लेखक परिचयRishi Kumar
इस अंक में
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- [+]कंपनी (10)
- [+]कैमरा शाट (7)
- [+]ग्लोब दी गल (13)
- [+]चाइल्ड बाइट (14)
- [+]जर्नलिज्म वर्ल्ड (66)
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- [+]बुलंदी (1)
- [+]ब्लागरी (25)
- [+]यंग तेवर (28)
- [+]रूट लेवल (129)
- [—]लिटरेचर लव (207)
- अमृत कलश (लघुकथा)
- बाइट, प्लीज (part -19)
- बाइट, प्लीज (part 17)
- बाइट, प्लीज (part 18)
- बाइट, प्लीज (part 21)
- बाइट, प्लीज (part-20)
- बेटी (कविता)
- सपने में बापू से मुलाकात (कविता)
- "रौशनी दर्शन मीडिया नेटवर्क" ने किया साहित्यकारों एवं पत्रकारों को सम्मानित
- Red Brides in red carriage
- कसौटी (कहानी)
- निचली शक्तियों की अनदेखी साहित्य की सेहत के लिए ठीक नहीं : राजेंद्र यादव
- सूर्य की नव किरणों के साथ...(कविता)
- ‘मैं खुश हूँ औजार बन तू, तू ही बन हथियार…’
- "तुम्हारा स्थान" (कविता)
- 'I do not feel …hold me tightly' ( a short story)
- *श्रोता की तलाश* (कविता)
- ---------- हाँ मम्मी
- ---क्योंकि मुझे अमरत्व में यकीन है (कविता)
- ...If we could last SEVEN days together !!!
- ...आँखे नहीं भिगोना बाबा (कविता)
- Gift (story of a mother)
- La commune De Paris
- Some pages of a torn diary (Part 1)
- Some pages of a torn diary (parts 2)
- Some pages of a torn- diary (part 10)
- Some pages of a torn- diary (part 11)
- Some pages of a torn- diary (part 12)
- Some pages of a torn- diary (part 13)
- Some pages of a torn- diary (part 13)
- Some pages of a torn- diary (part 3)
- Some pages of a torn- diary (part 4)
- Some pages of a torn- diary (part 5)
- Some pages of a torn- diary (part 6)
- Some pages of a torn- diary (part 7)
- Some pages of a torn- diary (part 8)
- Some pages of a torn- diary (part 9)
- The voice of silent suffering (short story)
- अच्छा लगता है....(कविता)
- अज्ञेय को जनविरोधी कहना अधूरी समझ : नामवर
- अपसंस्कृति (कविता)
- अफवाह बना विश्वास (कविता)
- अमरीका की धरती पर भारतीयता की खुशबू में लिपटी कहानियां
- आंख और इलाज (कविता)
- आंसू से पत्र लिखा हूं ...(कविता)
- आईएएस की तैयारी
- आज मैंने एक सपना देखा ...(कविता)
- आठवीं घंटी का विद्यार्थी हूँ (कविता)
- आतंकी की भूमिका में हैं माओवादी
- आम आदमी का संविधान
- आम आदमी क्या करे, अंधी है सरकार
- आश्वस्त (लघुकथा )
- इक अनहोनी घट गयी (कविता)
- इस्लाम की बेहतरीन समझ देता “अंडरस्टैंडिंग इस्लाम”
- ईश्वर तुम्हें धिक्कार है! (कविता)
- एक अनूठे कवि की याद में ----
- एक पत्रकार का विक्ली आफ (कहानी)
- एक बार फ़िर आ जाओ (गीत)
- ऐ वीरों मातृभूमि की रक्षा करने आगे बढ़ो
- कभी-कभी (गजल)
- कलम चलाता रहता है एक लेखक (कविता)
- कसाईबाड़ा (नाटक समीक्षा)
- काफिला-ए-हिजाज इस्लाम के विस्तार से जुड़ी एक रुमानी प्रेम कहानी
- काले कागज़ पे काली स्याही असर क्यों छोड़े !(कविता)
- कुछ मुलाकातें, कुछ बातें : सवाल रूपी मशाल जलाती बातें-मुलाकातें
- कुशल प्रबंधक (लघुकथा)
- खबरदार! जो संत कहा...
