Khazan Ki Sham Hon Mei By J.Nikhat Complete | ZNZ LIBRARY PK
Khazan Ki Sham Hon Mei By J.Nikhat Complete | ZNZ LIBRARY PK
"ماما! میں نے نہیں جانا ان کے سامنے۔۔۔۔"
پری کی ضد اٹل تھی۔۔
"بچے! یہ تو کوئی ضد نہیں ہوئی، شوہر ہے وه تمہارا، تین بار تمہیں بلاوا بھیج چکا ہے۔جاؤ، جاکر سن آو کیا کہنا ہے اسے۔۔۔"
حبہ بیگم نے سنجیدگی سے پچکارا۔لیکن بیڈ پر لحاف میں گھس کر بیٹھی پری ٹس سے مس تک نہ ہوئی تھی۔
ضارب بھی دوسری طرف مستقل مزاجی سے ہر پانچ منٹ بعد ایک الگ ملازم کو پیغام لیکر بھیج رہا تھا۔
"پری! اب تم میری بات نہیں مانو گی۔۔۔؟"
انھوں نے جذباتی حربہ آزمایا۔
"ماما! آپ میری پریشانی سمجھیں،ایک تو ویسے ہی ان کا سامنا میرے لیے کسی آگ کا دریا پار کرنے سے کم مشکل نہیں ہے، اور اب اس حالت میں تو میں۔۔ماما! کم از کم آپ تو میری حالت سمجھیں، ہمارے مابین بےشک پہلے والا تعلق نئے سرے سے استوار ہوا ہے،لیکن وه ابھی اس تیسرے وجود سے ناواقف ہیں۔۔۔"
جھجھک وه پریشانی سے بتاتی وه آخر تک روہانسی ہوگئی تھی۔
"بیٹا! تو آپ کیا چاہتی ہیں؟کیا کیا جائے اس کا،کیوں کہ ایک گھر میں رہتے تو آپ اس سے مستقل فرار نہیں حاصل کر سکتی،وه شوہر ہے آپ کا اور اب تو آپ یہ بھی جانتی ہیں کہ گزشتہ چار سال سے وه آپ کے تصور کو اپنی ذات کا حصہ مانے بیٹھا ہے۔۔۔؟"
سنجیدگی سے اس کی رائے پوچھتے انھوں نے ضارب کے دل کی حالت کھلے الفاظ میں گوش گزار کیا تو وه لمحے کو جھینپ گئی۔پھر قدرے پست لہجے میں گویا ہوئی۔
"ماما! اگلے ہفتے سے میرے یونی کے کلاسیز سٹارٹ ہونے لگے ہیں،آپ تب تک مجھے اپنے ساتھ یہی رکھیں،اس کے بعد مجھے کسی طرح میرے گھر بھیج دیں،وہاں نور جہاں آپا ہیں،وه میرا خیال رکھ لیں گی۔اور۔۔۔"
"دماغ خراب ہوگیا ہے پری تمہارا؟ حبہ بیگم بھڑک اٹھی تھی۔پہلے سے پیچیدہ چیزوں کو اور الجهانا چاہتی ہو؟ نہیں چلو تمہاری انوکھی منطق مان بھی لوں تو ضارب کو کیا جواز دوں گی،ارے! میں بھی کیا اناپ شناپ بول رہی ہوں،اس حالت میں تم ایسا سوچ بھی کیسے سکتی ہو۔۔۔؟"
حبہ بیگم کو پہلی بار پری پر بہت غصہ آیا تھا جس کے اظہار میں انھوں نے بالکل رعایت سے کام نہیں لیا۔
"ماما! اس مسئلہ کا فل وقت کوئی حل نہیں ہے،آپ مجھے بھیج دیں،اور پیچھے ان سے کچھ بھی کہہ دیں،مثلاً۔۔۔۔"
"مثلاً۔۔۔؟"
پشت سے ابهری سرد آواز پر دونوں حواس باختہ سی اس جانب متوجہ ہوئیں، عین دہلیز پر وه چہرے اور آنکھوں میں سرد سی سنجیدگی لیے اسے ہی دیکھ رہا تھا۔
اس کی سرد نظروں نے پری کی ڑیڑھ کی ہڈی میں سنسنی دوڑا دی تھی۔
"ماما! ایف یو ڈونٹ مائنڈ، کیا آپ تھوڑا ہمیں پرائیویسی فراہم کر سکتی ہیں،تاکہ میں آپ کی بیٹی کی ذہنی اختراع کا درست علاج کر سکوں۔۔۔"
اس کے تاثرات ہی نہیں لہجہ بھی ٹھٹھرا دینے والا تھا۔
"ضارب! تم باہر جاؤ، میں بات کرتی ہوں ناں۔۔۔"
"سوری ماما! بات نہیں کرنی تھی،آپ کو سمجھانا تھا اپنی لاڈلی کو کہ شوہر کو دوسرے الفاظ میں مجازی خدا کہا جاتا ہے،جس کے جائز احکام پر لبیک کہنا عین ثواب ہے، اور ان کو بات کرنے کیلئے طلب کرنا میری کوئی ناجائز ڈیمانڈ نہیں تھی جو آپ آرام سے ان کے یہاں سے غائب ہونے کی پلانگ سن رہی تھیں۔۔۔"
اس نے کتنا سنا تھا معلوم نہیں،لیکن اس کی حددرجہ سنجیدہ بلکہ استہزائیہ انداز پری کا ہی نہیں حبہ بیگم کا بھی دل ہولا گیا تھا۔
"Mama! I didn't go in front of them..."
