Musafir The Traveler

  धड़कन का अफ़साना पड़ गए थे बादल पवई पर , भीगी थी हर इक रहगुज़र , क्लासों से लौटे हम भी , दिल में थी इक मीठी ख़ुशबू भर। होस्टल की सीढ़ी पर चलते , चिट्ठी की आहट साथ चली , नागपुर से आया था पैग़ाम , आँखों में इक बिजली खिली। काग़ज़ पर लिखे थे अल्फ़ाज़ , सुनहरी सी किस्मत का रंग , पहला नंबर , गोल्ड मेडल था , दिल में उठी गर्व की तरंग। दोस्तों की भीड़ ने घेरा , शोर हुआ ताली-सा चारों ओर , सोचा ये सब माँ के नाम है , जिनके सपनों ने दिया था ज़ोर। जेब में थे बस थोड़े से साधन , पर सपनों की थी भरमार , बॉम्बे से चलती उस ट्रेन ने , नागपुर का भी कर रखा था ख़याल। थोड़ा-सा सामान था साथ , बाँध के रखा था इक बैग में , सोचा , घर के आँगन में जाकर , बाँटूँगा ये खुशियाँ सबके संग में। याद आई माँ की थकन , उनकी चुप उम्मीदों की छाँव , हर इक जगे जगे में बस था , उनका चेहरा , उनकी दुआओं का गाँव। जल्दी में चिट्ठी भी लिख डाली , हेड ऑफ़ डिपार्टमेंट के लिए , ज़िंदगी कितनी तेज़ भागती है , फिर भी रुकती माँ की लिए। नागपुर की शाम ने घेरा , घर की खुशबू , पुरानी गली , मौसी जी ने इशारों इशारों में , न...

A Memoir of a Childhood Journey There are journeys that take you across miles, and there are those that take you inward—toward memory, meaning, and the quiet truths of life. I was eight when one such journey began, sparked by a telegram and carried on the wheels of a bus, a bicycle, and an ekka.        The Telegram and the Journey I was eight when the telegram arrived. My mother held it with trembling hands, her face clouded with worry. When my father came home, he read it aloud, my grandfather in Allahabad was gravely ill. We needed to go. Bags were packed quickly, and the next morning we boarded a bus from Nagpur. Fourteen hours of winding roads and dusty windows later, we reached Jasra, my father’s hometown, just outside Allahabad. We stayed the night, then continued toward my mother’s village. At the edge of the village, my mama ji, her brother, was waiting with a bicycle. No car, no cart, just a humble cycle and a warm smile. We loaded what we could onto ...

             The year was 1969 , and the world held its breath. I was just a child, barely old enough to grasp the enormity of it, but the crackling voice of Neil Armstrong declaring "one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind" on July 20th resonated deep within me. Apollo 11's audacious journey to the moon, carrying those brave earthlings, wasn't just news; it was a cosmic whisper, igniting a spark of wonder in millions of young minds across the globe. I'm certain that moment alone inspired generations of kids, pushing them towards a profound curiosity about science , nudging them onto paths to become scientists, engineers, and doctors , all driven by a shared desire to serve humanity. A few years later, that distant lunar echo found a vibrant, tangible form right in my hometown. Kasturchand Park, Nagpur, India , usually a quiet expanse, transformed into a bustling carnival of knowledge. A grand science exhibition was underway, its vibrant...

     In the bustling town of Nagpur, India, young Anil found himself at a crossroads. Third grade had been a tumultuous year, a year that would forever alter the course of his life.      His school operated on a trimester system, and Anil’s academic journey had been rocky. The first two trimesters had dealt him a harsh blow. Failing grades stared back at him from the report card, mocking his dreams of becoming an engineer or a doctor. The elementary exams, especially the science subjects, had proven to be his Achilles’ heel.      One sunny afternoon, as the Hibiscus tree bloomed outside their modest home, Anil’s father sat him down. His stern face bore the weight of expectations and concern. “Anil,” he began, “life is like a winding river. Sometimes it flows smoothly, and other times it rushes over rocks, carving its path. You’re at a crucial bend now.”      Anil fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, eyes downcast. “But Dad...

       The HSC exams were over, but the tension remained. The months of late-night studies, hurriedly copied class notes, and occasional doubt-filled moments had all led to this point. For many students in Maharashtra, the goal was clear, engineering through PCM or medicine through PCB. For me, it had been a balancing act of hard work and resourcefulness, with tuition only for mathematics in the final stretch.      The summer break that followed was meant to be restful, but instead, it was marked by anticipation. Then came the mid-July morning when the results finally arrived. In those days, before instant digital access, newspapers held the key to our futures. I rushed to my neighbor’s house to borrow their copy, scanning the tiny printed names and numbers, searching for mine. I had passed.      Relief flooded over me, but it was quickly replaced by a quiet apprehension. PCM and PCB scores, 82.6%. Not bad, but not enough to guaran...