Posted on by Anamika

छठ और माँ

Pic credit: Pinterest

लाल, पीली, हरी, गुलाबी, नीली साड़ियों में सजी औरतें। घुटने तक पानी में हाथ जोड़े खड़े होकर, नाक से सिर तक नारंगी रंग का सिंदूर लगाए लगभग उसी रंग के सूरज के उगने का इंतज़ार कर रही थीं। फल-फूल, ठेकुआ से भरे सूप-दउरा और किसी भी त्योहार में अति-उत्साहित रहने वाले बच्चों के बीच घाट पर तिल रखने की भी जगह नहीं थी। जहां तक नज़र जाती, कोसी भरने के लिए बाँधे गए गन्नों के बीच लोग ही लोग नज़र आ रहे थे और दूर खड़ी एक गगनचुंबी इमारत जिसने संभवतः व्रतियों के 36 घंटे के उपवास को कुछ मिनट और बढ़ा दिया था।

उस इमारत पर एक बड़ा-सा बोर्ड लगा था। “डेंगू मलेरिया के साथ चांस लेंगे या ऑल आउट?” 

आग लगे उस मच्छर को जिसने मम्मी को काटा। खून बिना तड़प-तड़प कर मरे। जब से होश संभाला है ये सिर्फ दूसरी दफा था जब घर में छठ पूजा नहीं हुई क्योंकि मम्मी को डेंगू हो गया था। दूसरी दफा इसलिए क्योंकि पहली बार उस साल था जब छठ से कुछ ही दिन पहले नाना गुज़र गए थे। तब तो नाना के चले जाने का दुख इतना बड़ा था कि छठ कब आई और चली गई पता ही नहीं चला। लेकिन अब जब घर, छुट्टी और त्योहार पर्यायवाची हो चुके हैं घर में फलों का जमावड़ा न लगना, लौकी भात और खीर रोटी न बनना कुछ ज़्यादा ही खल रहा था। 

जैसे ही किसी को पता लगता है कि हमारे यहाँ छठ होती है उस व्यक्ति के मन में ढेर सारे सवाल आते हैं, जैसे कि, “ठेकुआ तो मिलेगा ना?”, “तुम लोग नाक से सिंदूर क्यों लगाते हो?”, और “तुम बिहारी हो क्या?” 

नहीं, हम यूपी से हैं। और हमारे यहाँ भी छठ मनाई जाती है। क्योंकि यूपी, बिहार, झारखंड होंगे 74, 112 और 24 साल पुराने लेकिन ये पर्व इतना पुराना है कि इसे सालों पहले ही प्राचीन की उपाधि दी जा चुकी है और त्योहार किसी राजनीतिक लकीर के मद्देनज़र नहीं मनाए जाते हैं। 

मुझे हमेशा लगता था कि मम्मी हमें खुश करने के लिए झूठ बोलती हैं जब वो कहती हैं कि छठ का व्रत अपने बच्चों के लिए रखा जाता है, पूरे परिवार की खुशहाली के लिए रखा जाता है, ना कि सिर्फ लड़कों के लिए। अगर ऐसा नहीं था तो मामा, चाचा, भैया सबके पैदा होने की, नौकरी लगने की मन्नतें क्यों मांगी गई थीं और मौसी, बुआ, दीदी और शायद मेरी भी सिर्फ शादी की। 

अपनी बात का प्रमाण देने के लिए मम्मी हमेशा शारदा सिंहा का वो गीत गा कर सुना देती थीं, “केलवा के पात पर उगेलन सुरुज मल झांके झुके”। गीत की आखिरी कुछ पंक्तियों में जब व्रती से पूछा जाता है कि वो छठ का व्रत किसके लिए कर रही है तो वो बताती है, “हमरो जे बेटी कवन ऐसी बेटीया से उनके लागी।” शारदा सिंहा अब नहीं रहीं लेकिन इस बार भी जब ये विवाद उठा तो मम्मी ने उनके गीतों के माध्यम से अपनी बात साबित की। 

छठ क्यों मनाई जाती है इस बात से कभी कुछ खास फ़र्क पड़ा नहीं क्योंकि मन्नत त्योहार का एक छोटा सा हिस्सा होती है। लोग दिवाली की पूजा भी धन प्राप्ति के लिए करते हैं लेकिन मन में उत्साह नए कपड़े, मिठाइयां और जगमगाते दियों के लिए होता है।

