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

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.

Posted on by Anamika

The traffic light

Pic credit: Unsplash

It was past 6 in the evening. I was returning home from college, riding pillion with my sister. Although my college gets over at 4pm already, I had to stay at my sister’s office for nearly 2 hours because apparently she suddenly got reminded of some important work that she had to finish before we could head home. After spending almost two hours with a poor WiFi I wasn’t certainly in a good mood but now that we were finally heading back home, I felt more relaxed. But, as we were moving, suddenly we had to stop and everyone around us had to stop too. The traffic light had just turned red.

Anytime after 5pm is basically people just rushing back to their homes after a day that can for one reason or another be deemed as stressful. I could see the irritated expression on everyone’s faces and feel the frustration in the air as the clock on the traffic light started counting backwards from 180 seconds. Amidst the same stressed, drained out of energy expression on almost everyone’s faces my eyes certainly stuck at one particular scene.

Besides us two bikes were standing, one in front of the other, and beside those bikes was a car. However what caught my attention was not the car but the people inside the car. There were two boys on the front seat and a girl and a boy on the backseat. They looked like college students almost the same age as me. The boys were all wearing suits. The girl was wearing a black dress. Black hair, a little longer than shoulder length. Although I could not see her face clearly, I just felt she might be pretty. However what stood out to me were her earrings. They did not match with her dress at all. To be precise she was wearing jhumka, one that someone would wear with a saree or salwar kurta. Their attires brought me to the conclusion that they were either returning from their freshers or farewell party. I was not able to see the boy’s face who was sitting with the girl. I could see the girl’s hair. They were facing eachother. Probably kissing.

Suddenly the girl backed off. She got a call. At the same time there was a knock on their car’s window. It was a beggar, with an empty bowl, trying to make a living out of the red traffic light. The girl rolled down the window, with her phone pressed to her ear with one hand, she answered the call, “hmm papa“. While trying to get some money out of her purse she answered again, “abhi college pe hi hai friends se mil le thoda tab nikalte hai” (still at the college, let me meet my friends then we’ll leave)

With a little bit confused face, as if trying to figure out what the other person was about to say, she said again, “abhi to Shrishti ke yaha jana hai. Usko kuch important kaam hai phir 8 baje tak pakka ghar. Wo apni car se chhod degi.” (Have to go to Shrishti’s place. She got some important work. Then I will be home by 8pm, promise. She will drop me home in her car)

“Ok. Bye. Love you.”

She cut the call. Gave a coin to the beggar. The boys who were sitting quietly till now, finally started speaking again. The one on the driver’s seat said something that made all of them laugh. The girl rolled up the window again with a little smile on her face.

She was most probably lying to her dad. Because the four lane intersection was definitely not her college. For a second I was taken back to my freshers party. Almost all of my classmates went to a club after the official college party was over, to have fun on their own. I didn’t. More like I couldn’t. I wanted to but for ‘some’ reasons which can qualify as ‘precautions to stay safe’, I couldn’t.

The uncle, sitting on his bike right beside us side eyed them. He was probably frowning, probably thinking,”what has happened to this generation?”

Suddenly the car started moving. Engines were on again. All the vehicles started moving. Countdown was over, the traffic light was green. The car was going straight while we had to turn right. As far as I could, my eyes followed the car, or to be honest, the girl. The last thing I saw was that, she was laughing. I don’t know the reason, but she had the most genuine laugh on her face. My heart felt happy.

Wherever she went after that, I just hope she returned home by 8pm, with the same genuine laugh on her face.

Posted on by Anamika

The Cage Between You & I

Pic cr: Pinterest

Hours, days and weeks went
what went along was content.
I heard frorm someone you decided my fate,
but did you notice, the concerned was out of debate.
I tried to peep to seek some light,
ended up in a tunnel with death inside.
Elation, celebration to buy a piece of me,
the stillness you saw, the breathing you won’ t see.
Snow White is lying cuffed and cut
with swollen eyes and tears of blood.
Years have passed living in remorse
But this year ‘s gift is even worse.
Now blinded and gagged Silence is
roaming around,
Oh! It’s the same Heaven you were
boasting about.
The quest for being one, far away lies,
And so are ‘You’ and ‘I’.