- खोखली रचना (कहानी)
- गूंगी (नाटक समीक्षा)
- चलो कही दूर चले (कविता)
- जंग खाते अतीत की चमकदार पेंटिंग
- जग को जीता आपने (कविता)
- जब सफर आँखों से करता हूँ (कविता)
- जमाना मुहब्बत का (कविता)
- जिनके भाग्य में नखलिस्तान नहीं
- जीवन ... जीत है अंत! (कविता)
- टेक ओवर (कहानी)
- तितली या कठपुतली मत बनिये - महादेवी वर्मा
- तीसरा आदमी (व्यंग)
- तुम खुद मिटती हो और खुद बनती हो
- तुम्हें प्यार करते हुए (कविता)
- तेरी रहनुमाई पर सवाल है (नज्म)
- दारू की तलब
- दुनिया का बंटवार (कविता)
- दुनियादारी का चलचित्र
- देवताओं की साजिश (कहानी)
- दो जीवन - समान्तर (कहानी)
- नक्सल मूवमेंट को टटोलने की कोशिश (पुस्तक समीक्षा)
- नक्सलवाद से प्रेरित एक कविता---!
- नब्बे के हुये नामवर
- नव वर्ष के वास्ते कामना
- पहचान (कविता)
- पहले आई. ए. एस. बनो (कहानी)
- पापा ! क्यों तुमने ऐसा मेरे साथ किया...
- पिछड़ा वर्ग की सामाजिक स्थिति का विश्लेषण
- पुस्तक समीक्षा - आवारगी नोनस्टोप
- प्रकृति में विज्ञान की घुसपैठ... (कविता)
- फिर क्यूँ सस्ते में बिके, मानव का ईमान? (कविता)
- फेसबुक पर चालीस साला औरतें ----(कविता)
- फोन पर फ्लर्ट (कहानी)
- बहुत पीछे छोड़ देता है… (कविता)
- बांस गांव की मुनमुन (पुस्तक समीक्षा)
- बाइट प्लीज (उपन्यास, भाग-7)
- बाइट प्लीज (उपन्यास-भाग 9)
- बाइट प्लीज (उपन्यास भाग-5)
- बाइट प्लीज (उपन्यास, भाग-6)
- बाइट प्लीज (उपन्यास, भाग-8)
- बाइट प्लीज (उपन्यास- भाग 10)
- बाइट, प्लीज ( उपन्यास, भाग-4)
- बाइट, प्लीज (उपन्यास, भाग -3)
- बाइट, प्लीज (उपन्यास, भाग- 2)
- बाइट, प्लीज (उपन्यास, भाग-1)
- बाइट्स प्लीज ( उपन्यास भाग -13)
- बाइट्स प्लीज (उपन्यास भाग-12)
- बाइट्स प्लीज (उपन्यास, भाग -14)
- बाइट्स प्लीज (उपन्यास, भाग-16)
- बाइट्स प्लीज, (उपन्यास भाग-21)
- बाइट्स प्लीट (उपन्यास भाग 11)
- बाइट्स, प्लीज (उपन्यास, भाग-15 )
- बूढ़ा लोकतंत्र (कविता)
- बेच दो हिंदुस्तान को … (कविता)
- बेबसी ( कहानी )
- ब्रह्म नहीं कुछ (कविता)
- भडका रहे हैं आग लब-ए-नग़्मगर से हम, ख़ामोश क्यों रहेंगे ज़माने के डर से हम -- साहिर
- भारत की अति पुण्य-भूमि है (कविता)
- भारत की आध्यात्मिक अंतरात्मा स्वामी विवेकानंद (जयंती,12 जनवरी)
- भारतीय कोशकारिता में तीन परिवर्तनकारी क़दम !