वो उत्साह मम्मी ने देखा होगा हमारी आंखों में जब हम अपनी नौकरियों से छुट्टी लेकर घर पर बैठे थे और उनके गिरते हुए प्लेटलेट्स को बढ़ाने की तरकीबें सोच रहे थे। “ठीक हो गइल बानी अब भूख जा तानी,” उन्होंने पपीते के पत्ते के कड़वे रस को किसी तरह अपने गले से नीचे उतारते हुए बोला। इस औरत के शरीर में 60 हज़ार प्लेटलेट्स बची हैं, हीमोग्लोबिन की कमी है और लाल चकतों ने हाथ, मुंह और पैर को घेर रखा है फिर भी ये व्रत रखने को तैयार है सिर्फ अपने बच्चों की खुशी के लिए। 

हमने अपनी माँओं पर कुछ ज़्यादा ही बोझ डाल रखा है सबकी खुशियों के बारे में सोचने का। वरना ऐसा नहीं है कि छठ सिर्फ औरतें करती हैं, मर्द भी करते हैं। सालों पहले देखा था जब गाँव के पोखर में, कोहरे से ढकी सुबह में, हाथ में सूप लिए, पीले रंग की धोतियां पहने पाँचों नाना उगते सूर्य को अर्घ्य दे रहे थे। छठ के समय कोहरा, पोखर में पानी और अर्घ्य देते हुए आदमी अब विरले ही दिखते हैं।

इस सारी उथल पुथल के बीच यह भी याद आया कि बात सिर्फ किसी बीमारी की नहीं है। माँ अब लगभग 60 साल की हो चुकी हैं। आखिर कितने दिन और हम दूसरे शहर से अपने बसता बाँध कर छठ मनाने आएंगे? विदेशों में बसे हुए यूपी, बिहार के लोगों और इंस्टाग्राम रील्स के माध्यम से छठ तो हर घर में पहुंच गई, लेकिन उन घरों में छठ की क्या विरासत होगी जहाँ के बच्चे शहरों के हिसाब से कुछ ज़्यादा देहाती और देहात के हिसाब से कुछ ज़्यादा शहरी हो गए हैं? 

Posted on by Anamika

Girl in the mirror

Pic credit: Pinterest

I am so proud of her
The way she is holding up
By herself, gulping it all
Like poison in a silver cup.

The falls, the jumps, the heartbreaks
Sewed her pillow with jewels
Cause no shoulder was worthy enough
Of the tears that could fill pools.

Pitying yourself is the worst
Asking what led to this hell
She picked up others from the mud
Failed to get up when herself fell.

Even when on the ground
The passerine loved the sky
A broken bone and dirty skirt
She stood up again for another flight.

To hide the ugly swollen eyes
She adorned her face with a smile
The loveliest faces are always those
Getting eaten away from inside.

‘Just another 24 hours’
She imitated from behind the mirror
Oh! I am so proud of her
My sweet little silly dreamer.

Posted on by Anamika

The road taken and the consequences

Pic Credit: Pexels

Its a never ending battle. It’s not even a battle actually for it never makes you extremely scared, not for your life, not anything else. It just suffocates you. It’s so difficult to know things expecially about yourself. Other people can tell you about themselves but who is gonna tell you about yourself? What do you want to be in life? Why is it even necessary to be something? For money? For passion?

Who knows and honestly no one cares. It’s actually crazy to me how our interests keep changing over time.

Remember deciding your profession solely based on the last movie you watched? If you loved the movie, then, for sure you wanted to take up whatever profession the lead character was in.

You realise your skills by the time you reach High School and then leave behind your fancy dreams. Then comes the realisation of competition in this world and the pressure from your parents. That makes you drop some dreams. And finally, ‘money’, the most ‘important’ aspect of life. After all, what is the point of being in a profession, though your favourite, that doesn’t fill your stomach?

It’s almost like life gets narrower as you grow old. Fewer dreams, fewer friends, fewer expectations.

There is a funny part to all of this as well. You won’t find out till you actually step into it. If you think that you can decide what you want to be in life in a day by just sitting and thinking about it, you are wrong. You will have to pick up a path. It can even be the path that ‘Robert Frost’ did not take, but you must walk. You will feel like wasting your time or might actually enjoy it, but the point is, you won’t find out till you actually do one thing or the other.

It’s time taking for sure or euphemistically speaking, demands patience and is heavily dependent on the ‘Its never too late’ concept.
And you know what, it’s extremely difficult to even try to end a piece of writing on a positive note when your soul itself is confused and still figuring things out. But, I am glad that atleast I am walking whether it is the right or the wrong path.