Pari's stubbornness was unwavering.
"Child! This is not stubbornness, he is your husband, he has sent for you
three times. Go, go and hear what he has to say..."
Hibba Begum shouted seriously. But Pari, who was sitting on the bed, curled
up in the quilt, did not even touch her.
On the other hand, Zarib was also persistently sending a message to a
different employee every five minutes.
"Pari! Now you will not listen to me...?"
She tried an emotional tactic.
"Mama! You should understand my problem, for one thing, facing them is no
less difficult for me than crossing a river of fire, and now in this state
I... Mama! At least you should understand my condition, the previous
relationship between us has certainly been reestablished, but he is still
unaware of this third existence..."
She hesitated and said with worry, she had finally burst into laughter.
"Son! So what do you want? What should be done with him, because if you live
in one house, you cannot escape him permanently, he is your husband and now
you also know that for the past four years he has been considering your idea
as a part of his own self...?"
Seriously asking for his opinion, he listened to the condition of Zarib's
heart in open words, so she was shocked at the moment. Then he spoke in a
slightly lower tone.
"Mama! My uni classes are starting from next week, you keep me with you
until then, after that send me to my house somehow, where Noor is, she will
take care of me. And..."
"Have you lost your mind, Fairy?" Hiba Begum was furious. Do you want to
confuse already complicated things further? No, let's accept your unique
logic, then what justification will I give Zarib, hey! Am I also talking
nonsense, how can you even think like this in this situation...?"
Hibba Begum was very angry with Pari for the first time, which she did not
express with any restraint.
"Mama! There is no full-time solution to this problem, you send me away, and
tell him anything later, for example..."
"For example..."
Both of them turned towards her in a daze at the cold voice coming from
behind. Right at the doorstep, he was looking at her with a cold seriousness
in his face and eyes.
His cold gaze sent shivers down Pari's spine.
"Mama! F-you don't mind, can you give us some privacy so that I can properly
treat your daughter's mental illness..."
Not only his expression, but his tone was also mocking.
"Zarb! You go out, I'm talking, right..."
"Sorry Mama! I shouldn't have spoken, you had to explain to your darling
that the husband is called a virtual god in other words, and that obeying
his lawful commands is a reward, and calling him to talk was not an improper
demand of mine, as you were quietly listening to his plans to disappear from
here..."
It is not known how much she had heard, but not only Pari's serious but also
sarcastic tone had touched Hiba Begum's heart.
Khazan Ki Sham Hon Mei By J.Nikhat Complete | ZNZ LIBRARY PK
Darkness came slow, just as the glow dipped below the tall tower. Not the
shiny yellow folks write about - the heavy amber stuck on brick - but
something faded, flat, much like laundry left too wet in suds. This is
where things shifted: soft, unspoken. Without warning, without voices
calling across yards. Out here, time moves with the light. The whir of
overhead fans mixes with distant voices - someone closing up shop down
below. Nightfall shows itself slowly, not in numbers on a face but in how
shadows stretch and soften. When the air finally eases, bodies follow,
drawn out by that small relief, moving past doorways into the dim.
Late one evening, the voice of J. Nikhat slipped in without announcement.
