Do Behnoon Ka Faisla — A Long Urdu Story

**Abwab ki Fehrist:**

1. Bab 1: Aadhi Raat ka Phone
2. Bab 2: Chhe Saal
3. Bab 3: Pehli Minnat
4. Bab 4: Phoolon Wala
5. Bab 5: Store Room ka Sandooq
6. Bab 6: Chai ki Dukaan
7. Bab 7: Diary ke Pehle Panne
8. Bab 8: Woh Khat
9. Bab 9: Do Behnoon ki Raat
10. Bab 10: Mahnoor ka Raaz
11. Bab 11: Barsaat aur Izhar
12. Bab 12: Haan
13. Bab 13: Pehli Barish ke Baad
14. Bab 14: Zoya ka Phone
15. Bab 15: Taimoor se Baat
16. Bab 16: Naya Mausam

Raat ke baara baj kar chalees minute par phone baja.

Andheri khamoshi mein woh awaz itni tez lagi jaise kisi ne sheesha tor diya ho. Farah ki aankh khul gayi. Pehle to samajh hi na aaya ke yeh khwab hai ya haqeeqat. Phir dobara ghanti baji — purane zamane wali, karkash si tring-tring — aur woh samajh gayi ke drawing room mein rakha landline baj raha hai.

Dil dhadakte hue woh bistar se uthi. Chaadar kandhon par li, nange paon thande farsh par chalti hui drawing room tak aayi. Khidki se Margalla ki pahadiyon ka saya nazar aa raha tha, chand ki halki roshni mein. Ghadi ki tik-tik ke siwa ghar mein koi awaz nahi thi.

Teesri ghanti par us ne receiver uthaya. “Hello?”

“Farah?” — Taimoor ki awaz. Thaki hui, door se aati hui, jaise samandar ke us paar se koi pukaar raha ho.

Untees saal ki Farah, is waqt raat ke libas mein, baal khule hue, aankhon mein neend aur dil mein ek ajeeb sa khauf liye khadi thi. “Taimoor? Khairiyat? Itni raat ko?”

“Wahan raat ke baara baj rahe honge,” Taimoor ne kaha. Dubai mein waqt ka farq — wahan abhi raat ke sirf… Farah ne hisaab lagaya, wahan aadhi raat bhi nahi hui thi. “Farah, suno. Mujhe… mujhe tumhein kuch batana tha.”

Farah ki ungliyan receiver par kas gayi. “Kya hua? Sab theek hai na?”

“Main theek hoon. Bas…” Ek lambi saans ki awaz aayi, hazaaron meel door se. “Woh jo maine kaha tha ke is mahine ke aakhir mein aaunga — chaar din ki chhutti le kar — woh nahi ho payega.”

Khamoshi. Farah ne khidki se bahar dekha. Chand badalon ke peeche chhup gaya tha.

“Project mein masla ho gaya hai,” Taimoor bolta raha, jaldi jaldi, jaise koi patti noch raha ho. “Client ne deadline aage kar di hai. Main nahi nikal sakta. Shayad… shayad December tak.”

“December,” Farah ne dohraya. Uski awaz mein koi shikayat nahi thi. Bas ek khaali pan.

“Mujhe maaf kar do. Main jaanta hoon tum intezar kar rahi thi.”

“Intezar?” Farah ne halka sa hansne ki koshish ki. “Chhe saal se intezar hi to kar rahi hoon, Taimoor. Ab aadat ho gayi hai.”

Yeh jumla us ke munh se nikal to gaya, lekin kehte hi usay afsos hua. Itna talkh kyun? Us ne narmi se kaha, “Mera matlab… koi baat nahi. Kaam pehle. Tum apna khayal rakhna.”

“Farah—”

“Haan?”

“Kuch nahi.” Phir, thoda ruk kar: “Tum theek ho na?”

“Bilkul theek.”

“Mahnoor kaisi hai?”

“Theek hai. Wohi, apne laptop mein ghusi rehti hai.”

“Usay mera salaam kehna. Aur…” Taimoor ruka. “Apna khayal rakhna. Khana waqt par khana.”

“Tum bhi.”

“Allah Hafiz.”

“Allah Hafiz.”

Phone kat gaya. Farah receiver haath mein liye khadi rahi. Phir aahista se usay wapas rakha. Drawing room ki khidki ke paas ja kar khadi ho gayi. Bahar hawa chal rahi thi — October ki hawa, thandi, khushk, pattay urati hui. Barish ka koi aasar nahi tha, lekin hawa mein wohi bechaini thi jo toofan se pehle hoti hai.

Us ne apne haathon ko dekha. Shaadi ki angoothi nahi pehni thi — sote waqt utar deti thi, kehti thi ungli sooj jati hai. Lekin sach yeh tha ke pichhle kuch mahinon se woh din mein bhi aksar bhool jati thi. Ya bhoolne ka bahana karti thi.

Us ne socha — aakhri khat kab aaya tha? Teen hafte pehle. Us ne use khola tak nahi tha. Woh ab bhi mez ki daraz mein para tha, band lifafe mein. Pehle woh khat aate hi phaad kar parhti thi. Ab… ab dar lagta tha. Dar is baat ka ke andar phir wahi khaali lafz honge — “umeed hai tum theek hogi” — aur woh phir toot jayegi.

“Chhe saal,” us ne sargoshi ki. “Chhe saalon mein main kya bani? Ek intezar karne wali aurat. Bas.”

Us ne khidki ka sheesha chhua — thanda tha. Bahar, door, Margalla ki pahadiyan so rahi theen. Us ne socha — pahad kitne khush-naseeb hain. Unhein kisi ka intezar nahi karna parta. Woh bas hain — mazboot, khamosh, apni jagah par.

“Kaash main pahad hoti,” us ne kaha, aur khud par hansi aayi — talkh si hansi.

Taimoor ke khat yaad aaye. Pehle woh likhta tha “meri Farah”. Ab likhta tha “umeed hai tum theek hogi”. Pehle khaton mein chhoti chhoti baatein hoti theen — aaj site par kya hua, kis mazdoor ne kya kahani sunayi. Ab sirf hisaab hota tha — paise bhej diye, Eid par kya bhejun, Amma ki barsi par kya karna hai. Jaise biwi se nahi, kisi zimmedari se baat kar raha ho.

“Apa?”

Farah chaunk gayi. Mahnoor darwaze par khadi thi — chhabbees saal ki, baal bikhre hue, aankhon mein neend. Us ne ek purani shawl odhi hui thi.

“Taimoor bhai ka phone tha?” us ne poocha.

“Haan.”

“Kya keh rahe thay?”

Farah ne khidki se nazar nahi hatayi. “Nahi aa rahe. Kaam nikal aaya.”

Mahnoor chand qadam aage aayi, behan ke paas khadi ho gayi. Dono ne bahar dekha — andheri pahadiyan, sust hawa.

“December ka keh rahe hain,” Farah ne kaha.

Mahnoor ne behan ka haath pakda. Us ka haath garam tha, Farah ka thanda. “Tum ro rahi ho?”

“Nahi.” Farah ne muskurane ki koshish ki. “Bas… neend kharab ho gayi.”

Lekin Mahnoor apni badi behan ko bachpan se jaanti thi. Us ne kuch nahi kaha. Bas haath daba diya.

Thodi der dono khamosh khadi rahi. Phir Mahnoor boli, halki si sharaarat se: “Acha hai na. Kal Imran aa raha hai. Ghar mein raunaq to hogi. Warna tum dono behnein aapas mein hi philosophy jhaadti rehti.”

Farah ne usay ghoor kar dekha, lekin honthon par halki muskurahat aa gayi. “So ja. Subah school hai.”

“Tum bhi so jao. Aur haan —” Mahnoor darwaze par ruk gayi. “December door nahi, Apa. Bas do mahine.”

“Do mahine,” Farah ne dohraya. “Haan.”

Lekin us ke dil mein ek awaz keh rahi thi: December mein bhi koi na aaya to?

Woh apne kamre mein wapas aayi, bistar par let gayi, chhat ko dekhti rahi. Neend aankhon se door thi. Zehen mein purani baatein ghoom rahi theen — shaadi ka pehla saal, jab Taimoor saath tha. Woh chhoti si khushiyan — barish mein bheegna, raat ko chai banana, ek doosre ke liye khat chhupana. Kab badal gaya sab? Kis lamhe mein “meri Farah” se “umeed hai tum theek hogi” tak ka safar tay hua?

Usay pata nahi chala kab aankh lag gayi.

Subah paanch baje azan ki awaz par aankh khuli. Farah ne namaz parhi, phir kitchen mein chai chadhayi. Ghar ki khidkiyan khol di. Subah ki roshni mein Islamabad kuch aur hi lagta tha — saaf, dhula hua, pahadiyan qareeb. October ki dhup naram thi, sunehri.

Yeh flat F-10 mein tha, teesri manzil par. Teen kamre, bara sehan, aur ek chhoti si balcony jahan se Margalla nazar aata tha. Drawing room ki deewar par Amma ki tasveer lagi thi — do saal pehle guzar gayi theen. Muskurata chehra, aankhon mein gehri narmi. Tasveer ke neeche ek diya rakha tha, bujha hua. Ghar mein ab bhi un ki maujoodgi thi — kabhi adrak ki khushboo mein, kabhi teh kiye hue kapdon ki tarteeb mein.

Farah ne nashta banaya — parathe, anda, chai. Mahnoor aath baje uthi, baalon ka joora banaye, laptop bag kandhe par.

“Aaj studio jana hai,” us ne kaha, chai ki chuski lete hue. “Ek client ka logo final karna hai. Shaam tak aa jaungi.”

“Imran aath baje ki train se aa raha hai,” Farah ne kaha. “Station se seedha yahin aayega.”

Mahnoor ne behan ko dekha, phir sharaarat se muskurayi. “Tumhare chehre par raunaq to dekho. Devar aa raha hai na.”

“Mahnoor!”

“Kya? Main ne kya kaha?” Mahnoor ne begunahi se kandhe uchkaye, lekin aankhon mein shaitani thi. “Main to bas keh rahi thi ke ghar mein teesra banda hoga to acha lagega.”

Farah ne paratha us ki taraf barhaya. “Kha aur nikal. Der ho rahi hai.”

Mahnoor hanste hue nikal gayi. Darwaza band hua, aur ghar mein khamoshi chha gayi. Farah ne bartan dhoye, kamre saaf kiye. Mehman-khana — jo asal mein Imran ka kamra tha jab bhi woh aata — ki chaadar badli, almari mein jagah banayi.

Dopahar ko school se wapas aayi to ghar khaali tha. Us ne nahaya, kapde badle — halka neela suit, baal khule chhod diye, jo woh aam tor par nahi karti thi. Sheeshe mein khud ko dekha. Untees saal. Aankhon ke neeche halke halqe. Honthon par wohi purani muskurahat jo khushi aur gham dono ko chhupati thi.

Us ne apni almaari kholi — kapde teh kiye hue, tarteeb se. Us ki aadat thi: sab se pehle doosron ke kapde, phir apne. Aaj us ne apna woh neela suit nikala jo us ne pichhli Eid par khareeda tha, lekin pehna nahi tha — “kisi khaas mauqe ke liye” rakh diya tha. Aaj us ne socha — khaas mauqa ka intezar kyun? Aaj hi khaas hai.

Us ne halka sa kajal lagaya — itna ke koi notice na kare, lekin woh khud sheeshe mein dekh kar khush ho. Phir us ne apne haathon ko dekha — khaali ungliyan. Ek lamhe ke liye us ne socha ke angoothi pehen le. Phir us ne sar hilaya. “Nahi,” us ne khud se kaha. “Aaj nahi.”

“Yeh kya kar rahi ho, Farah?” us ne sheeshe se poocha. “Woh tumhara devar hai. Tumhara… ”

Jumla adhoora chhod diya. Dupatta kandhe par dala, aur drawing room mein aa kar khidki ke paas baith gayi. Kitaab uthayi — Keats ki nazmon ka majmua — lekin parh nahi paayi. Lafz aankhon ke saamne tair rahe thay, maani dil tak nahi pohnch rahe thay.

Shaam ke saat baje phone par message aaya: “Train late hai. 8:30 tak pohnchunga. — Imran”

Farah ne message do baar parha. Phir kitchen mein ja kar khana garam kiya — daal, chawal, kabab. Sab Imran ki pasand ka. Yeh soch kar us ke chehre par jo narmi aayi, usay khud par hairat hui.

Aath baj kar bees minute par Mahnoor aa gayi. “Aaya nahi abhi?”

“Raste mein hai.”

Dono behnein drawing room mein baith gayi. Bahar andhera gehra ho gaya tha, pahadiyan kaale saaye ban gayi theen. Hawa tez ho gayi thi — khidki ke parde phadphada rahe thay.

Phir, aath baj kar paintees minute par, darwaze par dastak hui.

Dono ne ek doosre ko dekha. Farah uthi, dupatta durust kiya, dil ki dhadkan ko dabane ki koshish karti hui darwaze tak gayi.

Darwaza khula.

Imran khada tha — sattais saal ka, lamba qad, chauda seena, chehre par safar ki thakan aur aankhon mein wohi purani chamak. Kandhe par bag, haathon mein mithai ka dabba. Baal thode bikhre hue, jaise hawa ne unhein chheda ho.

“Assalam-o-Alaikum, Bhabi!” Us ki muskurahat poori thi, dil se. “Kaisi hain aap?”

Farah ne usay dekha. Bas ek lamha. Lekin us ek lamhe mein us ke dil ne jo mehsoos kiya, usay chhupane ke liye us ne jaldi se kaha: “Wa-Alaikum-Assalam! Aao, andar aao. Safar kaisa raha?”

“Bohat lamba. Lekin ab…” Imran ne ghar mein qadam rakha, gehri saans li. “Ab ghar jaisa lag raha hai.”

Mahnoor aage aayi, bag pakda. “Aur main? Mera salaam kahan?”

“Tum to ghar ki ho, tumhein kya salaam.” Imran ne hanste hue kaha.

“Yeh koi baat hui?” Mahnoor ne munh banaya, lekin khush thi.

Imran ne mithai ka dabba Farah ki taraf barhaya. “Aap ke liye. Lahore ki mashhoor dukaan se. Maine socha, Bhabi ko meetha pasand hai.”

Farah ne dabba liya. Un ki ungliyan ek lamhe ke liye Imran ki ungliyon ko chhu gayi. Dono ne haath jaldi se hata liye.

“Shukriya,” Farah ne kaha, nazrein jhuka kar. “Tum fresh ho jao, khana lagati hoon.”

Imran apne kamre ki taraf gaya. Farah kitchen ki taraf. Mahnoor dono ko dekhti rahi — pehle ek ko, phir doosre ko. Us ke zehen mein kal raat wali baat ghoom gayi: behan ka thanda haath, khaali aankhein.

Aur ab, is ghar mein teesra shakhs aa gaya tha. Hawa mein kuch badal gaya tha. Mahnoor ko mehsoos hua, jaise barish se pehle hawa ka rukh badal jata hai.

Us ne khidki se bahar dekha. Aasman par badal jama ho rahe thay. Door kahin bijli chamki.

Toofan aa raha tha. Bahar bhi, aur shayad andar bhi.

Farah ki shaadi ko chhe saal ho gaye thay. Lekin kabhi kabhi usay lagta tha ke asal shaadi to sirf do saal ki thi — baaqi chaar saal bas us shaadi ki parchaai thay.

Taimoor se us ki mulaqat koi filmi kahani nahi thi. Rishta Amma ki ek saheli ke zariye aaya tha. Ladka shareef hai, parha likha hai, Dubai mein achi naukri hai — bas itna sun kar Amma ki aankhein chamak uthi theen. Farah ne tasveer dekhi thi: seedha saada chehra, halki muskurahat, aankhon mein thakan. Pehli mulaqat mein Taimoor ne zyada baat nahi ki thi. Bas poocha tha: “Aap ko parhna pasand hai?” Farah ne kaha tha: “Bohat.” Taimoor ne kaha tha: “Mujhe likhna pasand hai. Shayad hum ek doosre ko poora kar dein.”

Yeh jumla Farah ke dil ko chhu gaya tha. Shaadi ho gayi. Pehle do saal woh Islamabad mein rahe — Taimoor us waqt Pakistan mein hi kaam karta tha. Woh do saal Farah ki zindagi ke sab se haseen saal thay. Chhota sa kiraye ka ghar, lekin har kona mohabbat se bhara. Taimoor waqai khat likhta tha — chhoti chhoti parchiyon par: “Aaj tum ne jo daal banayi, maza aa gaya.” “Tum soti hui achi lagti ho, lekin kharrate leti ho.” Farah hasti, parchiyan sambhal kar rakhti. Ek dibbe mein ab bhi woh parchiyan rakhi theen — store room ke sandooq mein, purane kapdon ke neeche.

Usay yaad tha — pehli barish, shaadi ke baad. Dono chhat par thay, kapde utarne gaye thay, lekin barish ne gher liya. Taimoor ne kaha tha: “Bheegte hain?” Farah ne kaha tha: “Log dekhenge.” Taimoor ne us ka haath pakda tha: “Dekhne do. Aaj hum sirf hum hain.” Aur woh dono bheegay thay — hanste hue, naachte hue, jaise duniya mein koi nahi tha.

Us raat sardi lag gayi thi dono ko. Taimoor ne adrak wali chai banayi thi — pehli aur aakhri baar us ne kitchen mein qadam rakha tha. Chai kadwi thi, lekin Farah ne poori pi thi, kyunke us mein mohabbat thi.

“Yeh din kahan gaye?” Farah ne aksar socha tha. Jawab us ke paas nahi tha. Shayad waqt le gaya. Shayad doori le gayi. Shayad… shayad woh din kabhi thay hi nahi, bas us ki yaad ne unhein sunehra bana diya tha.