- भूख खबर मवाद
- मंदिर में भगवान
- मठाधीशों की जय बोलें या रचनाकारों की ?
- महान कवि की कविता
- महिलाओं का ‘राइट टू रिजेक्ट’
- माँ की याद (कविता)
- माँ तूं महान है
- मात खाती जिंदगी (कविता)
- मार्कण्डेय: प्रखर विद्रोही जो जीवन के अंतिम समय तक संघर्ष करता रहा
- मिलते है मुश्किल से कहीं चार काँधे भी (कविता)
- मीडिया में दलित ढूंढते रह जाओगे (पुस्तक समीक्षा )
- मुझे है यक़ीं , तेरे प्यार पे (कविता)
- मुस्टंडा डॉलर, पिलपिला रुपइया
- मेंहदी (लघु कथा )
- मेरा मुझसे अवैध सम्बन्ध है (कविता)
- मैं उसका हो नहीं पाया(कविता)
- मैं और मुसीबतें(कविता )
- मैंने देखा (कविता)
- यशपाल के ‘झूठा सच’ को निगल गया कलकत्ता विश्वविद्यालय
- यह कैसा पी आर है प्रेम बाबू ......!
- यह जादू नहीं टूटना चाहिए (कहानी)
- यह युद्ध तुम्हें जीतना होगा
- या तो अर्जुन मूर्ख शिष्य है या कृष्ण अयोग्य शिक्षक
- याद आती है...(कविता)
- ये प्यार तेरा मुझको पागल कर देगा(कविता)
- रहबर लूटें कारवाँ, ढूँढ़े कौन उपाय!
- राष्ट्र-धर्म (कहानी)
- रिश्तों को यूँ तोड़ते, जैसे कच्चा सूत
- रेट फिक्स है..!!(व्यंग्य)
- रोटी की तलाश में (कविता)
- लाली-लाली डोलिया में लाली रे दुलहनियां
- लिखा - अनलिखा (कविता)
- लिखे थे आप पे मैंने, वही क़लाम भेजा है (कविता)
- लुप्त (हिन्दी काव्य)
- लुबना (फिल्म स्क्रीप्ट, भाग-8)
- लुबना (फिल्म स्क्रिप्ट, भाग -10)
- लुबना (फिल्म स्क्रिप्ट, भाग -9)
- लुबना (फिल्म स्क्रीप्ट, पार्ट-1)
- लुबना (फिल्म स्क्रीप्ट, भाग -6)
- लुबना (फिल्म स्क्रीप्ट, भाग 7)
- लुबना (फिल्म स्क्रीप्ट,भाग-2)
- लुबना (फिल्म स्क्रीप्ट,भाग-4)
- लुबना (फिल्म स्क्रीप्ट- 3)
- लुबना( फिल्म स्क्रीप्ट,भाग-5)
- वरदान का फेर (नाट्य रुपांतरण, भाग -1)
- वह अनाथ बच्चा
- वहशी चालक (कविता)
- विक्की और जैकी
- शहीदों का सम्मान (कविता)
- श्रीलाल शुक्ल यानी साहित्यपुर के संत और उन के रंगनाथ की दुनिया
- संघर्ष (कविता)
- सच का सच (कविता)
- सत्येन्द्र नारायण सिन्हा के जीवन पर स्मृति कलश पुस्तक
- सार्क साहित्य सम्मेलन में मोहब्बत की खुशबू
- सिर्फ तुमसे (कविता)
- सुन री सखी ! (कविता)
- सुष्मिता के लिए महफूज नहीं था अफगानिस्तान
- सोता रहता है “जागते रहो” का संपादक (भाग-2)
- सोता रहता है “जागते रहो” का संपादक (स्क्रीप्ट शैली, भाग-1)
- स्त्री और शब्द
- स्वर्ण युग (कविता)
- हमारे लालच ने हमें विलासी बना दिया (कविता)
- हर भ्रष्ट को मारो जूते जी
- हिंदी विवि में ‘रचना-प्रकिया’ पर हुआ गंभीर विमर्श
- हिंदी विश्वविद्यालय में करोड़ों के भ्रस्टाचार का मामला उजागर
- हिंदुस्तान का क्या होगा (कविता)
- हिन्दी को काव्य -- भाषा के रूप में प्रतिष्ठित करने वाले थे मैथिलीशरण गुप्त
- हुई मुद्दत कि गालिब मर गया...
