as always, soft mattresses were laid out across the terrace in a neat, geometric pattern. Nana had lit lanterns and candles all around, casting a gentle glow over everything. My siblings and I were already tucked into our beds, snuggling deep within the warm, soft sheets. “Nani, Nani! You simply *must* finish telling us the story. None of us will get a wink of sleep without it. Come on, Nani—come sit right here in the very center, and we’ll all listen to you. Everyone, quiet down—if you want to find out what happens next!”

“Aha! Someone seems very impatient. Alright then. So, where was I? Hmm... Yes—I had told your Nana that I would help him, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out *how* to go about it. I was feeling quite anxious, too. If the police were conducting checks on every single road, how could anyone possibly venture outside—and with such crucial letters in hand, no less?”

Nani gently stroked my head and continued, “The very next morning, I was sitting by the kitchen window, peeling potatoes. My mother was quite strict about us learning every aspect of running a household; it was considered our duty to assist the cook and the other staff with the meal preparations. Anyway, I happened to spot Tikuni—our local fisherwoman—who had come by to sell her catch. She lived in the Nuari Sahi neighborhood and helped her father with the fishing and selling. She was dressed in her traditional fisherwoman’s sari, and a pungent, fishy odor was wafting strongly from her basket. But that very smell—that gave me an idea.” “I ran to meet her and asked if she would help me play a prank on someone.” “Play a prank on someone?” I asked. “But weren't you supposed to be helping Nana? You wanted to tease *him*.” I just couldn't make sense of it. Our parents were listening in as well, and they burst out laughing. Nana said, “Have patience, child. The story isn't over yet.” “Oh, obviously, I couldn't tell her the *real* plan. Anyway, she agreed. I asked her to bring an extra basket of fish, my old sari, and some soot the following night. I promised that once the job was done, I would give her a new sari and a silver nose ring; then, I quickly went off to tell your Nana to be ready with all the letters. He was a whole other headache. ‘What will you do? How will you manage? Who else is going with you?’ Pfft! So many questions, and not a single useful one among them.”

Nana interjected, “Oh, I was worried about you! I know you all too well. You’d jump off a cliff without a second thought.” “Ha! As if *you* know everything,” Nani retorted. “That night, after everyone had finished eating and gone to sleep, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed into the back room. There, your Grandpa was already waiting, ready with his papers. Then, we quietly made our way to the back door, where I had arranged to meet Tikuni. She was there, looking utterly bewildered and anxious. She had with her some baskets of fish and an old, tattered sari. I took the sari, stepped behind the door, and quickly put it on. Tikuni helped me; then, I took some soot from the lantern and smeared it over my face, hands, and feet. I stepped out from behind the door, and…” Nani burst into loud laughter. “Your Grandpa looked at me, and his jaw dropped. I looked completely different. Your Grandpa insisted that he would come along, too. Oh! That man. He was always so stubborn. So, I told him that he had better disguise himself as well.”

“No, you actually said, ‘If the police catch you, I’ll claim I don’t know you at all!’” Grandpa interjected. “Yes, I did say that. I didn’t want him to take the risk—but does he ever listen to a word I say? Anyway, the three of us slipped out of the house. I can’t even tell you—my heart was pounding so hard! I felt as though the police would be able to hear it from a hundred kilometers away.” Grandpa now took up the thread of the story: “We reached the main square. The house we were heading to was located in a lane just off the square, but right across from the square itself, there was a heavy police presence. We paused in the shadows of the Rajmahal Hotel. I told your *Ai* to go back with Tikuni, but your *Ai* never listens to anyone. She simply shook off my hand and calmly walked straight toward the barricade. Tikuni and I hurried after her. A burly policeman was stationed at the barricade. He asked who she was and what she was doing there.” Nana looked at Nani affectionately and said, “I have never seen such a brave girl. Your mother told the policeman—in the authentic dialect of the fishermen—that she was on her way to sell fish to Bankim Babu, who lives just past the main square, near the water tank. The policeman insisted that he had to inspect her basket. I swear, I was trembling. The letters were tucked beneath the fish, inside an oilskin envelope. If they had overturned the basket, it would have been the end of us. Your mother calmly handed over the basket, and that brute tipped it out. All the fish—along with the foul-smelling nets—came tumbling down onto the policeman’s gleaming shoes. Then, your mother began to scream at the top of her lungs, cursing the man and wailing that he had ruined her fish; she demanded to know what she was supposed to sell now, where she would get the money, and how she would afford medicines for her father. Tikuni and I were left completely stunned, but then Tikuni, too, burst into tears and began to scream. The policeman was left utterly shell-shocked. He quickly told your mother to gather up her fish.”