Phir Dubai ka offer aaya. Tankhwah teen guna. Taimoor ne Farah se poocha tha: “Chalogi saath?” Us waqt Amma beemar theen, Mahnoor university mein thi. Farah ne kaha tha: “Tum jao, main yahin sambhalti hoon. Jab sab theek ho jayega, main aa jaungi.”

Woh “jab” kabhi nahi aaya. Pehle Amma ki beemari lambi hui, phir un ka inteqal ho gaya. Phir Mahnoor ki naukri, ghar ki zimmedari. Aur Taimoor ka “jab” har saal aage khisakta gaya. Pehle woh har teen mahine mein aata tha. Phir chhe mahine mein. Phir saal mein ek baar. Ab to do saal ho gaye thay usay dekhe hue.

Khat ab bhi aate thay — lekin badal gaye thay. Farah ne ek din purane aur naye khat ek saath parhe thay, aur farq saaf tha. Purane khaton mein woh thi — “meri Farah”, “tumhari yaad”. Naye khaton mein sirf intezam tha — paise, bachat, mustaqbil ke mansoobe. Jaise woh biwi nahi, koi branch manager ho.

Ek baar us ne phone par poocha tha: “Taimoor, tum khush ho?” Jawab mein khamoshi aayi thi, phir: “Khush? Pata nahi, Farah. Shayad khushi ab hum jaise logon ke liye nahi.”

Us raat Farah bohat roi thi. Mahnoor ne dekha tha, lekin poocha nahi tha. Bas behan ke paas baith kar us ke baalon mein ungliyan pherti rahi thi.

Amma ke inteqal ke baad Farah ne ek faisla kiya tha — khud se, khamoshi se. Us ne socha tha: meri shaadi toot bhi jaye, main apni izzat nahi khone dungi. Shohar door hai to kya hua, biwi ka farz nibhana us ke haath mein hai. Woh roz subah uthti, school jati, ghar sambhalti, Mahnoor ka khayal rakhti. Log kehte: “Farah jaisi bahu naseeb se milti hai.” Woh sun kar muskurati, lekin andar se khaali hoti jati.

Sharam — yeh lafz us ki zindagi ka markaz tha. Log kya kahenge? Mahnoor kya sochegi? Taimoor ko pata chala to? Yeh sawal us ke har qadam par pehra dete thay. Us ne apni khwahishon ko itna dabaa diya tha ke ab woh khud bhi nahi jaanti thi ke woh chahti kya hai.

Imran se us ka rishta hamesha saaf raha tha. Devar-bhabi ka — izzat, shafqat, halki phulki hansi mazaq. Imran jab bhi aata, ghar mein jaan aa jati. Woh Farah ki bohat izzat karta tha — “Bhabi” kehte hue us ki awaz mein jo narmi thi, woh Farah ne mehsoos ki thi, lekin hamesha nazar-andaz kiya tha.

Lekin pichhli baar — teen mahine pehle jab woh aaya tha — kuch badla tha. Ek shaam bijli chali gayi thi. Dono sehan mein baithe thay, mom-batti ki roshni mein. Imran ne kaha tha: “Bhabi, aap hasti hui achi lagti hain. Hamesha hansti raha karein.” Farah ne kaha tha: “Hansti to hoon.” Imran ne us ki aankhon mein dekha tha — der tak — aur kaha tha: “Nahi. Aap muskurati hain. Hansna aur hota hai.”

Us raat Farah so nahi payi thi. Us ne khud se kaha tha: yeh sirf devar ki shafqat hai. Lekin dil ne kaha tha: jhoot mat bolo.

Aur ab, is Juma ki raat ko, jab Imran drawing room mein baitha khana kha raha tha aur Mahnoor usay Lahore ke qisse suna rahi thi, Farah kitchen mein khadi yahi soch rahi thi. Chhe saal. Chhe saal mein us ne kya paya? Ek khaali flat, badalte hue khat, aur ek angoothi jo ab ungli par bojh lagti thi.

“Bhabi!” Imran ki awaz aayi. “Khana bohat mazedaar hai! Aap ke haath mein jaadu hai.”

Farah bahar aayi. “Zyada tareef mat karo, sar par charh jayegi.”

“Charhne dein. Aap ka sar itna uncha hai ke wahan tak koi nahi pohnchta.” Imran ne sharaarat se kaha.

Mahnoor hans padi. “Dekha Apa? Tumhara devar tumhari tareef mein zameen aasman ek kar raha hai.”

“Chup kar ke kha,” Farah ne kaha, lekin us ke gaal halke se surkh ho gaye thay.

Khana khate waqt Imran ne bataya ke Lahore mein us ka project khatm hone wala hai, shayad agle mahine Islamabad transfer ho jaye. “Phir to roz aap ke haath ka khana,” us ne kaha, Farah ko dekh kar.

Farah ne nazrein jhuka li. “Roz roz mehmaan ache nahi lagte.”

“Main mehmaan thodi hoon,” Imran ne narmi se kaha. “Main to ghar ka hoon.”

Is jumle mein kuch tha — koi gehra matlab, ya shayad Farah ka wehem. Us ne jaldi se bartan uthaye aur kitchen mein chali gayi. Wahan akeli khadi, us ne apne haathon ko dekha — kaanp rahe thay.

“Yeh kya ho raha hai tumhein, Farah?” us ne khud se sargoshi ki. “Woh tumhara devar hai. Tum shaadi-shuda ho. Tumhara shohar…”

Lekin jumla poora nahi kar payi. Kyunke us ke zehen mein Taimoor ki awaz goonj rahi thi: “Umeed hai tum theek hogi.”

Theek. Haan, woh theek thi. Bilkul theek. Itni theek ke andar se toot rahi thi.

Raat ke gyarah baje sab apne kamron mein chale gaye. Farah bistar par leti chhat ko dekh rahi thi. Bahar hawa tez thi, khidki ke parde hil rahe thay. Kahin door bijli chamki.

Us ne karwat badli, aankhein band ki. Lekin aankhon ke saamne Imran ka chehra tha — woh nazar, woh muskurahat, woh jumla: “Main to ghar ka hoon.”

“Allah mujhe maaf kare,” us ne sargoshi ki, aur chaadar munh tak kheench li.

Lekin dil ki dhadkan kam nahi hui. Aur woh jaanti thi ke yeh sirf mausam ka asar nahi hai.

Hafta ki subah barish ki halki phuar se shuru hui. Farah ki aankh azan se pehle hi khul gayi thi — raat bhar neend aankhon se door rahi thi. Woh uthi, nahayi, aur kitchen mein nashta banane lagi. Aaj school ki chhutti thi, lekin aadat se majboor woh jaldi uth gayi thi.

Saat baje Imran kitchen ke darwaze par namoodar hua — baal bikhre, aankhon mein neend, chehre par wohi muskurahat.

“Subah bakhair, Bhabi,” us ne kaha, kursi kheench kar baithte hue. “Kya khushboo hai! Aap ke haath ka nashta to jannat hai.”

“Jannat ki baatein chhodo, pehle munh dho kar aao,” Farah ne kaha, tawa par paratha palat-te hue. Lekin us ki awaz mein narmi thi.

Imran utha, lekin jate jate ruk gaya. “Bhabi, ek baat kahun?”

“Kaho.”

“Aap jab hansti hain na, to lagta hai ghar mein roshni ho gayi.” Us ne itna kaha, aur bathroom ki taraf chal diya.

Farah ke haath ruk gaye. Tawa par paratha jalne laga. Us ne jaldi se palta, lekin dil ki dhadkan tez thi.

“Yeh ladka…” us ne sargoshi ki. “Yeh kya kar raha hai?”

Nashtay par Mahnoor bhi aa gayi. Teenon ne mil kar nashta kiya — parathe, chai, aur Imran ki Lahore ki kahaniyan. Woh bohat acha qissa-go tha. Mahnoor hans hans kar lot-pot ho rahi thi. Farah bhi hansi — pehli baar dil se, kayi dinon baad.

“Acha suno,” Imran ne chai ki piyali rakhte hue kaha. “Aaj ka program kya hai? Main to kehta hoon, bahar chalte hain. Mausam itna acha hai. Margalla ki sair ho jaye.”

“Barish ho rahi hai,” Farah ne kaha.

“Halki phuar hai, Bhabi. Is mein bheegne ka maza hi kuch aur hai.” Imran ki aankhon mein sharaarat thi. “Aap ne kabhi barish mein sair ki hai?”

“Bachpan mein,” Farah ne kaha, aur us ki awaz mein koi purani yaad ki kasak thi.

“To aaj phir se bachpan jeete hain.” Imran ne minnat bhare lehje mein kaha. “Please, Bhabi. Meri ek minnat maan lein. Main Lahore se itni door aaya hoon, aap mujhe ghar mein qaid kar ke rakhengi?”

Mahnoor ne tali bajayi. “Main taiyaar hoon! Chalo Apa, chalte hain. Kab se ghar mein band hain.”

Farah ne dono ko dekha. Inkaar karne ki hazaar wajuhen theen — kapde bheeg jayenge, sardi lag jayegi, log kya kahenge. Lekin Imran ki aankhon mein jo iltija thi, usay dekh kar us ka dil pighal gaya.

“Achha baba, chalte hain,” us ne haar maan li. “Lekin zyada door nahi.”

Imran ka chehra khil utha. “Deal!”

Teenon taiyaar hue. Farah ne gehra sabz suit pehna, baal joode mein bandhe, dupatta achi tarah odha. Mahnoor ne jeans aur kurti pehni — woh aam tor par aisi hi rehti thi. Imran ne simple shalwar kameez pehni thi, jis mein woh aur bhi lamba lag raha tha.

Trail-3 ka rasta unhon ne chuna — aasaan, khubsurat. Barish ki phuar mein pahadi rasta geela tha, hawa mein mitti aur pattiyon ki khushboo. Charon taraf sabz tha — itna sabz ke aankhein thak jayein.

Chalte chalte Imran Farah ke paas aa gaya. “Bhabi, haath dein. Rasta phislan bhara hai.”

Farah ne ek lamhe ke liye hichkichahat ki. Phir us ne haath barha diya. Imran ne us ka haath pakda — mazboot, garam. Us ke haath ke muqable mein Farah ka haath chhota aur naram lag raha tha.

Woh dono aage chalte rahe, haath mein haath. Mahnoor peeche thi, tasveerein le rahi thi. Us ne ek tasveer li — behan aur Imran ki, peeche se, haath mein haath, barish ki dhund mein. Tasveer dekh kar us ke chehre par ek ajeeb si muskurahat aayi. Us ne woh tasveer foran delete nahi ki. Bas phone jeb mein rakh liya.

Raste mein ek jagah paani jama tha. Imran ne Farah ko uthane ke liye haath barhaye. “Aayein, main utha deta hoon.”

“Nahi nahi, main khud—” Farah ne kaha, lekin Imran ne usay halka sa utha kar paani ke us paar rakh diya. Ek lamhe ke liye woh us ki baahon mein thi — us ka wazan, us ki khushboo, us ki garmi. Phir us ne utar diya.

“Shukriya,” Farah ne kaha, chehra surkh. Us ne Imran ki taraf nahi dekha.

“Koi baat nahi, Bhabi.” Imran ki awaz naram thi. “Aap ka bojh uthana to mera farz hai.”

Farah ne usay dekha — tez nazron se. “Yeh kaisi baatein kar rahe ho?”

Imran ne muskurakar nazrein pher li. “Aisi hi. Chaliye, aage chalte hain.”

Raste mein ek khuli jagah aayi — pahadi ka ek mor, jahan se poora sheher nazar aata tha. Barish ki dhund mein Islamabad neeche phaila tha — safed gharon ke jhund, hari patti, door Faisal Masjid ka minaar.

“Thoda aaram kar lete hain,” Mahnoor ne kaha, ek pathar par baithte hue. Us ne apna phone nikala, tasveerein lene lagi.

Imran aur Farah thoda aage khade thay, sheher ko dekh rahe thay. Hawa tez thi, Farah ka dupatta ur raha tha. Imran ne aage barh kar us ka dupatta pakda, us ke kandhe par achi tarah dala.

“Shukriya,” Farah ne kaha, us ki taraf dekh kar.

Imran ne us ka haath nahi chhoda. Woh dono aise khade rahe — haath mein haath, sheher ko dekhte hue. Farah ne mehsoos kiya ke us ka dil zor se dhadak raha hai. Us ne haath chhudane ki koshish ki, lekin Imran ne halka sa daba diya — nahi roka, bas… iltija ki.

“Bhabi,” us ne dheemi awaz mein kaha, taake Mahnoor na sun sake, “aap ko pata hai? Jab main Lahore mein hota hoon, to aksar is jagah ka khwab dekhta hoon. Aur us khwab mein…” Us ne ruk kar usay dekha. “Us khwab mein aap hoti hain.”

Farah ki saans ruk gayi. “Imran, yeh…”

“Main jaanta hoon, yeh kehna nahi chahiye.” Imran ki awaz mein dard tha. “Lekin Bhabi, dil ka kya karun? Woh to kehta hai jo kehta hai.”

Farah ne apna haath chhuda liya — aahista, lekin mazbooti se. “Tumhare dil ko samjhao, Imran. Kyunke main… main tumhari Bhabi hoon. Aur yahi rahungi.”

Us ne peeche hat kar Mahnoor ke paas ja baithi. Lekin us ke haath ab bhi garam thay — Imran ke haath ki garmi se.

Mahnoor ne behan ko dekha. Us ne sab dekha tha — haath ka pakadna, chhudana, dono ke chehre. Us ne kuch nahi kaha. Bas apni behan ke kandhe par haath rakha.

“Chalein?” us ne poocha.

“Chalo,” Farah ne kaha.

Wapasi par barish tez ho gayi. Teenon bheeg gaye. Ghar pohnch kar Farah ne foran chai chadhayi — adrak wali, tez. Sab ne kapde badle. Drawing room mein baith kar chai pi, baatein ki.

“Aaj maza aa gaya,” Mahnoor ne kaha, baalon ko tauliye se sukhati hui. “Kitne arse baad aise nikle hain.”

“Haan,” Farah ne kaha. Us ke baal ab bhi geele thay, gaalon par surkhi. Woh aaj kuch aur lag rahi thi — zinda, roshan.

Imran usay dekh raha tha. Chup chap, gehri nazron se. Jab Farah ne us ki taraf dekha, to us ne nazrein nahi pherein. Bas muskuraya — woh muskurahat jo kehti thi: main dekh raha hoon, aur mujhe acha lag raha hai.

Farah ne jaldi se piyali uthayi, chai pine lagi. Lekin us ke haath kaanp rahe thay.

Dopahar ko khana khaya, phir sab ne aaram kiya. Farah apne kamre mein leti thi, lekin neend nahi aa rahi thi. Zehen mein subah ke manazir ghoom rahe thay — Imran ka haath, us ki baahein, us ki baatein.

“Yeh galat hai,” us ne khud se kaha. “Woh tumhara devar hai. Tum shaadi-shuda ho. Taimoor…”

Lekin Taimoor ka chehra yaad karne ki koshish ki to dhundla laga. Aur Imran ka chehra — woh to aankhon ke saamne saaf tha.

Shaam ko jab woh uthi, to dekha ke Imran sehan mein khada tha, aasman ko dekh raha tha. Badal phir jama ho rahe thay.

“Kya dekh rahe ho?” Farah ne poocha, paas ja kar.

“Badal,” Imran ne kaha. “Lagta hai raat ko tez barish hogi.”

“Hmm.”

Thodi der khamoshi rahi. Phir Imran ne bina us ki taraf dekhe kaha: “Bhabi, aap khush hain?”

Farah chaunk gayi. “Kya matlab?”

“Matlab…” Imran ne us ki taraf dekha. “Aap ki aankhon mein jo udaasi hai, woh maine pehli baar nahi dekhi. Har baar jab aata hoon, dekhta hoon. Aur har baar sochta hoon — koi aap ki is udaasi ko door kyun nahi karta?”

Farah ki saans ruk gayi. “Tum… tum kya keh rahe ho?”

“Main sirf itna keh raha hoon,” Imran ne narmi se kaha, “ke aap ko udaas dekh kar mujhe takleef hoti hai. Bohat takleef. Aur main chahta hoon ke aap khush rahein. Bas.”

Us ne itna kaha, aur andar chala gaya. Farah sehan mein akeli khadi reh gayi, tez hoti hawa mein, dupatta sambhalti hui.

Us ke dil mein toofan tha. Ek taraf sharam, farz, Taimoor ki yaad. Doosri taraf — woh ehsaas jo us ne chhe saalon mein pehli baar mehsoos kiya tha. Kisi ka usay dekhna. Waqai dekhna. Na biwi ki tarah, na zimmedari ki tarah — bas Farah ki tarah.

Us ne aasman ki taraf dekha. Bijli chamki. Barish ki pehli tez boondein girne lagi.

Aur Farah samajh gayi ke yeh hafta aasaan nahi hoga. Bilkul aasaan nahi.

Hafta ki shaam ko jab Farah kitchen mein khana bana rahi thi, to darwaze par dastak hui. Mahnoor apne kamre mein laptop par kaam kar rahi thi, is liye Farah ne hi darwaza khola.

Bahir Imran khada tha — haathon mein ek bara sa gulaab ka guldasta, chehre par muskurahat, kapdon par barish ki boondein.

“Yeh… yeh kis ke liye?” Farah ne hairat se poocha.

“Aap ke liye,” Imran ne kaha, guldasta aage barhate hue. “Aaj aap itni khush lag rahi theen, maine socha is khushi ko phoolon se sajaya jaye.”

Farah ne guldasta nahi liya. Woh darwaze par khadi usay dekhti rahi. Surkh gulaab — darjan bhar, taaze, khushbudar.

“Imran, yeh kya hai?” us ki awaz mein sakhti thi. “Tum… tum samajhte kya ho?”

Imran ki muskurahat halki padi, lekin gayab nahi hui. “Bhabi, yeh sirf phool hain. Aap itna kyun ghabra rahi hain?”