- क़स्बाई लड़कियाँ (नज्म)
- ज़ीस्त को आख़िरी साँसों में समझ पाये हम
- ‘Some pages of a torn- diary (part 12)
- ‘लातयोग’ की आशंका
- ‘सार्थक’ पहल के साथ जेएलएफ में राजकमल प्रकाशन
- “A woman's mystery is like slipping tile'' (A short story)
- …Oh! still I love you ( a story)
- [+]साइंस लाइफ (6)
- [+]हार्ड हिट (139)
- [+]अंदाजे बयां (41)
तेवर टीमसंपादक: आलोक नंदन
प्रबंध संपादक: अविनाश नंदन शर्मा
संयुक्त संपादक: अनिता गौतम
सलाहकार संपादक: राकेश शर्मा
विज्ञापन डिजाइनर: नदीम रजा
Gift (story of a mother)
(Story Of A Mother)
“Was that a love marriage or an arranged one?”
The old lady was taken aback by the question Iman asked.
She, apparently, was not expecting a lad of his grandchild’s age to ask such a private question at such a public place as a bank. That too, when she didn’t know him except before a couple of minutes when she approached his desk as a customer.
The other officer sitting right to him smiled at Iman’s jovial gesture. All knew Iman and his lighthearted behaviour. He was quite a fun to watch in the office. His style of interacting with a visitor customer was unusual though pleasing. Creating a space in visitors’ heart was his forte.
Seemingly not ready for this probe, she remained silent until Iman repeated the same question. She smiled back at Iman and said chattily: Our’s was a love marriage. But why are you asking this? That too, to such an old lady as me?
Iman: Are you so old? Naah! I don’t believe. Moreover I knew the answer that you got married to none other than your love.
Lady: Now, you are turning out to be an investing officer Mr. banker. By the way, how could you know the answer?
Iman (smilingly): Your lip-color says it all. The colour of love is still shining, isn’t it? You haven’t stopped pinking your lips even in your sixties.
Lady (Now exclaimed): Jesus….! How do you know I am in sixties. I mean, why not in fifties or seventies?
Iman kids: .That’s what your application says.
Lady sighs a relief: You are too much…!
Iman could know her age from her date of birth in the A2 form (A declaration cum application form for outward remittances) filled by her .He could also read the name there.
“Pamela D’Souza ”
The smile on her face encouraged Iman to behave more garrulous.
He further asked : Where is your husband, Mam? Has he come with you?
The streak of that vintage smile faded away from Pamela’s face. The Juvenile Iman left her silent. The old lady bit her lips, bowed down the face as if recalling something serious.
Pamela: Its 11 years since he died.
Allah! Iman felt extremely sorry for his question. It was an absolute disaster.
His flamboyance proved too loud this time. He cursed himself for his nonsense. Repenting, he could only utter a word of excuse: Sorry!
Silence engulfed the surroundings for a while until Pamela spoke.
Pamela: “No no, don’t feel sorry. Everybody has to leave this world on a day. He was a brave man though. He died a martyr’s death.” Do you remember Kargil? Most of you people don’t remember the pain our soldiers have taken for we can sleep in peace.
She took out a passport size photograph of his beloved colonel. Lush green uniform and medals made of gold, if not; golden in colour.Taking the photograph gently from the lady’s hands, Iman gazed it over as if paying homage to him.
Iman: May his soul rest in peace!
The neighbour officer took the photograph from Iman, saw for a while and passed on to the lady co-worker who was impatient to have a glimpse of the man of the moment. Iman was becoming restless to stop the photograph going hands as he knew the office and its ladies. He took the photograph from the lady’s hands who would about to pass it on to other ladies who appeared equally agitated to rejoice such “off-beat” & “unofficial moments” in the office.
