1.
'Khel khatam bachha log.'
'Nahi chacha, aj kuch aur dikhao. ye kahani to hum sun chuke the. Aur dobaara isi kahini ko dekhne ke paise hum kyon de? chalo Babloo, hum kahi aur jate hai.'
Wrapping up the puppets, Abdul felt cheated. he always felt so, when viewers refused to pay money after the show. And the viewers were always children. "bachhonse kya wasooli karna?" he thought to himself, while pushing the cart away.
But this notion was going to cost him his lunch. Noor was going to be very mad at him for this. she always insisted that he should collect money beforehand. like some kind of a ticket. but Abdul was an artist. He had no heart for this coldhearted commerce.
"hum kalakaar hai, koi dalaal nahi." he used to say.
"to bech khaao mujhe bhi. is nautanki se taang aa gayi hoon" she would taunt back.
He hated to argue, and, the fact was, she was right.
The puppet shows were not as popular as they were in his childhood.
Unlike other forms of earning a livelihood, this had no place in cities. He could go, as far as small towns. There too, the 'video game' bug had bitten the children.
Abdul would feel sad. not for himself, not for his wife. He would feel bad for the children. They had no innocence left. even the smallest of the kids used to be a shrewd customer. They were no longer happy with his stories. They all wanted to see wars, and guns and victories. They asked strange questions; ones he could not answer. No one wanted to see the 'Raja Rani Ki Kahini'
2.
Swati was not happy. She had a bad day at work. She had worked day and night on that presentation. And when the crucial time came, her boss presented the same, and took credit.
She felt cheated. There was some mute sympathy from her colleagues. But sympathies were the last thing she wanted.
Kaushal was not being supportive either. He never understood her feelings. “He could be more supportive” she thought. The presentation had meant a lot to her, it being a chance of getting ahead. Yet he complained of her late hours, not once asking her about her progress in the presentation.
Just two months in marriage, and there was a clear drift. The house had one Dictator, her mother in law. Being a small town girl, she was never disrespectful towards elders. Yet, on a day like this, she resented her marriage.
It was a plain, colourless day for her. She was in no hurry to go home.
Home!
She laughed at the idea. Nevertheless, she had to accept it as it was. And it was not that bad either, she told herself. She was allowed to work, and occasionally, her saas would actually be good to her. She was never threatened about anything, nor was she harassed like Manju, her distant cousin.
“I don’t know, I am confused.”
And she remembered her mother. Her house, the one that was really her home. There was warmth in it. There was always someone to listen to what she had to say. Her father always encouraged her to study, to get educated. She was taught to have her own opinions, and when she made her decisions, they were never opposed.
“God, I miss it.”
Diwali was near, and she had a lot of work to do. But she was in no mood. Walking down the road to the bus stop, she noticed the small park, with the bent Gulmohur, and the odd bench beneath it. Being impulsive was not her nature, so she was surprised when she found her leaving the queue and heading towards the bench.
It reminded her of her school playground. It had plenty of Gulmohurs. And diwali used to be a special time then, because, the playground used to be turned into the village fair. There used to be sweet shops, there used to be colorful dresses. And there used to be the puppet show.
She was in her own thoughts when she saw the old scrawny man pushing the familiar cart with multicolored adornments. And for the first time since the morning, she smiled.
3.
Abdul had passed the afternoon empty stomached, cursing his fate. Passing from one street to another, he was looking for an audience. He wanted some money, of course, but the one thing he wanted the most, was some appreciation. The sound of claps was sweeter to him, than the clinking of coins in his old cap.
He searched every playground, every corner on his way, but spotted no children. No one wanted to see his dingy puppets. The people eyed him with suspicion, and the mothers called their children in as soon as they saw the old man in rags pushing the gaudy cart.
And then he saw the girl in the blue chudidar, sitting below the Gulmohur. She had the innocence on her face, which he had much longed to see. There were a plenty of expressions playing over her face, just like his puppet show. Suddenly, she looked up. Their eyes met and she smiled a child’s smile.
Swati walked over to the cart. The old man too had stopped by then.
Standing in front of his cart, with all the memories behind her, she said.
“chacha, ek kahani sunao.”
Abdul smiled. He was contented. Now, since many years, he had an audience.
“kaunsi kahani sunau beti?”
He asked, not wondering about the absurdity of the situation. And he almost leapt with joy when she said,
“koi achhisi Raja Rani ki Kahani Sunao na Chacha!”