“Sirf phool?” Farah ne darwaza thoda aur khola, awaz dheemi ki taake Mahnoor na sun le. “Devar bhabhi ko gulaab nahi dete, Imran. Tum jaante ho is ka kya matlab nikalta hai.”

“Aur aap jaanti hain is ka kya matlab hai?” Imran ne us ki aankhon mein dekha. “Bhabi, main koi bachcha nahi hoon. Sattais saal ka hoon. Aur aap… aap bhi jaanti hain ke main kya mehsoos karta hoon.”

Farah ka dil zor se dhadka. “Tumhein sharam nahi aati? Main tumhare bhai ki biwi hoon!”

“Mujhe pata hai.” Imran ki awaz naram thi, lekin mazboot. “Aur mujhe yeh bhi pata hai ke mera bhai aap ko woh nahi de saka jo aap deserve karti hain. Main ne dekha hai, Bhabi. Har baar jab aata hoon, dekhta hoon. Aap ki tanhai, aap ki udaasi. Kya yeh zindagi hai?”

“Yeh meri zindagi hai!” Farah ki aankhon mein aansu aa gaye. “Aur tumhein is mein dakhal dene ka koi haq nahi! Samjhe tum?”

Us ne darwaza zor se band karne ki koshish ki, lekin Imran ne haath rakh diya. Guldasta ab bhi us ke haath mein tha.

“Bhabi, please,” us ne minnat ki. “Ek baar meri baat sun lein. Main aap se kuch nahi maang raha. Na koi wada, na koi… bas itna ke aap mujhe apna dost samjhein. Kya devar bhabhi ka dost nahi ho sakta?”

Farah ne usay dekha — us ki aankhon mein jo sachchai thi, usay jhutlaya nahi ja sakta tha. Lekin us ke dil mein jo dar tha, woh us se bara tha.

“Imran,” us ne dheemi awaz mein kaha, “tum chale jao. Lahore wapas jao. Aur… aur dobara aise mat karna. Main tumhare bhai ki amanat hoon. Samjhe? Amanat mein khayanat nahi karti main.”

Us ne guldasta nahi liya. Darwaza band kar diya. Andar aa kar deewar se tek lagayi, saans tez thi.

Thodi der baad darwaze par halki dastak hui. Phir kagaz ke sarakne ki awaz. Farah ne darwaza khola — koi nahi tha. Bas guldasta dehleez par rakha tha, aur us ke saath ek chhoti si parchi:

*”Phool wapas nahi liye jate, Bhabi. Inhein paani mein rakh dein. Aur ek baat — amanat ki hifazat karna achi baat hai. Lekin amanat ko jeene ka haq bhi hota hai.”*

Farah ne parchi parhi, phir dobara parhi. Us ke haath kaanp rahe thay. Us ne guldasta uthaya — khushboo tez thi, nashili. Us ne guldaan mein paani bhara, phool lagaye, aur drawing room ki mez par rakh diye.

Mahnoor bahar aayi, phool dekh kar ruk gayi. “Wah! Yeh kahan se aaye?”

Farah ne jaldi se kaha: “Imran laya hai. Keh raha tha… ghar sajane ke liye.”

Mahnoor ne behan ko dekha, phir phoolon ko. Us ki aankhon mein samajh thi — woh bachchi nahi thi, chhabbees saal ki thi. Us ne kuch nahi kaha. Bas phoolon ko chhua, khushboo sunghi.

“Khubsurat hain,” us ne kaha. Phir dheemi awaz mein: “Apa, tum theek ho? Tumhara chehra laal ho raha hai.”

“Barish ki wajah se,” Farah ne kaha, kitchen ki taraf chal di.

Raat ko khana khamoshi se khaya gaya. Imran ne koi sharaarat nahi ki, koi minnat nahi ki. Bas chup chap khana khaya, aur apne kamre mein chala gaya. Farah ne rahat ki saans li — lekin us rahat mein ek ajeeb si kami bhi thi, jise us ne mehsoos kiya aur foran daba diya.

Lekin raat ko jab woh apne kamre mein gayi, to takiye par ek parchi rakhi thi — Imran ki likhawat:

*”Bhabi, aaj shaam ke liye maaf kar dein. Mera iraada aap ko pareshan karna nahi tha. Bas… bas dil ne kaha to keh diya. Aap aaram karein. Kal naya din hai. — Imran”*

Farah ne parchi parhi, phir dobara parhi. Us ke chehre par jo muskurahat aayi, usay rok nahi payi.

“Pagal ladka,” us ne sargoshi ki. Lekin us ki awaz mein gussa nahi tha — narmi thi.

Us ne parchi apni diary ke andar rakh di — nayi diary mein, jo us ne kal hi khareedi thi. Pehla panna ab bhi khaali tha. Us ne socha — kabhi likhungi. Jab waqt aayega.

Raat ke das baje Mahnoor Farah ke kamre mein aayi. Dono behnein aksar raat ko ek saath baith kar baatein karti theen — bachpan ki aadat.

“Apa,” Mahnoor ne kaha, bistar par baithte hue, “tum se ek baat poochun? Bura to nahi manogi?”

“Pooch.”

“Imran… woh tumhein pasand karta hai na?”

Farah ka dil ruk gaya. “Yeh kya bakwas hai?”

“Bakwas nahi, Apa.” Mahnoor ki awaz sanjeeda thi. “Maine dekha hai. Subah se dekh rahi hoon. Woh tumhein aise dekhta hai jaise… jaise koi apni duniya ko dekhta hai.”

“Mahnoor, woh mera devar hai!” Farah ki awaz unchi ho gayi.

“Aur tum us ki bhabhi ho. Main jaanti hoon.” Mahnoor ne behan ka haath pakda. “Lekin Apa, main yeh bhi jaanti hoon ke tum khush nahi ho. Taimoor bhai… woh ab woh nahi rahe jo pehle thay. Aur tum — tum ne apni poori zindagi doosron ke liye jee hai. Amma ke liye, Taimoor bhai ke liye, mere liye. Kabhi apne liye jee kar dekha hai?”

Farah ne haath chhuda liya. “Tum nahi samjhogi, Mahnoor. Tumhari shaadi nahi hui. Tum nahi jaanti ke farz kya hota hai, sharam kya hoti hai.”

“Sharam?” Mahnoor ki aankhon mein aansu aa gaye. “Apa, sharam ke naam par tum ne apni zindagi qurban kar di. Kya yahi sharam hai? Ke ek aurat apni khwahishon ko dafan kar de aur zinda laash ban kar jeeti rahe?”

“Bas!” Farah uth khadi hui. “Tumhein koi haq nahi meri zindagi par faisla sunane ka! Jao apne kamre mein!”

Mahnoor uthi, darwaze tak gayi, phir ruk gayi. “Apa, main tumhari dushman nahi hoon. Main sirf… main sirf chahti hoon ke tum khush raho. Chahe woh khushi jahan se bhi mile.”

Woh chali gayi. Farah akeli reh gayi. Us ne takiye mein munh chhupaya, lekin roi nahi. Aansuon se zyada gehra tha — ek khaali pan, ek thakan.

Bahar barish tez ho gayi thi. Khidki ke sheeshe par boondein baj rahi theen. Farah ne uth kar parde hataye. Andhere mein pahadiyan nazar nahi aa rahi theen. Bas barish thi, aur hawa, aur us ke dil ka shor.

“Main amanat hoon,” us ne sargoshi ki. “Main khayanat nahi karungi.”

Lekin us ke zehen mein Imran ki parchi goonj rahi thi: *”Amanat ko jeene ka haq bhi hota hai.”*

Us ne guldaste ki taraf dekha — drawing room mein rakha tha, lekin usay yahan se khushboo aa rahi thi. Ya shayad woh wehem tha.

Us ne aankhein band ki. Lekin neend phir door thi. Aur is baar usay pata tha kyun.

Itwaar ki subah barish thami hui thi, lekin aasman ab bhi badalon se bhara tha. Hawa mein nami thi, aur gali mein paani jama tha.

Nashtay ke baad Mahnoor ne kaha: “Aaj store room saaf karte hain. Barishon mein seelan aa jati hai, purana samaan kharab ho jayega.”

Farah ne ittefaq kiya. Imran ne foran kaha: “Main madad karta hoon. Bhari cheezein uthana mera kaam.”

Store room chhota sa tha, ghar ke aakhir mein. Darwaza khola to purani khushboo aayi — naphthalene ki goliyon, purane kagaz, aur yaadon ki. Andar bakse, gathriyan, tootay hue khilone, Amma ke purane bartan.

Teenon ne mil kar samaan nikalna shuru kiya. Imran ne sab se bhari sandooq uthaya — lohe ka, zang laga hua, Amma ke zamane ka.

“Yeh kis ka hai?” us ne poocha.

“Amma ka tha,” Farah ne kaha. “Un ke kapde aur kuch purani cheezein hain.”

Sandooq khola to andar teh kiye hue kapde nikle — Amma ki chadrein, purane suit. Un ke neeche ek lakdi ka chhota sa dibba tha, aur us ke neeche — ek moti si diary, surkh jild wali, kinare sunehre.

Mahnoor ne diary uthayi. “Yeh kis ki hai?”

Farah ne dekha, aur us ka chehra utar gaya. “Meri… meri hai. Shaadi ke pehle saal ki.”

“Oh!” Mahnoor ki aankhein chamak uthi. “To is mein tumhare raaz honge! Taimoor bhai ke liye mohabbat bhari baatein!”

“Mahnoor, wapas rakho,” Farah ne sakhti se kaha.

“Lekin Apa—”

“Maine kaha wapas rakho!”

Kamre mein khamoshi chha gayi. Imran ne dono ko dekha, phir chup chap ek toota hua stool uthaya aur bahar le gaya — jaise unhein akele chhodna chahta ho.

Mahnoor ne diary wapas rakhi, lekin us ki nazrein us par atki rahi. “Apa, tum itna kyun ghabra gayi?”

“Main nahi ghabrayi.” Farah ne kapde teh karne shuru kiye, haath tez chal rahe thay. “Bas purani cheezein hain. Koi matlab nahi.”

“Lekin tumhara chehra—”

“Mahnoor, please.” Farah ne us ki taraf dekha, aur us ki aankhon mein iltija thi. “Kuch cheezein dafan rehne do.”

Mahnoor ne sar hila diya, lekin us ke zehen mein sawal atak gaya. Shaam tak woh us diary ke baare mein sochti rahi.

Dopahar ko jab Farah so gayi — thaki hui thi, raat bhar ki bechaini ka asar — to Mahnoor dabbe paon store room mein gayi. Sandooq ab bhi khula tha, samaan aadha nikla hua. Us ne diary uthayi, seene se lagayi, aur apne kamre mein le aayi.

Darwaza band kiya. Khidki ka parda giraya. Phir diary kholi.

Pehla panna: *”Yeh diary Farah ki hai. Jo parhega, usay meri bad-dua lagegi.”* — neeche chhoti si hansi ka nishan bana tha.

Mahnoor muskurayi. Behan ki bachkani hifazat. Us ne panne palte. Shuru ke panne aam thay — shaadi ki taiyariyan, Amma ki baatein, Taimoor se pehli mulaqat ka zikr.

Phir ek panna aaya, jahan likha tha: *”Aaj Taimoor ne mujhe pehli parchi di. Nashtay ki mez par, chai ki piyali ke neeche rakhi thi. Likha tha: ‘Tum soti hui achi lagti ho.’ Main itna hansi ke chai chhalak gayi.”*

Mahnoor ki aankhon mein aansu aa gaye. Yeh woh Taimoor tha jo ab nahi raha — ya shayad ab bhi tha, kahin door.

Us ne aage parha. Shaadi ke pehle saal ki khushiyan — chhoti chhoti baatein, jhagre, manana. Phir ek panna jahan siyahi phaili hui thi, jaise aansu gire hon: *”Aaj Taimoor ne kaha ke Dubai jana parega. Main ne kaha jao. Lekin andar se main toot gayi. Amma beemar hain, Mahnoor chhoti hai. Koi to ruke. To main ruk gayi.”*

Mahnoor ka dil bhar aaya. Us ne kabhi nahi socha tha ke behan ne itni qurbani di thi — us ke liye, Amma ke liye.

Phir aakhri panne aaye — shaadi ke teesre saal ke. Lehja badla hua tha. *”Taimoor ke khat ab pehle jaise nahi. Main roz intezar karti hoon, lekin jawab mein sirf khaali lafz. Kya maine kuch galat kiya? Kya main kaafi nahi?”*

Aakhri panna sab se takleef-deh tha: *”Aaj maine faisla kiya hai. Main shikayat nahi karungi. Main intezar karungi. Biwi ka farz nibhaungi. Chahe andar se main mar jaun, bahar se main muskurati rahungi. Yeh meri qismat hai. Aur qismat se koi nahi larta.”*

Mahnoor ne diary band ki. Us ke gaalon par aansu thay. Us ne diary ko seene se lagaya, der tak baithi rahi.

Phir us ki nazar dibbe par padi — woh lakdi ka chhota dibba jo sandooq mein tha, woh bhi us ne utha liya tha. Us ne khola. Andar Taimoor ki parchiyan theen — wohi purani, mohabbat bhari. Aur un ke neeche — ek lifafa. Bhoora, purana, jis par likha tha: *”Farah ke liye — waqt aane par kholna.”*

Mahnoor ka dil zor se dhadka. Yeh khat kis ka tha? Taimoor ka? Amma ka? Us ne lifafa uthaya, palta. Mohar lagi thi — lekin khula nahi tha. Ab bhi band tha.

Us ne lifafe ko roshni mein dekha. Andar kagaz tha, lekin kya likha tha, pata nahi chal raha tha.

“Waqt aane par kholna,” us ne sargoshi mein dohraya. “Kaun sa waqt?”

Us ne socha — kya mujhe yeh kholna chahiye? Yeh khat mera nahi hai. Yeh Apa ka hai. Kisi ke khat kholna… yeh to gunaah hai.

Lekin phir usay Amma yaad aayi. Amma kehti theen: “Kabhi kabhi gunaah aur sawab ka farq niyat se hota hai, kaam se nahi.” Agar us ki niyat behan ki bhalai hai, to kya yeh gunaah hoga?

Us ne lifafe ko phir dekha. Us par Amma ki mohar thi — wohi mohar jo Amma apne khaas khaton par lagati theen. Is ka matlab tha ke Amma ne is khat ko mehfooz rakha tha. Amma chahti theen ke yeh khat apni manzil tak pohnche.

“Amma,” Mahnoor ne sargoshi ki, tasveer ki taraf dekh kar, “agar aap hoti, to kya karti?”

Jawab us ke dil se aaya — dheema, lekin saaf: intezar karo. Waqt aane do.

Mahnoor ne lifafe ko dekha — band, mehfooz, raazdaar. Us ne usay wapas dibbe mein rakha, dibba aur diary dono ko chhupaya — apne kapdon ke neeche, almari mein.

“Waqt aane par,” us ne sargoshi ki. “Main intezar karungi. Lekin zyada din nahi.”

Phir bahar aayi, jaise kuch hua hi na ho.

Lekin ab us ke paas ek raaz tha. Aur woh jaanti thi ke yeh raaz aam nahi hai.

Lekin ab us ke paas ek raaz tha. Aur woh jaanti thi ke yeh raaz aam nahi hai.

Shaam ko jab sab drawing room mein baithe thay, to Imran ne kaha: “Bhabi, woh pankha jo awaz karta tha — maine theek kar diya.”

Farah ne dekha — pankha chal raha tha, khamosh. “Kab kiya?”

“Jab aap so rahi theen.” Imran ne muskuraya. “Aap ki neend mein khalal nahi dalna chahta tha.”

Farah ne usay dekha. Us ki aankhon mein shukriya tha, aur kuch aur bhi — kuch jo woh keh nahi pa rahi thi.

Mahnoor ne dono ko dekha. Phir us ki nazar almari ki taraf gayi, jahan diary chhupi thi. Us ke zehen mein ek khayal aaya — agar Apa ne apni poori kahani is diary mein likhi hai, to shayad is lifafe mein us kahani ka aakhri panna hai.

Aur shayad woh panna sab kuch badal de.

Bahar phir barish shuru ho gayi thi. Halki, musalsal. Jaise aasman koi raaz kholne se pehle ro raha ho.

Itwaar ki shaam ko jab store room ka kaam khatm hua, to ghar mein ek ajeeb si thakan thi — jismon ki nahi, dilon ki. Diary wala waqiya sab ke zehen mein tha, lekin koi us ka zikr nahi kar raha tha.

Imran ne haath jhaadte hue kaha: “Bas! Aaj ka kaam khatm. Ab meri taraf se dawat — bahar chai peene chalte hain. Woh F-10 wali mashhoor dukaan, jahan kulhad ki chai milti hai.”

Farah ne inkaar karna chaha — “Ghar mein hi bana leti hoon” — lekin Mahnoor ne us ka haath pakad liya. “Chalo na, Apa. Kab se ghar mein band hain. Thodi hawa kha lein.”

Farah ne Imran ko dekha. Us ki aankhon mein iltija thi — wohi purani minnat, lekin ab us mein koi sharaarat nahi thi, sirf chahat thi. Ke aap khush rahein.

“Achha,” Farah ne kaha. “Lekin jaldi wapas aa jayenge.”

Teenon nikle. Shaam dhal rahi thi, aasman narangi aur gulaabi. Gali mein paani jama tha, lekin hawa taaza thi. Chai ki dukaan zyada door nahi thi — das minute ki paidal raah.

Dukaan chhoti si thi, lekin mashhoor. Kulhad ki chai, saath mein bun-kabab. Bheed thi — jawaan larke, boorhe, families. Imran ne ek kone wali mez pakdi, jahan se sadak nazar aati thi.

“Teen kulhad, tez adrak wali,” us ne order diya.

Farah ne chaaron taraf dekha — log, shor, zindagi. Usay ajeeb lag raha tha. Kitne arse baad woh aise bahar aayi thi — bina kisi zimmedari ke, bas chai peene ke liye.