Not loud. Not meant for stage or book. It came sideways, like dust
drifting under a door. From long ago, a scrap of words resurfaced. Silence
hung between speakers. Then - suddenly - a break. “Mama!” someone
whispered, lost in thought. Here’s why it hits so hard - meeting his gaze
weighs just as much on me. A pause takes over. Like the rest lives hidden
in the space where breathing pauses.
That line rarely shows up in poetry collections online. You won’t find it
in well-known books of Urdu verse either. Still, it turns up - softly - in
scribbled notes, recordings on phones, edges of yellowed journals. Often
women. Usually said out loud, never printed. Carries the hush of secrets
passed down, where truth hides behind images and quiet respect. "Standing
before him" - him who exactly? Father maybe. Brother possibly. Husband
most likely. A shape-shifting word, it lets anyone see themselves within
its frame. Yet the weight never shifts: defiance tucked beneath duty.
Hurting that looks like waiting.
One name missing from most conversations is J. Nikhat. Scattered documents
mention just bits - a schoolteacher in Old Delhi during the eighties, once
linked to a small arts group close to Chawri Bazaar. Books credited to
her? None found. Recorded talks or speeches? Nothing turns up. Left behind
instead are spoken memories - former pupils describing afternoons in
shadowed rooms where poetry would rise from her voice, followed by that
single question hanging in air: “What lives beyond the full stop?” She
never broke it down. Never gave answers. Simply paused. Allowed quiet
space to shape understanding.
Still, it's not the sound that keeps this line alive. Plenty of Urdu
verses sing just as well. What sticks is how it shows a hidden exchange:
emotion worked like duty, folded into silence. To say "you should
understand" leans the weight onto someone else’s heart - less plea, more
unvoiced charge. Something went wrong earlier - that much is clear. Seeing
him stands in place of a weight too big to name. More difficult than hurt.
Tougher than having nothing. Worse than stepping on shards without shoes.
The comparison runs out of breath, quiet mid-step. Inside that silence
waits each fight never spoken aloud.
Truth hides in how things are said, not just what is said. In places where
speaking plainly brings trouble, people learn roundabout ways. A proverb
slips past guards better than a protest ever could. Say it sideways, and
the weight still lands. Someone tired does not need to shout; the quiet
says enough. What matters comes through even when unnamed.
A scratchy clip survives - probably recorded around the two thousand mark
- of an elderly woman speaking on air about strained kinship ties. During
a listener segment, she lets the phrase roll out again, then once more,
drawn out like old taffy. Afterward comes her quiet remark: “Every one of
us has spoken it into the void toward our hers, whether they caught the
words or not.” The presenter offers something bland about communication
healing wounds, yet before he finishes, the line clicks dead. Less than a
hundred seconds pass from hello to silence. Only due to a stranger saving
the show online long after did it escape vanishing entirely.
Now matters because the way we used to mean things quietly is slipping
away. Shorter messages win online; longer shades of feeling lose ground.
Platforms push bold statements - “I am not okay,” “This happened to me,”
“Believe women” - honest words, needed ones. Yet something else fades
beneath them. A sense built in quiet moments, gaps in speech, glances just
off-center. Meaning once lived there too. Back then, everyone knew what
went without saying. That uncle who couldn’t put down the bottle? He lived
between the lines. The cousin who vanished once weddings came up - his
absence spoke loud. Meaning sat in silence, understood before words began.
Young people now grow up surrounded by broken signals. Online talk flows
easily, yet reading a silent look at supper - someone shifting topics when
memories rise - that takes practice most never get. Pain often returns in
scattered lines, like half-remembered poems, not clean explanations. It
stays out of reach, not due to age, just because understanding needs
closeness and patience, things too rare these days.
"Hey Mama… you might get this," starts like a plea. Falters into quiet. It
presumes awareness - awareness ignored on purpose. The ignoring stings
just as much. Yet something soft remains - the girl speaks at all, even
let down. Yet still it reaches, softly, toward touch. Never anger. Never
fault. Only asking, dressed in stiff words.
Stumbling happens when someone tries putting it into English.
Word-for-word misses the rhythm - yet adding clarity kills the haze. An
expert once wrote: “she needs understanding tied to duty - you especially
must see how facing him resembles facing wind without shelter.” True
enough? Maybe. Still, too much said. In Urdu, grace lives in silence.
Words saved carry weight.