“And the barricade was opened. We all stepped out through the gate. Your *Ai* was still screaming, weeping, and cursing. We ran down the lane alongside her, and there, she collapsed in a fit of laughter. It had all been an act—and the policeman had fallen right into the trap. That was when I realized that your *Ai* was the bravest and cleverest person of all.”

Nani simply crinkled her nose and remarked, “As if you would have succeeded without me!” “But *Ai*, where were the letters? He had overturned your basket, so where were they?” I asked. Everyone else was laughing, but I felt compelled to ask all the crucial questions.

Nani replied, “They were right there. The basket I was carrying was actually two baskets woven together as one. I had tucked the letters away inside the attached basket. That way, the letters were safe—hidden from prying eyes and protected even from the fishbones. We reached our destination, and the letters were handed over safely. Then, we headed back. Thankfully, the policeman had moved on, and the path was clear. We ran all the way back home and arrived before anyone could suspect a thing. The very next day, pamphlets and posters were plastered all across the city, and the police had absolutely no clue how it had happened.”

“Wow! You’re a total rockstar, *Ai*. Did you ever do something like that again? Did Tikuni help you out a second time?” I asked. I could hardly believe that my Nani had been so incredibly brave.

Nani smiled and said, “Yes, but that is a story for another day. Come along now; go to sleep. We have a very busy day ahead of us tomorrow.” Yes, tomorrow was going to be a magnificent day. Tomorrow—on the eve of our Republic Day—my maternal grandparents are to be honored at a special ceremony in Puri for their acts of bravery. Can you even imagine the hardships we endured to secure our freedom? Think of how many people, in so many different ways and with such immense courage, fought that battle for our independence. Now, it is our responsibility to safeguard this nation and lead it forward.

 

KHOJ

आज पूछा किसी ने खोज के बारे में बोलना है।

ऐसी कोई चीज जो तुम्हारी थी और खो गई हो।

जिसका पता तुम्हें था, पर अब नहीं हो।

ऐसी एक  दो या अनेकों चीजें जो समय के साथ खो गई हो।

बहुत समय से सोच रही थी कि हां मुझे बोलना है,

बताना है कि कुछ नहीं काफी कुछ खो गया है।

समय के साथ उन चीज़ों की यादें भी धुंधली हो चली हैं।

आज कुछ वक्त निकला है, चुप चाप सी दुपहरी में

वो बंद पड़े बक्से की चाबी उठायी है।

अभी तो बस बक्से को देख रही हूं।

हिम्मत जुटा रही हूं, पुराने ताले खोलने के लिए।

पता नहीं क्या कुछ मिलेगा, या शायद कुछ भी ना मिलेगा।

एक डर है मन में, उन चीज़ों को देख कर अपने आज से परेशान तो ना होंगी।

कल परसों की चीजें हैं, पुरानी सी पर अब भी लगती है कुछ अपनी सी।

देखो, क्या मिला

एक डायरी जिसमें कुछ लिखा है

पन्ने पलटे तो लगा वापस उसी मोड़ पर अपने आप को देख रही थी।

दो चुटिया बनाए, कलम को अपने दांतों में दबा

कुछ गहरी सोच और कुछ गहरी लाइनें

अरे देखो, एक ब्रश और छोटी छोटी पन्नों में काले पेंट से दूर पहाड़ बने हुए

ये भी है उस वक्त का जब हाथ में ब्रश या कलम आते ही, किताबों के किनारे पे उभर आती थी एक तस्वीर।

पुराने जर्द पड़े धागों में घुंघरू, कुछ टूटे हुए, कुछ अभी भी बजते हुए

पता नहीं, इस बकसे में कब बंद हो गए?

ये जो मेरी चीज़ थी

हम्म्म्म...खैर जाने दो, कुछ यादें उनकी बस रहने दो।

शायद फिर किसी दिन इनकी ज़रूरत पड़े

आज इन्हें यहीं फिर रहने दो.