“Kya soch rahi hain, Bhabi?” Imran ne poocha.

“Kuch nahi. Bas… acha lag raha hai.”

“Sach?” Imran ki aankhein chamak uthi. “To phir roz aaya karein. Main roz le aaya karunga.”

“Roz?” Farah ne muskurakar kaha. “Tum to kal ja rahe ho.”

Imran ka chehra utar gaya. “Haan. Kal.”

Mahnoor ne dono ko dekha, phir chai ki chuski li — jaise kuch dekha hi na ho. Lekin us ke honthon par halki muskurahat thi.

Chai aayi — kulhad mein, dhuaan uthta hua. Teenon ne pi. Imran ne apni kulhad uthayi: “Ek toast — is khubsurat shaam ke naam, aur is se bhi khubsurat company ke naam.”

“Dono behnein khubsurat hain, ya ek?” Mahnoor ne sharaarat se poocha.

Imran ne Farah ko dekha, phir Mahnoor ko. “Dono. Lekin…” Us ne ruk kar Farah ki taraf dekha — gehri nazron se. “Ek thodi zyada.”

Farah ka chehra surkh ho gaya. Us ne chai mein nazrein gara di. “Imran, log dekh rahe hain.”

“Dekhne dein,” Imran ne kaha, lekin awaz dheemi thi. “Bhabi, main aap se ek baat kahun? Sab ke saamne?”

Farah ne ghabra kar usay dekha. “Kya?”

“Ke aap jab sharmati hain, to aur bhi khubsurat lagti hain.”

Mahnoor hans padi. “Allah! Yeh to khullam khulla flirt hai!”

“Mahnoor!” Farah ne usay ghoora, lekin khud bhi hans rahi thi.

Woh shaam ajeeb thi — halki, khushi bhari, be-fikar. Teenon ne bun-kabab khaye, doosri chai pi, baatein ki. Imran ne Lahore ke qisse sunaye — kaise us ne ek din ghalat building ka naqsha bana diya tha, aur boss ne usay aadhe ghante tak daanta tha.

“Phir?” Mahnoor ne poocha, hanste hue.

“Phir kya? Maine naqsha theek kiya, boss ko chai pilayi, aur maamla rafa dafa.” Imran ne seena phulaya. “Engineer hoon, problem solver.”

“Problem solver?” Farah ne kaha. “To mere kitchen ka nalka kab theek karoge? Do din se tapak raha hai.”

“Aaj raat hi kar dunga,” Imran ne foran kaha. “Aap ka har problem mera problem.”

Farah ne usay dekha — us ki aankhon mein jo tha, woh sirf nalke ki baat nahi thi. Us ne jaldi se nazrein pher li.

Wapasi par raasta sunsaan tha. Street lights jal rahi theen, un ki roshni geele sadak par chamak rahi thi. Teenon aahista chal rahe thay.

Mahnoor thoda aage nikal gayi — phone par Zoya se baat karti hui. Peeche Farah aur Imran reh gaye, saath saath chalte hue.

Thodi der khamoshi rahi. Sirf qadam ki awaz thi, aur door se aati hawa.

“Farah Bhabi,” Imran ne achanak kaha — pehli baar us ne “Bhabi” ke baghair us ka naam liya tha, phir jaldi se sambhala: “Mera matlab, Bhabi — aap ne kabhi socha hai ke zindagi mein sab se qeemti cheez kya hai?”

Farah ne usay dekha — us ke chehre par street light ki roshni par rahi thi, aadha ujala, aadha saya.

“Waqt?” us ne kaha.

“Nahi.” Imran ne ruk kar usay dekha. “Himmat. Apne dil ki sunne ki himmat. Baqi sab — waqt, paise, log — aate jaate rehte hain. Lekin himmat… wohi insaan ko zinda rakhti hai.”

Farah ne us ki baat ko dil mein utarne diya. Himmat. Kya us mein himmat thi? Apne dil ki sunne ki?

“Imran,” us ne dheemi awaz mein kaha, “tum kabhi darte nahi?”

“Darta hoon,” Imran ne kaha, sachchai se. “Roz darta hoon. Lekin Bhabi, dar ke saath jeena bhi koi jeena hai? Main ne faisla kiya hai — darunga, lekin rukunga nahi.”

Farah ne usay dekha — us ki aankhon mein jo tha, woh jawaani ka josh nahi tha. Woh koi gehra yaqeen tha.

“Tum badal gaye ho, Imran,” us ne kaha.

“Badla nahi hoon, Bhabi.” Imran ne muskuraya. “Bas… bas ab chhupana chhod diya hai.”

Aage Mahnoor ne mur kar dekha — dono ko saath chalte hue. Us ne muskurakar phir phone par tawajjuh di. Lekin us ke dil mein ek baat utar gayi thi: yeh dono ek doosre ke baghair adhoore hain. Aur adhoorapan kabhi khushi nahi deta.

Ghar pohnch kar Imran ne waqai nalka theek kiya. Farah ne dekha — us ke haath ka hunar, us ki tawajjuh. Chhoti si cheez thi, lekin us mein jo mohabbat thi, woh bari thi.

Raat ko sote waqt Farah ne socha — aaj ki shaam ke baare mein. Chai ki dukaan, Imran ki baatein, us ki nazrein. Aur us ka sawal: himmat.

Us ne apne haathon ko dekha. Phir dil par haath rakha.

“Himmat,” us ne sargoshi ki. “Kya mujh mein hai?”

Jawab us ke dil se aaya — dheema, lekin saaf: “Honi chahiye.”

Us ne karwat badli, aankhein band ki. Aur pehli baar kayi raaton mein, usay neend jaldi aa gayi — gehari, sukoon bhari neend.

Bahar, aasman par taare nikal aaye thay. Toofan guzar gaya tha. Lekin ek aur toofan — dil ka toofan — ab bhi baaqi tha.

Raat ko jab ghar so gaya, to Mahnoor ne phir diary nikali. Lamp ki roshni mein us ne darmiyani panne khole — shaadi ke doosre saal ke.

*”Aaj Taimoor ne phone par kaha ke usay promotion mili hai. Main itni khush hui ke ro padi. Us ne kaha: ‘Tumhare baghair yeh khushi adhoori hai, Farah.’ Maine kaha: ‘Main hamesha tumhare saath hoon, chahe door sahi.’ Kaash maine us waqt samjha hota ke ‘door’ kitna door ho sakta hai.”*

Mahnoor ne aage parha. Har panne par mohabbat thi, aur har panne par us mohabbat ka aahista aahista murjhana.

*”Amma ki tabiyat phir kharab hui. Doctor ne kaha araam ki zaroorat hai. Taimoor ne kaha: ‘Tum fikar mat karo, main paise bhej dunga.’ Paise. Har baat ka jawab paise. Kya paise se Amma theek ho jayengi? Kya paise se meri tanhai door hogi?”*

*”Aaj Mahnoor ne university mein admission liya. Woh itni khush thi. Maine usay dekha aur socha — kam se kam ek to khush hai is ghar mein.”*

Mahnoor ruk gayi. Us ki aankhon se aansu behne lage. Us ne kabhi nahi jaana tha ke behan ne us ki khushi ke liye apni khushi qurban ki thi.

Us ne ek aur panna palta — aur thehar gayi. Yeh panna baaqi se mukhtalif tha. Siyahi gehri thi, lafz bade thay, jaise dard mein likhe gaye hon:

*”Aaj maine Taimoor ka khat jala diya. Haan, jala diya. Woh khat jis mein us ne likha tha ke ‘kaam ki wajah se is saal nahi aa sakunga’. Maine usay aag lagayi, aur dekhti rahi jab tak woh raakh na ban gaya. Phir raakh ko hawa mein ura diya. Mahnoor so rahi thi, us ne dekha nahi. Lekin maine mehsoos kiya ke us raakh ke saath meri bhi koi cheez ur gayi. Shayad ummeed. Shayad sabar. Bas itna jaanti hoon ke aaj pehli baar apne shohar se naraaz hui. Aur us naraazgi ne mujhe dara diya. Kyunke main ab bhi us se mohabbat karti hoon. Allah, main kya karun?”*

Mahnoor ka dil bhar aaya. Us ne kabhi nahi socha tha ke behan itni gehrai mein thi. Itna dard — aur sab khamoshi se.

*”Imran aaya tha aaj. Keh raha tha Bhabi aap kamzor lag rahi hain. Maine hans kar taal diya. Lekin sach yeh hai ke us ki fikar ne mujhe rula diya. Kitne arse baad kisi ne meri fikar ki thi — meri, Farah ki, na ke kisi ki biwi ya bahu ki.”*

Mahnoor ka dil dhadka. To yeh baat purani thi. Imran ki narmi, Farah ka pighalna — yeh aaj ki baat nahi thi. Yeh to barson se sulag raha tha.

Us ne aage parha, tezi se. Aur phir ek panna aaya jis ne usay hila kar rakh diya:

*”Aaj raat Taimoor ka phone aaya. Maine us se kaha ke mujhe us ki yaad aati hai. Us ne kaha: ‘Farah, tum strong ho. Tum sambhal logi.’ Strong. Haan, main strong hoon. Itni strong ke tootne ki awaz bhi koi nahi sunta.”*

*”Kabhi kabhi sochti hoon — agar main ne us din kaha hota ke ‘mat jao’, to kya hota? Kya woh ruk jata? Ya phir bhi chala jata, aur main umar bhar is baat ka bojh uthati ke maine us ke sapnon ko roka? Maine usay jaane diya. Yeh meri mohabbat thi. Aur yahi meri saza bhi.”*

Mahnoor ne diary band ki. Us ka dil toot raha tha. Us ne socha — behan ne kitna kuch seh liya, aur kabhi kisi se kuch nahi kaha. Na shikayat, na aansu. Bas khamosh qurbani.

Aur ab Imran… Mahnoor samajh gayi thi. Imran woh tha jo Farah ki khamoshi sun sakta tha. Jo us ki udaasi dekh sakta tha. Jo usay Farah ki tarah dekhta tha, na ke kisi ke rishtedari ke label se.

Lekin kya yeh sahi tha? Mahnoor uljhan mein thi. Ek taraf behan ki khushi, doosri taraf samaj ke usool, Taimoor bhai ka haq. Woh kis ka saath de?

Us ne diary wapas chhupayi, aur sochti rahi. Bahar barish ruk gayi thi. Khidki se chand nazar aa raha tha — adhoora, lekin roshan.

Agli subah — Somwar tha, lekin Imran ne ek din aur rukne ka faisla kiya tha. “Boss se baat ho gayi, Tuesday ko jaunga,” us ne nashtay par elan kiya.

Farah ne kuch nahi kaha, lekin us ke chehre par jo khushi aayi, woh chhupayi nahi ja saki. Mahnoor ne dekha, aur dil mein ek ajeeb si jalan mehsoos ki — behan ke liye khushi, aur apne liye… kya? Woh khud nahi jaanti thi.

Din bhar Imran ne ghar ke chhote chhote kaam kiye — nalka theek kiya, darwaze ka qabza kasa, balcony ke gamley saaf kiye. Farah jahan jati, woh wahan hota — lekin ab woh pehle jaisi minnat nahi karta tha. Phoolon wali raat ke baad se woh sanjeeda ho gaya tha. Koi sharaarat nahi, koi iltija nahi. Bas khamosh khidmat.

Aur yahi baat Farah ko sab se zyada bechain kar rahi thi. Pehle jab woh minnat karta tha, to inkaar karna aasaan tha. Ab jab woh chup tha, to us ki khamoshi mein jo dard tha, woh bardasht nahi hota tha.

Dopahar ko Farah ne dekha ke Imran balcony mein akela khada tha, aasman ko dekh raha tha. Woh chai le kar gayi.

“Chai piyoge?” us ne poocha.

Imran ne mur kar dekha, muskuraya — lekin woh muskurahat pheeki thi. “Shukriya, Bhabi.”

Dono ne khamoshi se chai pi. Phir Farah ne kaha, dheemi awaz mein: “Imran, us raat ke liye… mujhe maaf kar do. Maine tum se sakhti se baat ki.”

Imran ne us ki taraf dekha. “Aap ne theek kaha tha, Bhabi. Main hi… main hi had se aage barh gaya tha.”

“Nahi,” Farah ne kaha, aur us ki awaz kaanp rahi thi. “Tum ne kuch galat nahi kaha tha. Bas… bas main sunne ki himmat nahi rakh thi.”

Imran ne ek qadam aage barhaya. “Bhabi—”

“Lekin is ka matlab yeh nahi ke…” Farah ne haath uthaya, usay rokne ke liye. “Imran, main tumhare bhai ki biwi hoon. Yeh baat kabhi nahi badlegi. Tum samajhte ho na?”

Imran ne der tak usay dekha. Phir us ne sar jhukaya. “Samajhta hoon, Bhabi.”

Woh andar chala gaya. Farah balcony mein akeli reh gayi. Us ne apne haathon ko dekha — kaanp rahe thay.

Us ne jeet liya tha. Us ne apni sharam ko bacha liya tha, apne farz ko nibhaya tha. To phir dil mein yeh dard kyun tha? Yeh khaali pan kyun tha?

Us ne aasman ki taraf dekha. Badal phir jama ho rahe thay. Ek aur toofan aa raha tha.

Aur is baar, Farah ko dar tha ke woh is toofan mein beh jayegi.

Somwar ki raat ko Mahnoor ne faisla kiya.

Din bhar woh uljhan mein rahi thi. Subah behan ka chehra dekha tha — wohi purani thakan, wohi dabayi hui khwahish. Aur Imran ka chehra — wohi khamosh dard. Dono ek doosre se door bhaag rahe thay, lekin dono ki manzil ek thi.

Aur almari mein woh lifafa rakha tha: *”Farah ke liye — waqt aane par kholna.”*

Mahnoor ne socha — kaun sa waqt? Agar yeh waqt nahi, to kab? Jab behan poori tarah toot jaye? Jab Imran hamesha ke liye chala jaye? Jab zindagi guzar jaye?

Raat ke baara baje, jab ghar so gaya, to us ne lifafa nikala. Haath kaanp rahe thay. Us ne ek lamhe ke liye socha — kya mujhe yeh kholna chahiye? Yeh Apa ka khat hai, mera nahi.

Lekin phir usay diary ka aakhri panna yaad aaya: *”Chahe andar se main mar jaun, bahar se main muskurati rahungi.”*

“Nahi, Apa,” Mahnoor ne sargoshi ki. “Ab aur nahi.”

Us ne lifafa khola. Andar ek khat tha — Taimoor ki likhawat, wohi jo Mahnoor ne parchiyon par dekhi thi. Tareekh parhi: do saal purani.

Us ne parhna shuru kiya. Aur jaisay jaisay parhti gayi, us ki aankhein phailti gayi.

*”Meri Farah,*

*Agar tum yeh khat parh rahi ho, to is ka matlab hai ke waqt aa gaya hai. Kaun sa waqt? Woh waqt jab tumhein is khat ki sab se zyada zaroorat hai. Amma ko maine kaha tha ke yeh tumhein tab dein jab unhein lage ke tum tootne wali ho. Shayad woh waqt ab aa gaya hai.*

*Farah, main tum se kuch kehna chahta hoon jo maine kabhi zubaan par nahi laaya. Main jaanta hoon ke hamari shaadi ab woh nahi rahi jo kabhi thi. Main jaanta hoon ke main tumhein woh nahi de saka jo tum deserve karti thi. Na waqt, na saath, na… na woh mohabbat jo har biwi apne shohar se chahti hai.*

*Pehle main sochta tha ke paise bhej dena kaafi hai. Ke zimmedari nibhana hi mohabbat hai. Lekin ab samajh aaya hai — mohabbat zimmedari se bari hoti hai. Aur main tum se mohabbat karta tha, Farah. Shayad ab bhi karta hoon. Lekin meri mohabbat tumhein qaid karne wali nahi honi chahiye.*

*Is liye main yeh likh raha hoon: tum aazad ho.*

*Haan, tum ne sahi parha. Main tumhein is shaadi se aazad karta hoon. Maine ek wakeel se baat kar li hai. Talaq ke kagaz taiyaar hain. Jab tum chaho, jahan tum chaho, dastakhat kar dunga. Koi sawal nahi, koi shikayat nahi, koi… koi gussa nahi.*

*Kyun? Kyunke main tumhein khush dekhna chahta hoon, Farah. Chahe woh khushi mere saath ho, ya mere baghair. Tum ne chhe saal intezar kiya, qurbani di, khamoshi se sab seh liya. Ab bas. Ab tum apne liye jeeyo.*

*Aur ek baat — agar tumhari zindagi mein koi aaye, jo tumhein woh de sake jo main nahi de saka, to usay thukrana mat. Sharam ke naam par apni khushi qurban mat karna. Log kya kahenge — yeh soch kar apni zindagi mat gawana. Main tumhein ijazat deta hoon, Farah. Dil se. Khushi se.*

*Tum hamesha meri izzat rahogi. Chahe tum meri biwi raho ya na raho.*

*Apna khayal rakhna. Aur khush rehna. Yeh meri aakhri khwahish hai.*

*— Taimoor”*

Mahnoor ne khat neeche rakha. Us ke haath kaanp rahe thay, aankhon se aansu beh rahe thay.

Do saal. Do saal se yeh khat sandooq mein para tha. Amma guzar gayi theen, yeh khat diye baghair. Aur Farah — woh do saalon se ek aisi qaid mein thi jis ka darwaza khula tha, lekin usay pata hi nahi tha.

Mahnoor ka dil zor se dhadak raha tha. Ab kya kare? Yeh khat behan ko de? Ya wapas rakh de?

Us ne socha — agar main yeh khat chhupaun, to main bhi usi jurm ki shareek hongi jo qismat ne kiya tha. Behan ko us ki aazadi se mehroom rakhna — yeh to sab se bara zulm hoga.

