Share This Article
Monsoon ki raat thi, aur badlon ke beech bijli chamak rahi thi. Aarti ne palang ke neeche se purani trunk nikaali – dhoondhne ke liye kuch literature ka material, jo uski college project ke liye kaam aa sake. Uska dadaji kuch mahine pehle guzar chuke the aur unka purana haweli jaisa ghar ab akele hi pad gaya tha.
Trunk khola toh kapdon aur kitaabon ke neeche ek moti si leather-bound diary mili. Saal likha tha cover par — 1952. Diary par purana khoon jaisa daag tha, aur mohotarma ke signature ke ilava ek warning bhi likhi thi – “Jo bhi isey padhe, tayyar rahe uske anjaam ke liye.”
Aarti ne socha yeh kisi fictional drama ka part hoga. She smiled and opened the first page.
“Main Savitri hoon. Is ghar mein jo dekha, wo kahani nahi, haqeeqat hai. Aur agar yeh likh rahi hoon, toh shayad yehi mera antim kaam hoga.”
Pehla panna padke Aarti ne socha kisi buddhi aurton ke hallucinations honge. Lekin jaise-jaise woh padhte gayi, diary mein likhe wajood jeene lag gaye. Har raat, jab diary padhne baithti, kuch ajeeb hone lagta. Deewar par parchhayi hilti, purani ghadi chhoti si awaaz mein chalti, jabki use band kiya gaya tha kayi saal pehle.
Ek raat jab bijli kaat gayi aur haweli andhere ka samundar ban chuki thi, Aarti ne candle jalakar padhna jaari rakha. Lekin uss raat kuch alag tha. Diary ke ek page par, ink abhi gailee thi. Jaise kisi ne abhi likha ho:
“Main wapas aa gayi hoon. Tumne mujhe jaga diya.”
Candle achanak bujh gayi. Peeth ke pichhe Aarti ne kisi ke saans lene ki awaaz suni. Ghoom kar dekha toh koi nahi tha. Lekin haweli mein pehli baar se thandi si hawa chali aur Aarti ka gila gala ho gaya.
Agli subah jab Aarti ne poori raat kisi tarah katne ke baad aankh kholi, toh uske haathon par surkhi thi – jaise khoon lag gaya ho. Dar se kapti, wo niche se diary uthane gayi, lekin diary wahan nahi thi. Uski jagah par ek chaandi ka kanghan rakha tha – jisme kuch likha tha:
“Savitri ke liye, ya jo ab is ghar ki Savitri hai.”
Aarti ne research karna shuru kiya. Pata chala — 1952 mein yahaan ek young lady Savitri rehti thi. Kehte hain usne apne pati ko aur uski rakhel ko is ghar mein jinda jala diya tha. Aur phir, usi raat diary likhkar, khud bhi usi kamre mein aag laga li thi.
Log keh rahe the, jab bhi koi diary padhta hai, Savitri ki atma usme sama jaati hai. Aur padne wala khud purani atma ka naya jism ban jaata hai.
Aarti ko lagne laga jaise woh apne aap ko bhool rahi hai. Usse Savitri ki purani yaadein sapnon mein aane lagi. Ek raat jab usne diary ka antim panna padha… bina soch samjhe, usne likhna shuru kar diya:
“Main Aarti nahi, Savitri hoon. Pati ne dhoka diya tha mujhe. Unki cheekh sunayi thi maine jab jalaa diya unhe. Lekin ab samay aa gaya hai, kisi naye dard ka.”
Usne haathon mein jaise kisi aur ke vajood ki thandak mehsoos ki. She screamed and fainted.
Agli subah, padosiyon ne dekha haweli se dhuaan nikal raha hai. Police ne andar jakar dekha, toh ek ladki milti hai — bemaan si, aankhon mein pyaasi si nazar. Usne bas itna kaha, “Mujhe mat roko, mujhe likhna hai, abhi kahani poori nahi hui…”
Tab se, kisi ne Aarti ko vaise nahi dekha. Kabhi-kabhi, us haweli se typewriter ki tik-tik sunai deti hai… jabki wahan koi nahi rehta.
Kehte hain, savdhaani se kisi purani diary ko mat chhedna… kyunki kahani poori tab hoti hai, jab koi naya likhne waala milta hai.