Iman: I’m very sorry for this, particularly for my question. I didn’t know he was no more in the world. But I respect his cause and salute his martyrdom.
He stood up, went over to the cooler and filled a glass with water. Offering it to Pamela he said: Relax and tel me What brings you here?
Pamela : Yeah! You took me so deep in past that I forgot what I was here for. Will you please let me know the dollar rate today? I need some dollars to transfer.
Iman: US or Canadian or Singaporean? I mean which dollar?
Iman’s wittiness brought back the smile on Pamela’s wrinkled face. She glowed again.
She explained: “My son is in Canada. I want to send money to him”
Iman: Its Canadian dollar then. Its (seeing the rate card for the day on his computer) 46.50.
Glancing her application, Iman could see the “purpose” column filled with the most common word he saw in almost all the individual funds transfers.
Working in a financial institution he had seen this word getting abused most.
Everytime he read this word, he turned suspicious and sometimes angry also. He has seen some visitors who would try to transfer black money abroad declaring it as a gift. Under existing rules he doesn’t need to verify anything beyond the signed declaration, even then citing some reason or other, he had rejected many applications in the past. Pamela didn’t seem faking the purpose though.
“Is it really a gift mam? ” Iman quipped.
Mistaking his fake apprehension for serious, Pamela became slightly nervous and said: “No son, mine is a genuine gift. I have another son who is here in India. I have given him some money. As a mother, I must see both of them equally. Even a penny would be divided.”
Pamela’s case definitely bore merit, socially for her and technically for Iman. Seeing the face of the applicant, he could easily make out the purpose.
Iman was a different soul altogether. Pamlea’s honest explanation caught him midway between emotion and profession. His thoughts as well as professional attributes were charred with emotions. Had he been a millionaire, he himself would have funded her gift. At times he would sound unrealistically emotional. In his induction training, he made a presentation on something called “Banking with emotions”.The presentation was termed totally unprofessional by the faculties and another guy who made a presentation on “Balance Sheet” took away the prize. His colleagues and friends would poke fun at him.
Pamela’s motherly gesture propelled his mind back in the past. He became nostalgic for a minute.
His Ammi would say the same thing: “You and Shakeel both are equal for me.Whatever I have, I will give it to both of you.”
Iman would say: Ammi! I don’t need anything except your blessings and love. I don’t want anything from you. I owe you my life.Instead; I want to comfort you with all the riches on my own. You give everything to bhaijaan.
But Ammi wouldn’t listen to a word. With eyes full of tears, she would say: “May Allah make all your dreams true. Shakeel is self-sufficient. May Allah give us so much as to feed this family and fakeers (beggars). But I am a mother. For me, both of you are equal.”
In his not so short stint at forex desk , Iman had seen thousands of customers who would guzzle his valuable time requesting concessions and all sorts of nonsense queries. Some of them would question his fidelity too. But she was the most honest visitor Iman had ever come across. He was really impressed this time as he never learnt such a nice meaning of gift.
This was the best gift he was about to send.
Will it reach in time? She asked.
An average senior citizen of a country like India, She was unaware of the technological advancement in banking. Wife of a colonel, she must have been exposed to the luxuries of life but may not have been left so stranded where she alone had to go out for such things. Iman inquired whether she had done it earlier. As expected She affirmed his opinion. He assured her that the funds would reach her son in less than a day. Thanks to the SWIFT technology.
Suddenly Iman thought of doing a small favour for her.
What if she makes a draft of these funds?Will it not save her a few bucks…? he thought.
Iman: Mam, instead of direct transfer, if you take a foreign cheque you wont be charged from the responding bankers at the beneficiary’s end.You son will get exactly the amount you send.
He enlightened her further with the latest in forex and convinced her to get a foreign cheque issued in place.
She thanked Iman for his wise and honest approach.
“That was really professional!” Said the officer sitting beside Iman.