Lekin agar de dun, to kya hoga? Kya Apa toot jayengi? Kya woh samjhengi ke Taimoor ne unhein thukra diya? Ya samjhengi ke unhein aazadi mili hai?

Mahnoor ne khat dobara parha. Phir teesri baar. Har baar usay Taimoor ki mohabbat saaf nazar aayi — woh mohabbat jo chhodne mein thi, na ke pakadne mein.

Us ne faisla kiya. Subah woh yeh khat behan ko degi. Chahe jo ho.

Us ne khat lifafe mein wapas rakha, takiye ke neeche chhupaya, aur let gayi. Lekin neend nahi aayi. Zehen mein sawal ghoom rahe thay.

Kya Apa Imran ko chunengi? Kya Imran wapas aayega — us ki khamoshi tootegi? Kya Taimoor sach mein itna bara dil rakhta hai, ya yeh khat koi chaal hai?

Aur sab se bara sawal — kya mohabbat waqai itni badi ho sakti hai ke apne mehboob ko kisi aur ke hawale kar de?

Mahnoor ne karwat badli. Usay Zoya ka khayal aaya — us ki dost, jo Lahore mein us ka intezar kar rahi thi. Zoya ne kaha tha: “Tum kabhi apne liye nahi jeeti, Mahnoor. Hamesha Apa ke liye, Amma ke liye. Kabhi apne liye jee kar dekho.”

Shayad Zoya sahi kehti thi. Shayad ab waqt tha — apne liye jeene ka. Nayi job, naya sheher, nayi zindagi. Dar lag raha tha, lekin us dar mein koi ummeed bhi thi.

“Kal,” us ne sargoshi ki, “kal sab badal jayega. Mere liye bhi, Apa ke liye bhi.”

Bahar bijli chamki. Barish phir shuru ho gayi — tez, musalsal. Jaise aasman bhi is raaz ko sun kar ro raha ho.

Mahnoor ne khidki se bahar dekha. Andhere mein kuch nazar nahi aa raha tha. Bas barish ki awaz thi — ek purani kahani ki tarah, jo ab naya mor lene wali thi.

Us ne takiye ke neeche haath rakha, lifafe ko mehsoos kiya. “Kal,” us ne phir kaha. “Kal sab badal jayega.”

Aur woh sahi thi. Kal sab kuch badalne wala tha.

Mangal ki subah Mahnoor ne nashta nahi kiya. Woh bas Farah ka intezar karti rahi. Imran apne kamre mein tha — us ne kaha tha ke dopahar ko Lahore ke liye nikal jayega, kuch kaam aa gaya hai.

Jab Farah kitchen se farigh hui, to Mahnoor ne us ka haath pakda. “Apa, mere kamre mein aao. Tum se baat karni hai.”

“Kya hua? Tabiyat theek hai?” Farah ne fikar se poocha.

“Bas aao.”

Kamre mein aa kar Mahnoor ne darwaza band kiya. Phir takiye ke neeche se lifafa nikala, aur behan ki taraf barhaya.

“Yeh kya hai?” Farah ne poocha.

“Parh lo. Phir baat karte hain.”

Farah ne lifafa khola, khat nikala. Pehli satar parhi — aur us ka chehra safed ho gaya. Us ne baithna pada. Bistar par baith kar us ne poora khat parha. Phir dobara parha. Us ke haath itna kaanp rahe thay ke kagaz hawa mein hil raha tha.

“Yeh… yeh kahan se mila?” us ki awaz phasi hui thi.

“Sandooq se. Amma ki cheezon mein tha.” Mahnoor behan ke paas baith gayi. “Do saal purana hai, Apa. Taimoor bhai ne Amma ko diya tha, tumhein dene ke liye.”

Farah ne khat ko dekha, phir behan ko. “Do… do saal?”

“Haan.”

“Do saal se…” Farah ki awaz toot gayi. “Do saal se main ek qaid mein thi jis ka darwaza khula tha?”

Mahnoor ne behan ko galey lagaya. Farah ne pehle to khud ko roka, phir toot gayi. Woh bachon ki tarah roi — zor zor se, hichkiyan lete hue. Barson ka dard, barson ki tanhai, barson ki khamoshi — sab aansuon mein beh gaya.

Mahnoor ne usay rone diya. Kuch nahi kaha. Bas us ke baalon mein haath pherti rahi, jaise bachpan mein karti thi jab Farah ko chot lagti thi.

Jab rona thama, to Farah ne khat phir uthaya. “Us ne… us ne mujhe chhod diya?”

“Nahi, Apa.” Mahnoor ne narmi se kaha. “Us ne tumhein aazad kiya. Farq hai.”

Farah ne khat ki aakhri satrein dobara parhi: *”Tum hamesha meri izzat rahogi. Chahe tum meri biwi raho ya na raho.”*

“Woh mujh se mohabbat karta tha,” Farah ne sargoshi ki. “Sach mein karta tha. Aur maine… maine usay kabhi samjha hi nahi.”

“Tum ne usay samjha tha, Apa. Tum ne us ke liye apni zindagi de di. Bas us ne tumhein wapas tumhari zindagi de di.”

Farah ne khidki se bahar dekha. Dopahar ki dhup nikal aayi thi, badalon ke peeche se. “To ab? Ab main kya karun, Mahnoor?”

“Jo tumhara dil chahe.”

“Mera dil?” Farah ne talkh hansi hansi. “Mera dil to maine barson pehle dafan kar diya tha. Ab us ki qabr par sirf… sirf dar hai. Log kya kahenge, Mahnoor? Agar main talaq le lun, to duniya kya kahegi?”

“Duniya?” Mahnoor uth khadi hui. “Apa, duniya ne tumhein kya diya hai? Duniya ne tumhari tanhai dekhi? Tumhare aansu dekhe? Nahi! Duniya sirf baatein karti hai. Aur tum un baaton ke liye apni poori zindagi qurban kar dogi?”

Farah khamosh rahi. Mahnoor ne us ke saamne ghutne tek diye, us ke haath pakde.

“Apa, suno. Main tumhein kuch batana chahti hoon. Woh diary — maine parhi hai.”

Farah ka chehra surkh ho gaya. “Tum ne…?”

“Haan. Aur mujhe maaf kar do. Lekin us diary ne mujhe samjhaya ke tum ne kitna seh liya hai.” Mahnoor ki aankhon mein aansu thay. “Aur us diary mein ek baat aur likhi thi — Imran ke baare mein. Tum ne likha tha ke us ki fikar ne tumhein rulaya tha.”

Farah ne nazrein jhuka li. “Woh purani baat hai.”

“Purani nahi, Apa. Woh baat aaj bhi hai. Maine dekha hai — tum dono ko dekha hai.” Mahnoor ne behan ka chehra uthaya. “Apa, Taimoor bhai ne tumhein ijazat de di hai. Ab tumhein khud ko ijazat deni hai.”

“Mahnoor, woh mera devar hai!”

“To kya? Woh sattais saal ka hai, tum untees ki. Dono samajhdar, dono… ” Mahnoor ruk gayi. “Apa, main yeh nahi keh rahi ke tum foran kuch karo. Main sirf keh rahi hoon ke apne dil ka darwaza band mat karo. Taimoor bhai ne darwaza khol diya hai. Ab tumhein us mein se guzarna hai ya nahi, yeh tumhara faisla hai.”

Farah ne der tak behan ko dekha. Phir us ne khat seene se lagaya, aur khidki ke paas ja khadi hui.

“Imran dopahar ko ja raha hai,” us ne kaha.

“Haan.”

“Usay rokun?”

Mahnoor muskurayi. “Yeh faisla bhi tumhara hai, Apa.”

Farah ne aasman ko dekha. Badal chhat rahe thay, lekin un ke peeche neelapan nazar aa raha tha. Pehli baar kayi saalon mein, usay laga ke saans lena aasaan ho gaya hai.

Lekin saath hi dar bhi tha — itna bara dar ke us ki taangein kaanp rahi theen. Aazadi milna ek baat hai, usay jeena doosri.

Us ne khat ko phir dekha. Taimoor ki likhawat — jaani pehchani, lekin ab ajnabi lagti hui.

“Taimoor,” us ne sargoshi ki, “tum ne mujhe aazad to kar diya. Lekin kya main aazad hona chahti hoon?”

Jawab mein sirf hawa ki sar-sarahat thi. Aur door kahin, Imran ke kamre se us ke bag band karne ki awaz.

Waqt kam tha. Faisla qareeb tha.

Us raat Mahnoor so nahi payi. Behan ko khat de diya tha, lekin ab us ke apne dil mein ek bojh tha — ek raaz jo us ne kabhi kisi se nahi kaha tha, khud se bhi nahi.

Woh balcony mein aayi. Raat ke do baj rahe thay. Aasman saaf tha, taare nikle hue thay. Neeche gali sunsaan thi. Mahnoor ne apne paudon ko dekha — Gulabo murjha rahi thi, paani ki zaroorat thi. Us ne muskurakar usay paani diya.

“Gulabo, tum bhi pyasi ho, main bhi,” us ne sargoshi ki.

Sach yeh tha ke Mahnoor bhi Imran ko pasand karti thi. Haan, yeh sach tha. Do saal pehle jab woh aaya tha, to Mahnoor ne usay pehli baar… nahi, pehli baar nahi. Bachpan se jaanti thi usay. Lekin do saal pehle us ne usay pehli baar ek mard ki tarah dekha tha. Us ki hansi, us ka khayal rakhna, us ka mazboot hona.

Us ne kabhi kuch kaha nahi tha. Kyunke woh jaanti thi — Imran ki nazrein hamesha Farah par hoti theen. Hamesha. Bachpan se. Jab sab kehte thay ke Taimoor aur Farah ki jodi achi hai, to Imran chup rehta tha. Lekin us ki aankhein kehti theen kuch aur.

Mahnoor ne apni is kamzori ko kabhi zahir nahi hone diya tha. Na behan se, na Imran se. Bas kabhi kabhi, jab woh usay dekhti, to dil mein ek chubhan hoti.

Trail par us ne jo tasveer li thi — behan aur Imran ki, haath mein haath — usay dekh kar woh roi thi. Khushi se bhi, aur dard se bhi. Khushi is liye ke behan khush thi. Dard is liye ke woh khushi us ki nahi thi.

“Yeh galat hai,” us ne khud se kaha tha. “Woh teri behan hai. Tujhe khush hona chahiye.”

Aur woh khush thi. Lekin insaan ka dil itna seedha nahi hota. Us mein khushi aur dard ek saath reh sakte hain.

Agli subah — Budh ki subah — Mahnoor ne faisla kiya ke woh behan se sab kuch kahegi. Raaz rakhna ab aur mushkil tha.

Nashtay ke baad, jab Imran bahar gaya tha — keh raha tha kuch samaan lena hai — to Mahnoor Farah ke paas aayi.

“Apa, mujhe tum se baat karni hai,” us ne kaha.

Farah ne usay dekha — us ki aankhein sooyi hui theen, chehra thaka hua. Raat bhar woh Taimoor ke khat ke baare mein sochti rahi thi.

“Kaho.”

Mahnoor ne gehri saans li. “Apa, main… main tum se jhoot nahi bolna chahti. Is liye sach keh rahi hoon — main bhi Imran ko pasand karti thi.”

Farah ka chehra safed ho gaya. “Kya?”

“Pasand karti thi,” Mahnoor ne jaldi se kaha. “Ab nahi. Ya shayad ab bhi thoda. Mujhe nahi pata. Lekin main yeh jaanti hoon ke us ka dil tumhare paas hai, Apa. Hamesha se tumhare paas tha. Aur mera… mera dil sirf wehem tha.”

“Mahnoor—”

“Suno, Apa.” Mahnoor ne behan ke haath pakde. “Main tumhein yeh is liye bata rahi hoon ke hamare darmiyan koi deewar na ho. Main nahi chahti ke kal ko tumhein lage ke maine tum se kuch chhupaya. Aur main yeh bhi batana chahti hoon ke maine faisla kar liya hai.”

“Kaisa faisla?”

“Main tum dono ke darmiyan nahi aaungi. Kabhi nahi.” Mahnoor ki awaz mazboot thi. “Aur doosra faisla — main Lahore ja rahi hoon.”

Farah chaunk gayi. “Lahore? Kyun?”

“Zoya ne mujhe ek job dilwayi hai. Ek achi company mein, senior designer ki post. Tankhwah dogni.” Mahnoor ne muskurane ki koshish ki. “Main ne hamesha socha tha ke main tumhein chhod kar nahi ja sakti. Tum akeli ho, tumhein meri zaroorat hai. Lekin ab… ab mujhe lagta hai ke tumhein meri zaroorat nahi, tumhein apni zaroorat hai. Apne liye jeene ki.”

“Mahnoor, tum mujhe chhod kar ja rahi ho?” Farah ki aankhon mein aansu aa gaye.

“Nahi, Apa.” Mahnoor ne behan ko galey lagaya. “Main tumhein aazad kar rahi hoon. Aur khud ko bhi. Hum dono ne apni zindagi ek doosre ke liye jee hai. Ab waqt hai ke hum apne liye jeein.”

Dono behnein der tak ek doosre se lipat kar roi. Bachpan ki yaadein, Amma ki baatein, saath guzare din — sab aankhon ke saamne aa gaye.

“Yeh ghar…” Farah ne kaha.

“Yeh ghar tumhara hai, Apa. Hamesha rahega. Main aati jaati rahungi.” Mahnoor ne aansu ponchhe. “Lekin ab yeh ghar sirf yaadon ka nahi, zindagi ka hona chahiye.”

Usi waqt darwaze par dastak hui. Imran tha — haathon mein theelay, chehre par thakan.

“Main aa gaya,” us ne kaha, lekin kamre ka mahaul dekh kar ruk gaya. “Kya hua? Sab theek hai?”

Dono behnon ne ek doosre ko dekha. Phir Farah ne kaha, awaz sambhal kar: “Sab theek hai. Tum batao, samaan mil gaya?”

“Haan.” Imran ne theelay rakhe. “Aur… maine bus ki ticket le li hai. Kal subah ki. Lahore wapas.”

Farah ka dil ruk gaya. “Kal subah?”

“Haan. Kaam hai, rukna mushkil hai.” Imran ne us ki taraf dekha — gehri, udaas nazron se. “Bhabi, aap apna khayal rakhiyega.”

Farah ne sar hilaya, lekin kuch keh nahi payi. Us ke galey mein kuch atak gaya tha.

Imran apne kamre mein chala gaya. Mahnoor ne behan ka haath dabaya. “Apa, tumhare paas aaj ki raat hai. Kal subah woh chala jayega. Phir… phir pata nahi kab aaye.”

Farah ne khidki se bahar dekha. Aasman par badal jama ho rahe thay — kaale, gehre. Mausam wale keh rahe thay ke raat ko toofan aayega.

“Toofan,” Farah ne sargoshi ki.

“Haan, Apa.” Mahnoor ne us ke kandhe par haath rakha. “Bahar bhi, aur shayad andar bhi. Lekin yaad rakho — toofan ke baad hamesha safai hoti hai. Hawa saaf ho jati hai.”

Farah ne behan ko dekha. Us ki chhoti behan — jo ab itni bari ho gayi thi ke usay zindagi ke faisle sikha rahi thi.

“Mahnoor,” us ne kaha, “tum sach mein ja rahi ho?”

“Jaa rahi hoon, Apa. Lekin pehle tumhara faisla dekh kar jaungi.” Mahnoor muskurayi. “Do behnoon ka faisla — yaad hai? Amma kehti theen ke hum dono mil kar jo faisla karein, woh kabhi galat nahi hota.”

Farah ne bhi muskurane ki koshish ki. “Amma bohat si baatein kehti theen.”

“Aur un ki har baat sahi hoti thi.”

Dono khamosh ho gayi. Phir Mahnoor ne dheemi awaz mein kaha: “Apa, tumhein yaad hai? Jab hum chhoti theen, to Amma humein ek kahani sunati theen — do behnoon ki kahani.”

Farah muskurayi. “Wohi — jin mein se ek ne apni khushi qurban kar di thi doosri ke liye?”

“Haan. Aur aakhir mein Amma kehti theen: ‘Dekho, qurbani achi cheez hai. Lekin jo apni poori zindagi qurban kar de, woh bewakoof hai. Allah ne zindagi jeene ke liye di hai, dafan karne ke liye nahi.'”

Farah ki aankhon mein aansu aa gaye. “Amma ne yeh kab kaha tha?”

“Jab tumhari shaadi tay hui thi.” Mahnoor ne behan ka haath pakda. “Tumhein yaad nahi? Tum dari hui thi — naye ghar ka dar, naye logon ka dar. Amma ne tumhein galey lagaya tha aur kaha tha: ‘Farah, shaadi qurbani ka naam nahi, saath ka naam hai. Agar kabhi lage ke tum akeli ho, to wapas aa jana. Mera darwaza hamesha khula hai.'”

Farah ne apne aansu ponchhe. “Amma… Amma sab jaanti theen.”

“Haan. Woh tumhein samajhti theen, Apa. Shayad tum se zyada.” Mahnoor ne khidki ki taraf dekha. “Aur aaj agar woh hoti, to tum se kya kehti? Socha hai?”

Farah ne socha. Amma ka chehra aankhon ke saamne aaya — muskurata hua, narm. Aur usay laga ke woh sun rahi hai: “Farah, meri bachi. Ab bas. Ab apne liye jee.”

” Woh kehti,” Farah ne sargoshi ki, “‘Ab bas, meri bachi.'”

“Haan,” Mahnoor ne kaha. “Wohi kehti.”

Dono behnein der tak khamosh baithi rahi — Amma ki yaad mein, un ki baaton mein. Bahar badal garja. Pehli boond khidki par giri.

Raat aa rahi thi. Aur us ke saath — faisle ki ghadi.

Raat ke nau baje toofan aaya.

Pehle hawa tez hui — itni tez ke balcony ke gamle girne lage. Phir bijli chamki, itni qareeb ke ghar hil gaya. Phir barish — musladhar, tez, jaise aasman phat gaya ho.