Posted on by Anamika

Womanhood

Pic credit: VectorStock

“A mother, a daughter, a sister”
Today a copy paste for all your tweets.
What about the one born on streets?
With fragile relations and nothing to eat.

The pilot the doctor the sweeper the engineer,
The ‘undignified’ prostitute and the unpaid housewife.
The model on the ramp is as much a women
As the uniform bearer who prefers nation over life.

A pair of breasts, a uterus, a vagina
Now..before you say haww and bow down your heads,
Let me also talk about period blood
Because I know, no will care after Women’s Day ends.

Black, white and all the shades of brown,
The one who was humiliated for her weight.
Reminded of being a “woman” since birth
As if it is a thing to forget.

The beautiful, caring and loving one
A “sacrificial goat”, that toes your line.
Yes we are affectionate by nature,
but who is an ideal woman?
The crowd doesn’t decide, the crowd doesn’t define.

The one who bears a child, the one who cannot,
The one who was born a woman the one who feels like a woman,
The lesbian the straight the bisexual the queer
We don’t settle for the moon, we chase the boundless sky my dear.
And as vast as the sky, that, is womanhood my dear.
That, is womanhood my dear.

Posted on by Anamika

IT’S NOT MOTHER’S DAY

Pic credit: Clipart Library

It’s not Mother’s day, still I feel like writing about my mother. When was the last time I wanted to write something about her? Like the urge to let out everything on paper, or type it, when you witness something unusual or just a beautiful experience like- first love. Honestly, never. Twenty one years of my life and the only time I wrote something for my mother was a poem on ‘Mother’s Day, because I had to post it on my newly created blogging account. You know Mother’s Day tags are very popular on social media and help you gain followers. That’s all my selfish self thought about while writing that poem.

But right now, all I am seeing beyond the roof of my train, taking me on a new life journey, is my mother’s face waving me good bye. That’s the face she makes when she is scared, when she is praying for everything to be alright and that’s the face she makes when she is trying to hold her tears in. She probably cried after I left.

How strange are mothers, how indecipherable. Is womanhood related to motherhood? And why is the relationship between a daughter and mother so complicated? These questions have been on my mind for a few days now. I remember reading Anne Frank’s ‘ The Diary of a Young Girl’ in 10th standard and as a teenager, feeling connected with everything Anne wrote about the incompatible and dissimilar personalities of her and her mother. It felt relatable to me, as me and my mother also have totally different personalities. I believe almost every teenage girl must have felt connected to Anne Frank’s emotions because at that age it is normal to feel hostile towards anyone becoming a hindrance to your freedom or atleast what you perceive to be freedom. Especially in the case of women, when, as a girl, you see your mother at the same place as you in the patriarchal society, you expect her to stand by you in every situation that makes you feel discriminated as a woman. But the generation gap is too big to let your mother think the way you do. She has already accepted the position, the role assigned to her in this society, regardless of how unfair it may be. Thus, the disappointed following your expectations not being met is what leads to conflicts in relationship.

It feels so strange that I don’t even want to mention what the new journey is, that I talked about earlier. It really doesn’t matter. All I am thinking right now is how my mother, who hates walking beyond our residential colony, walked herself to the market, which is around a kilometre away from our house, just because she wanted to buy something for me. Something bought from her own money that she had saved, something, just something from her side. It’s always the littlest things that she does which makes me emotional.

This is probably the messiest blog I have written till date. Some people might even ask why am I being so dramatic at the big age of 21? But I just couldn’t help. I had to write it down, I had to let it out. Just like, now that I am in the train, far away from my mother’s sight, I can finally stop choking on my tears, and let them freely roll down my cheeks.

Posted on by Anamika · 1 Comment

A letter for help

Pic source: Google

It’s her third letter in a week
The cries are getting louder, I’m scared to have a peek.
I can see the letters bold behind drops of tears,
They are mine they are hers, they stink of fear.
Every now and then she reaches out her hand,
Wanting to be pulled out before meeting the dead-end.
The numbness has started to fill in her body
Is it a graveyard? Is she a dead body?

I’m trying to remember when did it started
Did I ignored, joked around or sincerely responded?
But I’m fine, neither dead nor dying,
About to grab her hand only to find a thousand chains tying.
How do I break it how does it shatter
Who is dragging me down, is it me, is it her?
I realised, even her stillness is better than my  vehemence
Breathes make you drown, corpses just float seamless.

But it’s not the final call yet
I am here till the sun sets.
Whatever it takes to break the chains,
My fatigue should not put her efforts in vain.
Till the letters stop bringing in cries
I’m using my breath to keep her alive.