Within a few minutes a neatly printed cheque for CAD 4595.00 was ready. Iman singed the cheque in dark black ink, glossed over the details for a while, wore it an envelop and handed over to Pamela.
He also asked her genuinely if he could drop her by the roadside to help her find an auto-rickshaw. Already impressed with the professional grace of Iman, She politely declined the offer and walked out slowly. Parting the curtain of the window Iman kept on watching from his desk until she sat in an autorikshaw and disappeared from his sight in the oddly crowded traffic of the city.
Iman went in the lounge of his office, filled a cup of coffee for him and comforted himself. Closing his eyes in meditation, he could see Pamela step in the premises a few minutes ago. He just couldn’t take his eyes and attention off the dress she wore.
A beige skirt and a yellow top.
Beige and yellow… he mulled over this colour-combination for a while and said to himself : “Beige would go with green and perhaps with brown also .But with yellow, its too futuristic ”
Iman was fighting vigorously within to come to a conclusion.
He fought further: “Fashion knows no limits. She might be fashionable. She might have had a distinct fashion sense.”
He was finally out of his mind!
Despite a lengthy wrestle of thoughts he was not reaching a truce.
That ugly combination of colours and patches of dirt on her skirt could not, at all, be described as a sense of fashion.
But why was he so disturbed by her sight? Why would he be thinking so much about an old lady whom he knew just an hour ago?
He was clueless.
He held his breathe for a while, gasped bountiful of air in a hush. He did it four-five times closing his eyes. He felt fresh air making way through his nostrils to knock almost all corners of his body inside . Then followed the silence. He could not see a single thought intruding his mind then.It was dark there.
He had this habit since childhood. Whenever his mind was in a tussle, he always emptied it and waited for the first thought to hit. He had a strange belief that whatever thought came first in the empty mind would guide him home.
He was home indeed. He saw the face of his mother appearing from the background.
Ammi ! Perhaps he saw Ammi in Pamela. He saw his mother in her. He saw a lady in her later days when she deserved nothing but solace. He became restless.
Without wasting a second he called his Ammi . He made it customary..quite usual one. Or else Ammi would start crying. Without mentioning that he missed her a lot and wanted to see her now, he simply asked whether she was doing well.
While he spoke to his mother a Daai (a lady domestic-help in villages) was massaging her legs. She was happy and in pink of her health.Promising her to call up again at night, Iman concluded in short.
Walking out of the lounge, he looked at the clock on the gallery wall.
“God! Its 06.00 o clock.”
He came out in the premises. Accountant, after shutting down the computer was writing something on a piece of paper, perhaps day’s list of purchases to be made. His brown bag, which contained his empty tiffin box and office keys, was kept on the table.That was his style of signaling the end of the day’s work. He was about to go.
Iman locked his office drawer, took his bag and keys of the car.
While in traffic, he usually kept his music system on and sometimes smoked too. Today he checked the co-driver’s seat where he habitually kept his cigarette box alongwith his cellphone. The cigarette box was missing. Perhaps it was in his bag and he forgot to take it out. He didn’t feel like smoking . Tracks in the list also seemed too repetitive. He turned off the music.
He tried forgetting something but couldn’t. His long trusted trick of ‘emptying the mind’ also was not of any help. He was not able to forget Pamela.
He kept driving….!
Suddenly he felt a shudder on the dashboard. His cell phone was ringing and causing the quiver.
“It must be his wife, Nazma” he thought and didn’t respond as he was about to reach home.
But after a full ring, the cellphone started ringing again…then again…then again.When it ringed for the consecutive fifth time, he became fearful. “Nazma was alone back home.”
He drove the vehicle to the roadside. Switching the parking lights on, he grabbed the cellphone, which laid screen-down on the dashboard. He saw a local landline number calling on the screen. He became even more wary of his wife’s safety.
Voice on the other side was of a lady. She didn’t sound Nazma.
Apprehensive, Iman asked the name of the caller.
He was surprised.
She was Pamela…!
to be continued…