Bijli chali gayi. Ghar andhere mein doob gaya. Mahnoor ne mom-battiyan jalayein, drawing room mein rakhein. Teenon wahin baithe — khamosh, barish ki awaz sunte hue.

“Bohat tez hai,” Mahnoor ne kaha. “Aisa lagta hai chhat ur jayegi.”

Imran utha, khidkiyan band karne laga. Farah ne dekha — us ka har kaam mein jo ehtiyat thi, jo fikar thi. Us ka dil bhar aaya.

“Baitho,” us ne kaha. “Chai banati hoon.”

“Main banata hoon,” Imran ne kaha. “Aap baithiye.”

Us ne andhere mein hi chai banayi — adrak wali, tez. Teenon ne pi. Koi zyada baat nahi ki. Bas barish ki awaz thi, aur mom-batti ki roshni mein teen chehre.

Das baje Mahnoor uthi. “Main soti hoon. Kal jaldi uthna hai — packing karni hai.”

Woh apne kamre mein chali gayi — lekin darwaza poori tarah band nahi kiya. Us ne socha — jo hona hai, hone do. Ab behan ka waqt hai.

Drawing room mein Farah aur Imran akela reh gaye. Mom-batti ki roshni halki thi, un ke chehre aadhe ujale mein, aadhe andhere mein.

Thodi der khamoshi rahi. Phir Imran ne kaha: “Bhabi, main kal ja raha hoon.”

“Jaanti hoon.”

“Aur shayad… shayad phir kabhi na aaun.”

Farah ne usay dekha. “Kyun?”

Imran ne gehri saans li. Phir woh utha, khidki ke paas gaya. Barish sheeshe par baj rahi thi. Bijli chamki, us ka chehra roshan hua — sanjeeda, thaka hua, lekin aankhon mein wohi chamak.

“Bhabi, main aap se jhoot nahi bolunga. Not tonight.” Us ne mur kar usay dekha. “Main aap se mohabbat karta hoon.”

Farah ki saans ruk gayi. “Imran—”

“Sunein. Bas aaj raat sun lein. Phir main chala jaunga, aur kabhi yeh baat nahi dohraunga.” Imran ki awaz mein dard tha, lekin koi zabardasti nahi. “Main aap se bachpan se mohabbat karta hoon, Bhabi. Jab bhai ne aap se shaadi ki, to maine apne dil ko dafan kar diya. Maine socha — woh bari hai, woh khush hai, mujhe koi haq nahi. Lekin har baar jab aata tha, aap ko dekhta tha — aap ki tanhai, aap ka intezar — to mera dil toot-ta tha.”

“Imran, please—” Farah ki aankhon mein aansu thay.

“Nahi, aaj kehne dein.” Imran ne haath uthaya. “Main aap se kuch nahi maang raha, Bhabi. Na aap ka haath, na koi wada. Main sirf yeh kehna chahta hoon ke aap is duniya ki sab se khubsurat, sab se neik aurat hain. Aur jo bhi aap ka saath dega, woh khush-naseeb hoga.”

Farah ne apne aansu ponchhe. “Imran, tum… tum kyun kar rahe ho yeh? Tumhein kya milega?”

Imran ne us ki taraf dekha — aur us ki aankhon mein jo tha, woh koi hisaab nahi tha, koi sauda nahi tha.

“Milega?” Us ne halka sa hansa. “Bhabi, mohabbat mein milne ki baat nahi hoti. Denge ki baat hoti hai. Main ne aap ko dekha hai — har baar jab aata hoon. Aap sab ke liye khana banati hain, sab ka khayal rakhti hain, sab ko hansati hain. Lekin jab sab so jate hain, to aap akeli khidki ke paas khadi hoti hain. Maine dekha hai, Bhabi. Kayi baar dekha hai.”

Farah ka dil dhadka. “Tum ne… dekha?”

“Haan. Aur har baar mera dil kehta tha — kaash main aap ke paas ja sakun. Kaash aap ke kandhe par haath rakh kar keh sakun ke aap akeli nahi hain.” Imran ki awaz bhar gayi. “Lekin main kabhi nahi gaya. Kyunke main jaanta tha — aap ki duniya mein meri jagah nahi hai. Aap kisi aur ki amanat hain.”

“To ab kyun aaye ho?” Farah ne poocha, awaz kaanpti hui. “Ab kya badal gaya?”

“Ab…” Imran ne gehri saans li. “Ab Taimoor bhai ne khud kaha hai ke woh amanat nahi rahi. Ab aap… ab aap sirf Farah hain. Aur main — main sirf Imran hoon. Koi rishta nahi, koi label nahi. Bas do insaan.”

Us ne jeb se ek chhota sa dibba nikala. Farah ki taraf barhaya.

“Yeh kya hai?”

“Khol kar dekhein.”

Farah ne kaanpte haathon se dibba khola. Andar ek naazuk si payal thi — chandi ki, ghungru wali.

“Yeh…” Farah ki awaz phat gayi.

“Yaad hai? Bachpan mein aap ne kaha tha ke aap ko payal bohat pasand hai, lekin kabhi pehni nahi.” Imran muskuraya — udaas muskurahat. “Maine Lahore ke bazaar se li thi. Socha tha… socha tha aap ko dunga.”

Farah ne payal ko dekha. Uski chamak mom-batti ki roshni mein naach rahi thi.

“Imran, main yeh nahi le sakti,” us ne kaha, lekin us ki awaz mein inkaar se zyada dard tha.

“Kyun nahi le sakti?” Imran ne narmi se poocha. “Bhabi, Taimoor bhai ne aap ko aazad kar diya hai.”

Farah chaunk gayi. “Tumhein… tumhein kaise pata?”

“Mahnoor ne bataya. Thodi der pehle.” Imran ne sar jhukaya. “Mujhe maaf kar dein, main ne chori se nahi suna. Us ne khud bataya — keh rahi thi ke aap ko faisla karna hai, aur mujhe intezar karna chahiye.”

Farah ne payal ko band kiya, dibba mez par rakha. “Imran, tum nahi samajhte. Khat mil jana ek baat hai, usay jeena doosri. Main… main darti hoon.”

“Kis se?”

“Sab se! Logon se, duniya se, khud se!” Farah uth khadi hui, khidki tak gayi. “Tum samajhte kyun nahi? Main untees saal ki hoon, Imran. Meri shaadi hui thi. Agar main… agar main tumhein haan keh dun, to log kya kahenge? Ke devar ne bhabhi ko phansa liya? Ke Farah bewafa nikli?”

“Logon ko jaane dein, Bhabi.” Imran bhi utha, lekin us se faasla rakha. “Main aap se sirf ek sawal poochta hoon — aap kya chahti hain? Logon ko bhool jayein, duniya ko bhool jayein. Bas apne dil se poochein. Aap kya chahti hain?”

Farah ne usay dekha. Barish ki awaz tez thi. Bijli chamki. Us ke chehre par aansu thay — ya barish ki boondein, jo khidki se andar aa gayi theen.

“Main…” us ne kaha, aur ruk gayi.

“Haan?” Imran ne ek qadam aage barhaya. Phir ruk gaya — jaise khud ko rok raha ho. “Bhabi, main aap par koi dabao nahi daal raha. Agar aap ka jawab na hai, to main usay izzat se qabool karunga. Aur kal chala jaunga. Lekin agar… agar aap ke dil mein haan hai, to usay dar ke peeche mat chhupayein.”

Farah ne apne haathon ko dekha — khaali ungliyan, jahan kabhi angoothi hoti thi.

“Imran,” us ne kaha, awaz kaanpti hui, “mujhe… mujhe sochne do. Ek raat. Bas ek raat.”

Imran ne sar hilaya. “Jitna waqt chahiye, le lein. Main intezar karunga. Umar bhar kar sakta hoon.”

Us ne payal ka dibba uthaya, Farah ke haath mein rakha. “Yeh aap ki hai. Chahe pehnein ya na pehnein. Lekin yeh yaad rakhein — koi hai jo aap ko khush dekhna chahta hai. Bina kisi shart ke.”

Phir woh apne kamre mein chala gaya. Darwaza band hua — halka sa, bina awaz ke.

Farah akeli reh gayi. Haath mein payal ka dibba, dil mein toofan. Bahar barish thi, andar us se bara toofan.

Us ne dibba khola, payal nikali. Ungliyon mein li — halki, thandi, khubsurat. Us ne usay apne takhne ke paas rakha — sirf dekha, pehna nahi.

“Main kya chahti hoon?” us ne khud se poocha.

Jawab us ke dil mein tha — itna saaf, itna roshan ke usay dar lag raha tha. Us ne aankhein band ki, payal seene se lagayi.

Bahar bijli chamki. Barish aur tez ho gayi. Jaise aasman us ke faisle ka intezar kar raha ho.

Aur Farah jaanti thi — subah tak usay jawab dena hoga. Haan ya na. Zindagi ya maut — dil ki maut.

Us ne mom-batti bujhayi, andhere mein baith gayi. Aur sochti rahi. Sochti rahi. Sochti rahi.

Farah ne poori raat aankhon mein kaati.

Woh bistar par leti rahi, chhat ko dekhti rahi. Zehen mein baatein ghoom rahi theen — Taimoor ka khat, Mahnoor ke lafz, Imran ki aankhein. Payal ka dibba takiye ke paas rakha tha.

Raat ke teen baje woh uthi. Diary nikali — sandooq wali, jo Mahnoor ne wapas rakh di thi. Aakhri panna khola: *”Chahe andar se main mar jaun, bahar se main muskurati rahungi.”*

Us ne us satar ko dekha, der tak. Phir us ne kalam uthaya, aur us ke neeche likha:

*”Aaj se nahi. Aaj se main jeeungi.”*

Us ne diary band ki. Phir Taimoor ka khat nikala — woh ab us ke paas tha, Mahnoor ne de diya tha. Us ne aakhri satrein phir parhi: *”Khush rehna. Yeh meri aakhri khwahish hai.”*

“Taimoor,” us ne sargoshi ki, “tum ne mujhe aazad kiya. Ab main khud ko aazad karti hoon.”

Lekin phir woh ruk gayi. Us ne apne dil se poocha — sach, poora sach.

Kya main Imran ko chahti hoon? Ya main sirf tanhai se bhaag rahi hoon?

Jawab aaya — dheere, lekin saaf. Haan, woh usay chahti thi. Us ki fikar ko, us ki izzat ko, us ki mohabbat ko. Us ke haathon ki garmi ko, us ki aankhon ki narmi ko. Yeh tanhai ka sauda nahi tha. Yeh dil ka faisla tha.

Aur doosra sawal — kya main taiyaar hoon? Logon ki baaton ke liye, duniya ki nazron ke liye?

Jawab: nahi. Woh taiyaar nahi thi. Lekin us ne socha — kya kabhi koi taiyaar hota hai? Amma kehti theen: “Himmat taiyaari se nahi aati, qadam uthane se aati hai.”

Us ne apne pairon ko dekha — nange paon, thande farsh par. Phir us ne payal ka dibba uthaya.

“Qadam,” us ne sargoshi ki. “Pehla qadam.”

Us ne khidki kholi. Barish tham gayi thi. Aasman saaf ho raha tha, taare nikal aaye thay. Hawa thandi thi, taaza. Toofan guzar gaya tha.

Farah ne gehri saans li. Pehli baar kayi saalon mein, usay laga ke woh saans le rahi hai — waqai saans le rahi hai, na ke sirf zinda rehne ke liye hawa andar bahar kar rahi hai.

Us ne sheeshe mein khud ko dekha. Untees saal ki aurat — aankhon mein neend ki kami, lekin us ke peeche kuch aur. Koi chamak. Koi faisla.

Us ne payal ka dibba uthaya. Khola. Payal nikali. Aur phir — dheere dheere, jaise koi rasm ada kar rahi ho — us ne payal apne daayein takhne mein pehni.

Ghungru ki halki si chhan-chhan hui. Farah ne apne paon ko dekha. Muskurayi — pehli baar, dil se.

“Amma,” us ne tasveer ki taraf dekh kar kaha, “aap kehti theen na — do behnein mil kar jo faisla karein, woh kabhi galat nahi hota. Aaj maine faisla kar liya hai. Dua karna.”

Subah paanch baje azan hui. Farah ne namaz parhi. Phir woh kitchen mein gayi, chai banayi. Aaj us ke haathon mein koi kampan nahi tha. Aaj us ke qadam mein koi hichkichahat nahi thi.

Chhe baje Imran ka darwaza khula. Woh bag kandhe par liye nikla — taiyaar, jaane ke liye. Us ne drawing room mein Farah ko dekha — chai ki piyali haath mein, khidki ke paas khadi.

“Bhabi?” Us ki awaz mein hairat thi. “Aap… aap itni jaldi uth gayi?”

Farah ne mur kar usay dekha. Us ke chehre par muskurahat thi — wohi muskurahat jo Imran ne barson se dekhne ki tamanna ki thi. Khuli, roshan, be-khauf.

“Chai piyoge?” us ne poocha.

Imran ne bag neeche rakha. “Bhabi, meri bus saat baje ki hai.”

“Jaanti hoon.” Farah ne chai ki piyali us ki taraf barhayi. “Lekin pehle meri baat suno.”

Imran ne piyali li. Us ke haath kaanp rahe thay.

Farah ne gehri saans li. Phir us ne kaha — saaf, mazboot awaz mein, bina kisi hichkichahat ke:

“Imran, maine poori raat socha. Aur maine faisla kar liya hai.”

Imran ki saans ruk gayi. “Kaisa… kaisa faisla?”

Farah ne us ki aankhon mein dekha — seedha, gehra. “Main Taimoor ki biwi thi. Us ne mujhe aazad kar diya. Mahnoor ne mujhe samjhaya. Lekin yeh faisla…” Us ne ek qadam aage barhaya. “Yeh faisla maine khud kiya hai. Kisi ke kehne par nahi, kisi ke dabao mein nahi. Apne dil se.”

Us ne apna paon thoda aage kiya — payal ki chhan-chhan hui.

“Yeh dekho,” us ne kaha, muskurate hue. “Maine pehen li.”

Imran ne payal ko dekha, phir Farah ko. Us ki aankhon mein aansu aa gaye. “Bhabi… matlab?”

“Matlab yeh,” Farah ne kaha, aur us ki awaz mein jo tha, woh minnat nahi thi, majboori nahi thi — khushi thi, chahat thi, ikhtiyar tha. “Ke main tumhein haan kehti hoon, Imran. Dil se haan. Bina dar ke, bina sharam ke. Main tumhein chahti hoon — aaj se nahi, shayad barson se. Bas kehne ki himmat aaj aayi hai.”

Imran ne piyali mez par rakhi. Us ke haath ab bhi kaanp rahe thay. “Bhabi, aap… aap yaqeen se keh rahi hain? Koi jaldi nahi, koi—”

“Koi jaldi nahi,” Farah ne us ki baat kaati, narmi se. “Koi dabao nahi. Imran, tum ne mujh se kabhi kuch nahi maanga. Tum ne sirf diya hai — izzat, fikar, mohabbat. Aur aaj main tumhein dena chahti hoon. Apni marzi se. Apni khushi se.”

Us ne apna haath barhaya. Imran ne us ka haath pakda — dono ke haath garam thay, mazboot thay.

“To phir,” Imran ne kaha, aankhon mein aansu aur honthon par muskurahat, “kya main aap ko galey laga sakta hoon?”

Farah ne sar hilaya. “Haan.”

Imran ne usay apni baahon mein liya — aahista, ehtiyat se, jaise koi qeemti cheez sambhal raha ho. Farah ne apna sar us ke seene par rakha. Us ki dhadkan suni — tez, mazboot. Us ne apni dhadkan bhi suni — usi raftaar par.

Dono der tak aise khade rahe. Bahar subah ki roshni phail rahi thi. Pahadiyan saaf nazar aa rahi theen — dhuli hui, hari bhari.

“Bus?” Farah ne poocha, sar uthaye baghair.

“Bus gayi bhaad mein,” Imran ne kaha, aur dono hans pade.

Farah ne usay dekha. “Tum ruko ge?”

“Agar aap kahein to umar bhar ruk jaunga.”

“Umar bhar ka wada mat karo,” Farah ne sharaarat se kaha. “Pehle aaj ka din guzaro.”

Imran ne us ka haath chuma — narmi se, izzat se. “Jo hukum, meri… ”

Woh ruk gaya. “Meri kya?”

Farah ne socha. “Meri” ke baad kya aata hai? Bhabi? Nahi, ab woh rishta badal gaya tha. Mehbooba? Shayad. Lekin sab se pehle —

“Meri Farah,” us ne khud kaha, muskurate hue. “Bas Farah.”

Imran ne us ka naam dohraya, jaise koi dua parh raha ho: “Farah.”

Usi waqt Mahnoor ke kamre ka darwaza khula. Woh bahar aayi, dono ko dekh kar ruk gayi. Phir us ki nazar Farah ke takhne par padi — payal ki chhan-chhan.

Us ke chehre par muskurahat phail gayi — bari, khushi se bhari. “To faisla ho gaya?”

Farah ne behan ko dekha, phir Imran ko. Us ne Imran ka haath mazbooti se pakda, sab ke saamne.

“Haan,” us ne kaha. “Do behnoon ka faisla — poora ho gaya.”

Mahnoor daud kar aayi, dono ko galey lagaya. Teenon der tak aise khade rahe — ek naya rishta, ek nayi shuruaat.

Bahar dhup nikal aayi thi. Sunehri, garam. Toofan ke baad ki subah — saaf, roshan, nayi.

Aur is ghar mein, pehli baar kayi saalon mein, khushi thi. Waqai khushi. Bina dar ke, bina sharam ke.

Mahnoor subah hi nikal gayi thi — “Zoya se milna hai, job ke kagaz dekhne hain,” keh kar. Lekin jate jate us ne behan ko aankh mari thi, aur sargoshi mein kaha tha: “Aaj ka din tumhara hai, Apa. Poora din.”