City life chips away at small speech habits. People spread out across
places. Older kin remain in hometowns as younger women take jobs in urban
areas. Common memories grow thin. Traditions weaken slowly. Tales shrink
into short mentions before vanishing entirely. Phrases such as Nikhat’s
linger solely through voice-to-ear sharing, handed along like kitchen
secrets or familiar movements - a certain way of fastening fabric when
troubled. Left unspoken, they vanish without trace.
A shift crept into speech patterns, spotted by scholars at Jamia Millia
Islamia. Over two decades, words tied to women's family tensions faded -
down almost sixty percent. Voices recorded in Delhi, then Lucknow, later
Hyderabad showed the trail. Meaning stayed known, yet how it was used
slipped away. Younger listeners grasped terms, though missed the quiet
understandings behind them. What once held tension now draws a shrug,
called dusty, out of step.
It could be seen as a step forward. Plain words now stand where silent
struggle once lived. Calling harm by its real name beats hiding it in
symbols. That rings true. But another thing fades without notice - how we
used to carry opposing truths at once. Love can carry fear inside it.
Respect might wear resistance like a second skin. Words that bend leave
openings where contradictions fit. Today's talk pushes for sides - choose
whole or hurt, back or block. Room grows thin for holding two truths at
once
Out here, Nikhat’s piece lingers where few pay attention. Not chasing
closure. Never handing out tips. Just naming the weight. No fixes come
forward, only recognition. In places where pain learns to stay quiet,
unseen, that act alone cuts through. To say it aloud - however broken -
unlocks something.
That time Nikhat wiped the chalk words slow, one letter at a time, stayed
with someone long after class. Dust sat heavy on the board's edge when
they questioned her move. Her answer came quiet: some ideas come back if
they matter enough. Others fade right out of memory
Most things stick around now, unlike before when moments faded. Screens
grab every word, store it, spread it further. Vanishing acts are rare
these days. Sadness settles into files. Outrage hardens over time. Keeping
records helps, sure. Still takes something away. Certain ideas matter more
because they pass by quietly - said once, felt later, never pinned down.
Locking them in place can kill their pulse, transforming life into
display.
That quiet ache spreads wider without papers to hold it down. Listening
closely, an older man from Aligarh recalled his sister whispering those
same words - days after their father shredded her college letter. Tears
never came. Not once did she shout. Years passed before he stood by her
grave again. The words slipped out, carried off by a gust. Never written
down. Not shared with another soul. Belonged only to that breath of time,
he once explained.
Off-the-books moments define us just as much. These gestures dodge
tracking. Proof lives only in someone’s word - never logs or charts.
Patterns get praised in scholarly work. Yet agony does not line up neatly.
So much forms beneath notice - in a held breath, an unfinished sentence,
the weight of silence. Her line holds on, simply by showing what's flawed.
Not finishing the thought. The weight stays hidden, hanging there.
Evening falls along the edge of Khazan. That name probably means the
stretch where rivers brush against human homes - land neither open nor
closed off. Much like what lingers in that broken phrase. Water presses
hard there. Boundaries keep it back. Things stay upright, just barely. All
of it takes something out of the ground.
Maybe the poem never mentioned dusk. Perhaps it spoke of holding back. Of
forces pressing under damp soil, waiting through dry months. Women tending
salt fields by river bends. They watch for small splits in mud walls. Feel
shifts others miss. A break will happen - just nobody knows when.
Just quiet noticing. Balance matters more when things tilt. Risk shows up
in how people wait, not what they say. Courage isn’t loud - it’s standing
near water climbing higher, knowing but not admitting the walls are
weakening. Not everything breaks right away.
Some tales just live on their own. This? Better left open.
Truths sometimes last longer when left unsolved. Hanging there, much like
clothes swaying in a courtyard wind - seen, shifting, noticed only through
changes in how the air moves nearby. A finished thought brings comfort.
Yet real days seldom hand that over. Few battles get won. Instead, they
wear down slowly. Held onto. Then swapped for different burdens.
Ending too soon misses the point of holding on. Nikhat’s mark shows up not
in answers but in pauses. In how she leaves space where most rush to
close. Others step in, fill silence with their own breath.
Maybe Mom won’t get it. Could happen. Probably will. Yet speaking up
shifts something in the space they share. Silence grows thick after.
Sometimes thin. Truth depends on whose ears are held open.
Healing isn’t guaranteed when words are spoken. Other times, speech just
shows up without fixing anything.
Maybe that’s it
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