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Ratri ek photojournalist thi aur chhutti ke din sheher se door ek purane, bas chuke gaon ki taraf nikal gayi thi. Usne suna tha ki wahan ek purani haveli hai jahan log aaj bhi jaane se darte hain. Story chahiye thi usse, ek real article jo uski magazine mein chhap sake. Uske dimaag mein tha ki zyada se zyada kuch purani deewar, jhar-teethiyan aur kabhi kisi zamane ka badshah ya zamindar hoga.
Gaon ke log haveli ka naam lete hi chup ho jaate the. Ek vriddh maai ne bas itna kaha tha, “Woh ladki ab bhi wahan khelti hai… magar uska waqt ruk gaya hai beti. Mat jaana.”
Ratri hasi thi. Bachon wali kahaniyaan suna kar darane ka zamana gaya. Lekin jab usne haveli dekhi, to kuch ajeeb laga. Darwaza khula tha, lekin koi aawaz nahi. Sannata. Bas ek purani ghadi ki tik-tik… lekin jaise woh ghadi ka sound haveli ke dil se aa raha ho.
Wo photography karne lagi. Har kone se, har jharokhe se. Tab hi uske camera ke viewfinder mein ek chhoti ladki dikhayi di. Safed frock mein, baalon mein ek laal ribbon. Woh muskara rahi thi… Kisi ko dekh rahi thi.
Ratri ne turant shutter dabaya. Lekin jab camera se nigaah hatakar samne dekha… koi nahi tha.
Halki si thandi hawa chali aur camera ka screen band ho gaya. Battery 85% thi. Wo samajh gayi, kuch to ajeeb ho raha tha. Par curiosity ne use rokne nahi diya.
Haveli ke second floor par ek darwaza tha, jisme se ek halki si hansi sunayi di. Bachon jaisi. Ratri ne darwaza dhakka diya, darwaza khula… aur ek purana bacha kamra samne tha. Toys bikre hue, ek purani musical box chal rahi thi… Bina kisi ke chhue.
Phir wo awaaz aayi: “Didi, mujhe chhupa lo na. Woh mujhe dhoond rahe hain.”
Ratri sakanth ho gayi. Peeth ke pichhle kone mein wahi ladki jhuki hui thi.
“Tum kaun ho?” Ratri ne poocha.
Ladki ne sir uthaya, uski aankhen kaali thi, bas kaali. Uski muskaan ab bhi thi, lekin jaise chehre par chipki ho — bas lips hile bina lachila tanav.
“Main to yahin rehti hoon didi… Tum bhi yahin reh jao na. Mere saath khelna. Sab chale gaye, par tum hi meri dost ban jao…”
Tabhi peeche se darwaza band ho gaya. Ratri ghoomi, lekin koi nahi tha. Wo darwaza thokti rahi, chillati rahi. Tabhi kamar mein kuch halka mehsoos hua — camera. Usne camera uthaya aur us ladki ki photo lene lagi. Lekin screen par har shot mein sirf khali kamra dikh raha tha.
Us ladki ne haath badhaya: “Tumhe meri tasveer chahiye? Yeh lo…”
Aur usne camera pakad liya. Camera me se ek tezh hiss ki aawaz aayi, aur screen black ho gaya. Ratri ki aankhon ke saamne sab andhera chha gaya.
Subah, jab gaon ke do log haveli ke paas se guzre, to unhe darwaza khula mila. Andar kuch papers bigre hue the, ek broken camera, aur ek recent printout photo — ek chhoti ladki safed frock mein, aur uske bagal mein… Ratri.
Wo muskura rahi thi.
Tab se har saal ek nai musafir ki photo add hoti hai us frame mein. Sab ek jaise muskaan ke saath, ladki ke saath baithe.
Koi nahi jaanta ki wo ladki kab mari… ya kya chaahti hai. Par ek baat sab jaante hain: agar uski aankhon mein aankh daal di… to uski tasveer ka hissa ban jaoge.
Aur Ratri? Woh ab bhi haveli mein hai… sabse nayi tasveer ban kar. Hamesha wali muskaan ke saath.