Farah samajh gayi thi. Us ka chehra surkh ho gaya tha, lekin us ne inkaar nahi kiya.

Din bhar ghar mein ek ajeeb si khamoshi thi — woh khamoshi jo toofan se pehle nahi, toofan ke baad hoti hai. Jab sab kuch keh diya gaya ho, aur ab sirf mehsoos karna baaqi ho.

Dopahar ko Imran ne khana banaya — pehli baar. Daal jal gayi, chawal kachche reh gaye. Farah hansti rahi.

“Tum engineer ho, bawarchi nahi,” us ne kaha.

“To aap sikha dein,” Imran ne kaha, us ke paas aate hue. “Umar bhar ke liye student banne ko taiyaar hoon.”

Farah ne usay dekha. Kitchen ki khidki se dhup aa rahi thi, us ke chehre par par rahi thi. Woh itna qareeb tha ke us ki saanson ki garmi mehsoos ho rahi thi.

“Imran,” us ne dheemi awaz mein kaha.

“Hmm?”

“Main… main ghabra rahi hoon.”

Imran ne ek qadam peeche hata — izzat se, faasla de kar. “To hum ruk jate hain, Farah. Jitna waqt chahiye.”

Farah ne usay dekha — us ki samajh, us ka sabr. Aur usi lamhe us ka dar pighal gaya.

“Nahi,” us ne kaha, aur us ne khud Imran ka haath pakda. “Rukna nahi chahti. Bas… bas kehna chahti thi ke yeh mere liye pehli baar hai. Pehli baar apni marzi se.”

Imran ne us ke haath ko apne honthon se lagaya. “Mere liye bhi pehli baar hai, Farah. Pehli baar kisi ko itni shiddat se chahna.”

Woh dono drawing room mein aaye. Barish ki halki phuar phir shuru ho gayi thi — naram, sangeet jaisi. Farah ne khidki kholi, hawa andar aayi.

Imran ne us ke peeche khade ho kar us ke baalon ko chhua — aahista, jaise koi khwab chhu raha ho. Farah ne aankhein band ki. Us ke joode ki pin nikali, baal khul gaye — kaale, lambe, khushbudar.

“Tum khubsurat ho,” Imran ne sargoshi ki.

Farah mur gayi. Un ki nazrein mili — gehri, be-khauf. Us ne Imran ke chehre ko apne haathon mein liya. Us ki ungliyan us ke gaalon par phisli — thaki hui jild, halki dari.

“Main ne kabhi…” us ne kaha, “kabhi aise nahi dekha kisi ko.”

“Aise kaise?”

“Jaise tum dekhte ho. Jaise main… main hoon.”

Imran ne us ke maathe par apne honth rakhe — naram, lamba bosa. Phir us ki aankhon par, gaalon par. Har bosa izzat tha, har chhuan dua thi.

Farah ne us ki qameez ke button khole — ek, do. Us ke haath kaanp rahe thay, lekin ruk nahi rahe thay. Imran ne us ka dupatta utarne mein madad ki — aahista, poochte hue, har qadam par us ki razamandi dekhte hue.

“Farah,” us ne kaha, “agar tumhein kahin bhi lage ke rukna hai, to bas keh dena. Ek lafz. Main ruk jaunga.”

Farah ne us ki aankhon mein dekha. “Aur agar main kahun ke mat rukna?”

“To main nahi rukunga,” Imran ne muskurakar kaha. “Lekin poochta rahunga.”

Woh bistar par let gaye — Farah ke kamre mein, us ki duniya mein. Bahar barish tez ho gayi thi, khidki ke sheeshe par baj rahi thi. Andar, do dilon ki dhadkanen ek ho rahi theen.

Imran ne Farah ko apni baahon mein liya. Us ki jild naram thi, garam thi. Us ne us ke kandhe par bosa diya, phir gardan par. Farah ne gehri saans li — jaise barson se ruki hui saans aaj chhooti ho.

Us ne Imran ko apne upar mehsoos kiya — us ka wazan, us ki garmi, us ki chahat. Aur us ne khud ko us ke hawale kar diya — poori tarah, bina dar ke, bina sharam ke.

Har chhuan mein mohabbat thi. Har saans mein dua thi. Jab woh ek hue, to Farah ne Imran ka naam liya — sargoshi mein, phir zor se. Imran ne us ka naam liya — jaise koi ibadat kar raha ho.

Waqt ruk gaya tha. Barish thi, hawa thi, do jismon ki garmi thi. Aur us se barh kar — do roohon ka milan tha, jo barson se ek doosre ko dhoond rahi theen.

Jab sab tham gaya, to dono ek doosre ki baahon mein letay rahe. Farah ne apna sar Imran ke seene par rakha, us ki dhadkan suni. Imran ne us ke baalon mein ungliyan pherein.

“Farah,” us ne kaha.

“Hmm?”

“Tum khush ho?”

Farah ne sar uthaya, usay dekha. Us ki aankhon mein aansu thay — lekin khushi ke.

“Imran,” us ne kaha, “chhe saalon mein pehli baar — main zinda hoon.”

Imran ne us ke aansu ponchhe. “Ab hamesha rahogi. Main wada karta hoon.”

“Wada mat karo,” Farah ne narmi se kaha. “Bas saath raho.”

“Saath rahunga,” Imran ne kaha. “Jab tak tum chaho.”

Woh dono der tak aise lete rahe. Bahar barish tham gayi thi. Badal chhat rahe thay. Khidki se dhup ki ek kiran andar aayi, un par padi.

Farah ne payal ki chhan-chhan suni — us ne hil kar apna paon dekha. Payal ab bhi thi. Woh muskurayi.

“Yeh awaz,” us ne kaha, “mujhe apni yaad dilati hai. Ke main kaun hoon.”

“Tum Farah ho,” Imran ne kaha. “Meri Farah.”

“Bas Farah,” us ne kaha, lekin muskurate hue. “Lekin tum keh sakte ho.”

Dono hans pade. Phir khamosh ho gaye. Woh khamoshi jo mohabbat ke baad aati hai — poori, gehra, sukoon bhari.

Farah ne socha — Taimoor ke baare mein, us ke khat ke baare mein. Us ke dil mein koi bojh nahi tha, koi gunah ka ehsaas nahi tha. Bas shukriya tha — us shaks ke liye jis ne usay aazad kiya tha.

“Taimoor,” us ne dil mein kaha, “tum ne kaha tha khush rehna. Dekho — main khush hoon.”

Bahar, door kahin, Mahnoor ka phone baja hoga — lekin us ne uthaya nahi. Aaj ka din behan ka tha. Poora din.

Aur Farah ne us din ko poori tarah jee liya — har lamha, har saans, har dhadkan.

Shaam ko Mahnoor wapas aayi. Darwaza khola to dekha — kitchen mein Farah aur Imran mil kar khana bana rahe thay. Farah aata goondh rahi thi, Imran sabzi kaat raha tha — aur dono hans rahe thay, kisi baat par.

Mahnoor darwaze par khadi dekhti rahi. Us ke dil mein jo tha, woh lafzon mein nahi aata. Khushi thi — behan ki khushi. Aur ek halka sa dard bhi tha — apne liye, apne wehem ke liye. Lekin us dard mein koi karwahat nahi thi. Bas… ek meethi kasak.

“Khana ban gaya?” us ne poocha, andar aate hue.

“Dono aa gaye!” Farah ne kaha, haath dhoye baghair hi behan ko galey lagaya — aate wale haathon se. “Dekho, tumhara devar aaj bawarchi bana hai.”

“Devar?” Imran ne bhanwein uchkayein. “Ab bhi devar?”

“Ab…” Farah ne sharmate hue kaha, “ab pata nahi kya kahun.”

“Kuch mat kaho,” Mahnoor ne kaha, muskurate hue. “Bas khush raho.”

Khana khaya — daal, roti, salad. Sada khana, lekin us mein jo mohabbat thi, woh kisi dawat se kam nahi thi. Khate waqt Mahnoor ne bataya ke Zoya ne usay Lahore ke flat ki tasveerein bheji hain.

“Dekho, Apa,” us ne phone dikhaya. “Chhota sa hai, lekin roshan hai. Balcony bhi hai — Gulabo ke bachon ke liye.”

“Gulabo ke bachche?” Farah hansi.

“Haan, maine us ke beej sambhal kar rakhe hain. Lahore mein naye pauday lagaungi.” Mahnoor ki aankhein chamak rahi theen. “Nayi zindagi, naye pauday.”

Khana khane ke baad teenon drawing room mein baithe. Barish phir halki halki shuru ho gayi thi — naram, sangeet jaisi. Farah ne chai banayi.

“Ek baat kahun?” Mahnoor ne kaha, chai ki chuski lete hue.

“Kaho,” Farah ne kaha.

“Jab main chhoti thi, to Amma se poochti thi ke khushi kya hoti hai. Amma kehti theen: ‘Jab dil halka lage, to samajh lo khushi hai.'” Mahnoor ne behan ko dekha. “Apa, aaj tumhara dil halka lag raha hai?”

Farah ne apne dil par haath rakha. Phir Imran ka haath pakda. Phir behan ka haath.

“Haan,” us ne kaha, aankhon mein aansu aur honthon par muskurahat. “Aaj mera dil halka hai. Bilkul halka.”

Imran ne us ke haath ko chuma. Mahnoor ne dono ke haathon par apna haath rakha.

“To phir,” Mahnoor ne kaha, “yeh rahi hamari nayi shuruaat. Teenon ke liye.”

Bahar barish ki awaz thi. Andar, teen dilon ki khamoshi thi — poori, gehra, khush.

Farah ne apne takhne ki payal ko dekha — chhan-chhan ki halki awaz aayi. Us ne muskurakar apna paon hilaya, jaise us awaz ko sunna chahti ho.

Yeh awaz usay yaad dilati thi — ke woh kaun hai. Ke woh zinda hai. Ke woh khush hai.

Aur us raat, jab woh Imran ki baahon mein soyi, to us ne koi khwab nahi dekha. Kyunke us ki zindagi khud ek khwab ban gayi thi — woh khwab jo ab haqeeqat tha.

Budh ki shaam ko jab Farah aur Imran drawing room mein baithe thay — haath mein haath, khamosh, khush — to Mahnoor apne kamre mein thi, phone kaan se lagaye.

“Zoya, sun na,” woh keh rahi thi. “Maine faisla kar liya hai.”

Phone ki doosri taraf se Zoya ki khushi bhari cheekh aayi — itni tez ke Mahnoor ko phone door karna pada.

“Sach? Tum aa rahi ho? Lahore?”

“Haan,” Mahnoor ne kaha, muskurate hue. “Job accept kar rahi hoon. Senior designer wali.”

“Allah! Mahnoor, tumhein pata hai yeh kitni bari baat hai? Tankhwah kitni hai, pata hai? Tumhari ab wali se dogni!”

“Jaanti hoon.” Mahnoor ne khidki se bahar dekha — shaam dhal rahi thi, parinde ghar wapas ja rahe thay. “Lekin Zoya, tankhwah ki baat nahi hai.”

“To phir kis baat ki hai?”

Mahnoor ne gehri saans li. “Apne liye jeene ki.”

Us ne Zoya ko sab bataya — nahi, sab nahi. Kuch baatein behnon ke darmiyan hi rehti hain. Lekin itna bataya ke Zoya samajh gayi: Mahnoor apni zindagi ka naya bab khol rahi hai.

“Aur Farah Apa?” Zoya ne poocha. “Woh akeli reh jayengi. Un ka kya hoga?”

Mahnoor muskurayi. “Apa akeli nahi rahengi, Zoya. Unhein… unhein un ki khushi mil gayi hai.”

“Kya matlab?”

“Matlab yeh ke tum jab Lahore aaogi — mera matlab, jab main Lahore aaungi — to tumhein sab bataungi. Abhi bas itna samajh lo ke Apa khush hain. Pehli baar, waqai khush.”

Zoya ne kuch der khamoshi ikhtiyar ki. Phir boli: “Mahnoor, tum khush ho?”

Mahnoor ne socha. Kya woh khush thi? Behan ko chhod kar ja rahi thi, ghar chhod kar ja rahi thi, apni aadat ki zindagi chhod kar ja rahi thi. Dar tha — bohat dar tha. Lekin us dar ke peeche kuch aur bhi tha. Koi ummeed. Koi roshni.

“Haan,” us ne kaha. “Main khush hoon. Darti bhi hoon, lekin khush hoon.”

“Yahi zindagi hai, meri jaan,” Zoya ne kaha. “Dar aur khushi — dono ek saath.”

Phone rakhne ke baad Mahnoor der tak khidki ke paas khadi rahi. Us ne apne kamre ko dekha — woh kamra jahan us ne bachpan guzara tha, jawan hui thi, Amma ke jaane ka gham seh tha. Deewar par us ki banayi hui paintings lagi theen. Almari mein us ke kapde thay. Har cheez mein yaadein theen.

“Alvida kehna parega,” us ne sargoshi ki. “Lekin alvida ka matlab bhool jana nahi hota.”

Darwaze par dastak hui. Farah thi.

“Aa sakti hoon?” us ne poocha.

“Apa! Aao na.”

Farah andar aayi, bistar par baithi. Dono behnein der tak khamosh rahi. Phir Farah ne kaha:

“Zoya se baat hui?”

“Haan. Job accept kar li.”

Farah ki aankhon mein aansu aa gaye. “To tum waqai ja rahi ho.”

“Ja rahi hoon, Apa.” Mahnoor ne behan ka haath pakda. “Lekin suno — main tumhein chhod kar nahi ja rahi. Main tumhare paas aa rahi hoon — nayi Mahnoor ban kar. Jo apne pairon par khadi hai, jo apne faisle khud karti hai.”

Farah ne behan ko galey lagaya. “Tum hamesha se samajhdar thi, Mahnoor. Main hi tumhein chhoti samajhti rahi.”

“Aur tum hamesha se bahadur thi, Apa. Tum hi khud ko kamzor samajhti rahi.”

Dono hans padi — aansuon ke saath.

“Apa,” Mahnoor ne kaha, “ek baat kahun?”

“Kaho.”

“Jab main chhoti thi, to sochti thi ke bari ho kar tum jaisi banungi. Phir jab bari hui, to socha ke tum jaisi kabhi nahi banungi — itni qurbaniyan, itna dard. Lekin aaj…” Mahnoor ne behan ka chehra apne haathon mein liya. “Aaj main phir sochti hoon ke tum jaisi banungi. Kyunke tum ne sab se mushkil kaam kiya — apne dil ki suni.”

Farah ne behan ke maathe par bosa diya. “Aur tum ne sab se bahadur kaam kiya — mujhe meri himmat yaad dilayi.”

Usi waqt Imran darwaze par namoodar hua — haathon mein do chai ki piyaliyan.

“Behnoon ki meeting mein ghus sakta hoon?” us ne poocha.

“Aa jao,” Mahnoor ne kaha. “Tum to ab family ho.”

Teenon ne chai pi. Baatein ki — Lahore ke baare mein, naye ghar ke baare mein, mustaqbil ke baare mein. Mahnoor ne bataya ke us ne Lahore mein ek chhota sa studio dekha hai, jahan woh apni paintings bhi bana sakti hai.

“Paintings?” Farah ne hairat se poocha. “Tum ab bhi banati ho?”

“Bachpan mein banati thi,” Mahnoor ne sharmate hue kaha. “Phir chhod diya. Lekin ab… ab phir shuru karungi. Apne liye.”

“Yahi to main kehta hoon,” Imran ne kaha. “Apne liye jeena — sab se bara art hai.”

Mahnoor ne usay dekha, muskurayi. Us ke dil mein jo chubhan thi, woh ab nahi thi. Bas shukriya tha — is shaks ke liye jis ne us ki behan ko khushi di thi.

“Imran,” us ne kaha, “Apa ka khayal rakhna.”

“Apni jaan se zyada,” Imran ne kaha, Farah ka haath pakad kar.

“Jaan se zyada nahi,” Farah ne sharaarat se kaha. “Jaan to tumhari apni bhi hai. Bas… barabar ka khayal rakhna.”

Teenon hans pade. Bahar raat gehari ho rahi thi. Lekin is ghar mein andhera nahi tha — roshni thi. Mohabbat ki, samajh ki, naye faislon ki.

Mahnoor ne apne phone par Zoya ka message dekha: *”Welcome to Lahore, girl! Nayi zindagi mubarak!”*

Us ne jawab likha: *”Shukriya. Aur haan — nayi zindagi waqai mubarak.”*

Us ne phone rakha, aur behan ki taraf dekhi. Farah Imran ke kandhe par sar rakhe thi, aankhein band, muskurahat honthon par.

Mahnoor ne apna phone uthaya, gallery kholi. Woh tasveer ab bhi thi — trail wali, behan aur Imran ki, haath mein haath, barish ki dhund mein. Us ne usay der tak dekha.

Phir us ne ek faisla kiya. Us ne tasveer ko ek naye album mein daala — naam rakha: “Nayi Shuruaat”. Aur us ke neeche likha: “Jis din Apa ne jeena shuru kiya.”

Us ne muskurakar phone rakha. Yeh tasveer ab us ke dard ki nishani nahi thi. Yeh us ki behan ki khushi ki nishani thi. Aur shayad — us ki apni aazadi ki bhi.

Mahnoor ne dil mein kaha: “Amma, dekho — do behnoon ka faisla poora ho gaya. Dono khush hain. Dono aazad hain.”

Aur usay laga ke kahin door se Amma ki awaz aayi: “Shabaash, meri bachiyon.”

Us raat khana teenon ne mil kar khaya. Mahnoor wapas aa gayi thi — chehre par muskurahat, aankhon mein samajh. Us ne kuch nahi poocha, Farah ne kuch nahi bataya. Lekin behnon ke darmiyan lafzon ki zaroorat nahi hoti.

Khana khate waqt Imran ne kaha: “Maine faisla kiya hai — main Islamabad transfer le raha hoon. Application de di hai.”

Farah ne usay dekha. “Sach?”

“Bilkul sach.” Imran ne us ka haath pakda — sab ke saamne, bina jhijhak. “Ab mujhe kahin nahi jana.”

Mahnoor ne tali bajayi. “Yeh hui na baat!”

Lekin Farah ke chehre par ek saya aaya. Us ne haath chhuda nahi, lekin us ki muskurahat halki pad gayi.

Kya hua? Imran ne ishare se poocha.

Farah ne sar hilaya — baad mein.

Raat ko jab sab apne kamron mein gaye, to Farah drawing room mein baithi rahi. Us ke haath mein phone tha. Us ne Taimoor ka number milaya — do baar, teen baar. Har baar kaat diya.

Chauthi baar us ne himmat ki. Ghanti baji. Ek, do, teen.

“Hello?” Taimoor ki awaz — thaki hui, lekin garam.

Farah ki saans ruk gayi. “Taimoor. Main… main Farah.”

“Farah?” Us ki awaz mein hairat thi. “Khairiyat? Itni raat ko? Wahan to… ek baj raha hoga.”

“Haan. Mujhe… mujhe tum se baat karni thi.”

Thodi der khamoshi rahi. Phir Taimoor ne kaha: “Kaho. Main sun raha hoon.”

Farah ne gehri saans li. “Taimoor, mujhe tumhara khat mila.”

Khamoshi. Lambi khamoshi. Phir: “Kaun sa khat?”

“Wohi. Jo tum ne Amma ko diya tha. ‘Waqt aane par kholna’ wala.”

Phir se khamoshi. Is baar aur lambi. Farah ne socha ke phone kat gaya hai. Lekin phir Taimoor ki awaz aayi — dheemi, bhari:

“To waqt aa gaya.”

“Haan,” Farah ne kaha, aankhon mein aansu. “Waqt aa gaya, Taimoor.”

“Tum ne parh liya? Poora?”

“Poora.”

“Aur?” Taimoor ki awaz mein dar tha — pehli baar Farah ne us ki awaz mein dar suna tha. “Tum… tum naraaz ho?”

Farah ne apne aansu ponchhe. “Naraaz? Taimoor, main tum se naraaz kaise ho sakti hoon? Tum ne mujhe… tum ne mujhe meri zindagi wapas de di.”

Taimoor ne gehri saans li — rahat ki. “Shukar hai. Main darta tha ke tum galat samjhogi. Ke tumhein lagega ke maine tumhein thukra diya.”

“Nahi,” Farah ne kaha, mazbooti se. “Tum ne mujhe thukraya nahi. Tum ne mujhe samjha. Shayad pehli baar kisi ne mujhe waqai samjha.”

Thodi der dono khamosh rahe. Phir Taimoor ne poocha: “Tum khush ho, Farah?”

Farah ne Imran ke kamre ki taraf dekha — darwaza band tha, lekin usay pata tha ke woh jaag raha hai, us ka intezar kar raha hai.

“Haan,” us ne kaha. “Main khush hoon, Taimoor. Pehli baar… pehli baar waqai khush hoon.”

“To phir meri dua qabool ho gayi.” Taimoor ki awaz mein muskurahat thi — aur aansu bhi. “Farah, main tum se ek baat kahun?”

“Kaho.”

“Main tum se mohabbat karta tha. Shayad ab bhi karta hoon. Lekin meri mohabbat tumhein khush nahi rakh saki. Aur…” Us ne ruk kar kaha: “Aur maine bhi apni zindagi jeena shuru kar di hai. Yahan… yahan koi hai.”

Farah ka dil ek lamhe ke liye ruka. Phir us ne muskurakar kaha: “Kaun?”

“Us ka naam… chhodo. Abhi shuruaat hai. Lekin woh mujhe samajhti hai, Farah. Jaise tum kabhi nahi samajh payi — ya shayad main tumhein samjhane nahi de paya.”

“Taimoor,” Farah ne narmi se kaha, “main tumhare liye khush hoon. Sach mein.”

“Tumhein bura nahi laga?”

“Laga tha — ek lamhe ke liye. Phir socha — tumhein khushi mili hai, mujhe khushi mili hai. Is se achi baat kya ho sakti hai?”

Taimoor hans pada — halka sa, aansuon bhara. “Tum hamesha se achi thi, Farah. Main hi tumhare qabil nahi tha.”

“Tum qabil thay, Taimoor. Bas humari manzilain alag theen.”

Phir Taimoor ne sanjeedgi se kaha: “Farah, woh kagaz — talaq ke — ab bhi taiyaar hain. Jab tum kaho, main bhej dunga. Koi jaldi nahi.”

Farah ne socha. Phir kaha: “Bhej do, Taimoor. Der kis baat ki? Hum dono ne apne faisle kar liye hain. Ab kagaz bhi poore ho jayein.”

“Theek hai.” Taimoor ki awaz bhari thi. “Farah?”

“Haan?”

“Apna khayal rakhna. Aur… aur usay bhi kehna — jo bhi hai — ke tumhara khayal rakhe. Warna main Dubai se aa kar us ki khabar lunga.”

Farah hans padi — aansuon ke saath. “Keh dungi.”

“Allah Hafiz, Farah.”

“Allah Hafiz, Taimoor.”

Phone kat gaya. Farah der tak receiver haath mein liye baithi rahi. Phir us ne usay neeche rakha, aur gehri saans li.

Us ke kandhe se ek bojh utar gaya tha — woh bojh jo us ne chhe saalon se uthaya tha. Ab woh halki thi. Aazad thi. Poori tarah.

Us ne khidki kholi. Raat saaf thi, taare nikle hue thay. Hawa thandi thi.

“Shukriya, Taimoor,” us ne aasman se kaha. “Tum ne mujhe aazad kiya. Aur maine khud ko.”

Peeche se qadam ki awaz aayi. Imran tha — darwaze par khada, usay dekh raha tha.

“So gayi thi?” Farah ne poocha.

“Tumhare baghair neend nahi aati,” Imran ne kaha, paas aate hue.

Farah ne us ka haath pakda. “Taimoor se baat hui.”

“Aur?”

“Us ne apni zindagi shuru kar di hai. Wahan koi hai — usay samajhne wali.” Farah muskurayi. “Aur maine… maine bhi.”

Imran ne usay apni baahon mein liya. “Tumhein dukh to nahi hua?”

“Dukh?” Farah ne socha. “Nahi, Imran. Ajeeb baat hai — mujhe laga tha ke yeh baat-cheet mushkil hogi. Lekin woh… woh itni aasaan thi. Jaise do dost alvida keh rahe hon. Shayad hum kabhi… shayad hum kabhi woh nahi thay jo hum samajhte thay. Shayad hum sirf do ache log thay, jo ghalat waqt par mile thay.”

“Ya sahi waqt par,” Imran ne kaha, “taake tum mujh tak pohnch sako.”

Farah ne usay dekha, phir halka sa mara. “Phir se shuru ho gaye?”

“Main to bas sach keh raha hoon.” Imran ne us ke maathe par bosa diya. “Farah, tumhein pata hai maine kab faisla kiya tha ke tumhein kabhi nahi chhodunga?”

“Kab?”

“Us din, jab tum ne pehli baar mere liye khana banaya tha. Main Lahore se aaya tha, thaka hua. Tum ne bina kuch kahe meri pasand ka khana banaya tha. Us din maine socha tha — jo aurat bina kahe samajh jaye, woh dil ki rani hoti hai.”

Farah ki aankhon mein aansu aa gaye. “Aur maine kab faisla kiya, pata hai?”

“Kab?”

“Us din, jab tum ne bina kahe pankha theek kiya tha.” Farah hansi. “Maine socha tha — jo mard bina kahe khayal rakhe, woh… woh ghar hota hai.”

Dono ne taaron ko dekha — jaise woh bhi un ki khushi mein shareek hon.

“Farah,” Imran ne kaha.

“Hmm?”

“Kal se nayi zindagi shuru hoti hai.”

Farah muskurayi. “Nahi, Imran. Nayi zindagi aaj se shuru ho gayi hai. Isi lamhe se.”

Us ne apna sar us ke kandhe par rakha. Aur dono ne taaron ko dekha — khamosh, khush, ek doosre mein poore.

Teen hafte guzar gaye thay.

Islamabad mein November ki dhup nikal aayi thi — sunehri, naram. Pahadiyan saaf nazar aa rahi theen, hawa mein khushki thi. Barishon ka mausam guzar gaya tha, aur us ke saath woh toofan bhi jo teen dilon mein aaya tha.

Mahnoor Lahore chali gayi thi — do hafte pehle. Zoya ne usay lene aayi thi, dono ne mil kar ek chhota sa flat liya tha. Job achi thi, kaam dilchasp tha. Woh roz phone karti — kabhi behan ko, kabhi… khair, behan ko.

“Aur Gulabo kaisi hai?” us ne pehle hi phone par poocha tha.

“Gulabo theek hai,” Farah ne kaha tha. “Lekin tumhare baghair udaas hai.”

“Jhoot mat bolo, Apa. Gulabo ko to Imran paani de raha hoga.”

Farah hansi thi — khul kar, dil se. Woh hansi jo Mahnoor ne barson se nahi suni thi.

Talaq ke kagaz aa gaye thay — Taimoor ne bheje thay, dastakhat shuda. Farah ne bhi dastakhat kar diye thay. Koi jhagra nahi, koi keechad nahi. Bas do samajhdar logon ka alag hona. Taimoor ne phone par kaha tha: “Tum hamesha meri dost rahogi, Farah.” Farah ne kaha tha: “Aur tum mere.”

Imran ka transfer ho gaya tha — Islamabad. Us ne F-10 mein hi ek chhota sa flat kiraye par liya tha, isi imarat mein — neeche wali manzil par. “Filhal ke liye,” us ne kaha tha. “Jab tum kaho, tab…”

“Tab kya?” Farah ne poocha tha, sharaarat se.

“Tab bara faisla,” Imran ne kaha tha, us ka haath pakad kar.

Un ki shaadi ki baat chal rahi thi — aahista, ehtiyat se. Farah chahti thi ke sab kuch waqt par ho. Pehle talaq ka iddat ka waqt guzre, phir khandan ko bataya jaye, phir… Imran ne kaha tha: “Jitna waqt chahiye, le lo. Main kahin nahi ja raha.”

Logon ne baatein ki theen — karte hain. Kuch ne kaha: “Devar se shaadi? Yeh kaisa rivaj hai?” Kuch ne kaha: “Farah ne Taimoor ko dhoka diya.” Lekin Farah ne ab logon ki baaton ko dil par lena chhod diya tha. Mahnoor ne kaha tha: “Apa, duniya to baatein karegi. Tum bas apni suno.”

Aur Farah apni sun rahi thi. Pehli baar apni zindagi mein.

Ek shaam — Juma ki shaam, bilkul usi tarah jaise kahani shuru hui thi — Farah balcony mein khadi thi. Imran neeche se aaya, haathon mein mithai ka dabba.

“Kya hai?” Farah ne poocha.

“Khushkhabri hai,” Imran ne kaha, us ke paas aate hue. “Project mil gaya hai — bara wala. Promotion bhi pakki.”

“Mubarak ho!” Farah ne usay galey lagaya.

“Aur ek khushkhabri,” Imran ne kaha, jeb se ek chhota sa dibba nikalte hue.

Farah ka dil dhadka. “Yeh…?”

“Khol kar dekho.”

Farah ne dibba khola. Andar ek angoothi thi — sadi si, khubsurat. Neeche ek parchi thi: *”Kya tum mujh se shaadi karogi? — Tumhara Imran”*

Farah ne parchi parhi, phir Imran ko dekha. Us ki aankhon mein aansu thay.

“Imran, yeh… itni jaldi?”

“Jaldi?” Imran ne us ka haath pakda. “Farah, main tumhein bachpan se jaanta hoon. Tumhein chahta hoon… pata nahi kab se. Yeh jaldi nahi hai. Yeh to der hai — bohat der.”

Farah ne angoothi ko dekha. Phir us ne apne haath ko dekha — wohi ungli jahan kabhi Taimoor ki angoothi hoti thi. Ab khaali thi. Aur us khaali jagah mein ab koi dard nahi tha, sirf sukoon tha.

“Imran,” us ne kaha, “main haan kehti hoon. Lekin ek shart par.”

“Kaisi shart?”

“Ke humari shaadi mein Mahnoor sab se aage hogi. Aur Taimoor ko bhi dawat denge.”

Imran hans pada. “Taimoor ko?”

“Kyun nahi? Woh hamara dost hai.” Farah muskurayi. “Us ne mujhe aazadi di, Imran. Yeh kam hai kya?”

Imran ne angoothi us ki ungli mein pehnayi — aahista, izzat se. Phir us ke haath ko chuma.

“Farah,” us ne kaha, “tum duniya ki sab se achi aurat ho.”

“Bas aurat hoon, Imran,” Farah ne kaha. “Apne liye jeene wali aurat.”

Woh dono balcony mein khade rahe — neeche gali mein bachche khel rahe thay, door se azan ki awaz aa rahi thi, hawa mein raat ke khane ki khushboo thi. Aam si shaam thi, lekin un ke liye sab se khaas.

“Imran,” Farah ne kaha, “tumhein pata hai? Jab tum pehli baar aaye thay — is hafte ke shuru mein — to maine socha tha ke tum meri zindagi mein toofan lao ge.”

“Aur?”

“Aur tum toofan laye bhi.” Farah muskurayi. “Lekin woh toofan jo purane darakhton ko gira kar naye beejon ke liye jagah banata hai.”

Imran ne usay apne qareeb kiya. “Aur tum — tum woh zameen ho jo har toofan ke baad aur zarkhez ho jati hai.”

Farah ne us ke seene par sar rakha. Us ki dhadkan suni — wahi dhadkan jo us ne pehli baar us raat suni thi, jab us ne haan kaha tha. Wahi sukoon, wahi ghar.

“Ghar,” us ne sargoshi ki.

“Kya kaha?”

“Tum mere ghar ho, Imran. Is flat se zyada, is sheher se zyada. Tum… tum meri jagah ho.”

Imran ki aankhon mein aansu aa gaye. Us ne Farah ko mazbooti se pakda — jaise kabhi chhodna na chahta ho.

“Kabhi nahi chhodunga,” us ne kaha. “Yeh wada hai.”

“Yeh wada qabool hai,” Farah ne kaha.

Usi waqt phone baja. Mahnoor thi — video call.

“Apa! Dekho, maine apna pehla design becha! Client ne double paise diye!” Woh khushi se uchhal rahi thi.

“Mubarak ho!” Farah ne kaha. Phir us ne apna haath camera ke saamne kiya — angoothi chamak rahi thi.

Mahnoor ki aankhein phail gayi. “Yeh… YEH KYA HAI?”

“Imran ne propose kiya,” Farah ne sharmate hue kaha. “Maine haan keh di.”

Mahnoor zor se chillayi — itni zor se ke Zoya daud kar aayi. “Kya hua? Kya hua?”

“Apa ki shaadi ho rahi hai!” Mahnoor ne kaha, roti hui, hansti hui. “Meri Apa ki shaadi ho rahi hai!”

Teenon der tak baatein karte rahe — video par. Mahnoor ne kaha: “Main aa rahi hoon! Agle hafte! Tayyariyan karni hain!”

“Mahnoor,” Farah ne kaha, “tumhein pata hai Amma kya kehti theen?”

“Kya?”

“Ke do behnein mil kar jo faisla karein, woh kabhi galat nahi hota.” Farah ki aankhon mein aansu thay. “Tum ne sahi faisla karwaya tha, Mahnoor. Tumhare baghair main kabhi…”

“Bas karo, Apa,” Mahnoor ne kaha, aansu ponchhte hue. “Ab rona dhona band. Ab sirf khushiyan.”

Raat ko jab sab so gaye, to Farah ne diary nikali. Aakhri panna khola — jahan us ne likha tha: *”Aaj se main jeeungi.”*

Us ke neeche us ne likha:

*”Aur aaj main jee rahi hoon. Poori tarah. Apne liye, apni behan ke liye, aur us shaks ke liye jo mujhe meri tarah dekhta hai. Taimoor, tum ne kaha tha khush rehna. Dekho — main khush hoon. Mahnoor, tum ne kaha tha apne liye jeena. Dekho — main jee rahi hoon. Aur Amma — aap ne kaha tha do behnoon ka faisla kabhi galat nahi hota. Dekho — hum ne sahi faisla kiya.”*

Us ne diary band ki, sandooq mein wapas rakhi. Ab yeh diary purani yaadon ka hissa thi — nayi zindagi ka nahi.

Woh khidki ke paas gayi. Bahar taare nikle hue thay. Hawa mein sardi thi, lekin us ke dil mein garmi thi.

Peeche se Imran aaya, us ke kandhon par chaadar daali. “Sardi lag jayegi.”

Farah ne us ka haath pakda. “Tum ho na.”

Dono ne taaron ko dekha. Kahin door, Lahore mein, Mahnoor bhi shayad taare dekh rahi thi. Aur Dubai mein, Taimoor bhi.

Chaar log, teen shehar, ek aasman. Sab apni apni zindagi jee rahe thay. Sab khush thay — apne apne tareeqe se.

Farah ne payal ki chhan-chhan suni — halki si, jab us ne paon hilaya. Woh muskurayi.

Yeh kahani yahin khatm hoti hai. Lekin zindagi — zindagi to abhi shuru hui hai.

Naya mausam aa gaya tha. Aur is baar, woh hamesha ke liye tha.

Payal ki chhan-chhan ab bhi us ke kaanon mein goonj rahi thi — halki, meethi, apni. Jaise zindagi khud usay bula rahi ho: aao, jee kar dekho.

Aur Farah ne jee kar dekha tha. Aur jee rahi thi. Aur jeeti rahegi.

**Khatm.**