Zinda Laashon Ka Bangla

Mera naam Vivek hai, aur aaj jo main tumhe batane jaa raha hoon, woh sirf ek kahaani nahi hai. Yeh woh sach hai jise main chahta hoon koi bhi na jiyen. Har lafz, har silsila mere andar se nikal ke aa raha hai, jaise kisi ne andar kuch thoons diya ho jo ab phatne ko hai. Main Dhanbad se hoon, ek chhoti si jagah jahan zyada log waqt pe mar jaate hain, lekin main jis jagah gaya tha, wahan log har raat marte the — har ek raat. Tum soch rahe hoge, kya bakwaas kar raha hoon main. Par nahi, sach bol raha hoon. Main ek journalist hoon, aur investigative reports karta hoon. 2022 ke December mein ek anonymous tip aayi — ek bungalow jahan pe 27 murder ho chuke hain sirf 27 din mein. Har raat ek naya laash milta hai, aur har subah police case close kar deti hai keh ke “Accidental death.” Mujhe laga yeh koi choti moti scam hogi. Par jab main wahan gaya, toh meri rooh tak tharr gayi. Woh ghar Ranchi ke baahar tha, jungle ke beech ek purana British-era bungalow. Deewar pe paint se zyada khoon tha, aur hawayein itni thandi ke jaanvar bhi uss taraf nahi jaate. Main jab pehli raat wahan rukha, toh laga jaise kuch dekh raha hoon mujhe — aankhen, har konay se ghurti hui aankhen. Us ghar ke caretaker, Ramdas, 65 saal ka tha. Bola, “Babuji, yeh ghar nahi hai, zinda laash hai. Raat ko kisi ko andar mat bulana, aur kuch bhi ho jaye toh chaukhat ke andar mat nikalna.” Main hans pada. Par uske chehre ki jhurriyon mein darr tha, asli wala. Raat 12:04 par pehli baar awaaz aayi. Jaise kisi ne chhuri ghusaayi ho kisi ke pet mein, phir ek aur chillaahat. Main bhaaga, upar wale kamre mein gaya, toh dekha ek ladka — koi 17–18 saal ka — chat pe latka hua tha. Uski aankhen khuli thi, jism hil raha tha. Par sabse darawani baat? Woh main tha. Woh chehra, woh height, woh kapde — woh ladka main hi tha. Main ne chillaya, par awaaz mere gale mein hi atak gayi. Jab wapas neeche aaya, toh Ramdas bola, “Babuji, pehla murder ho gaya.” Uska matlab mujhe samajh nahi aaya. Agli subah police aayi, lekin us ladke ko dekha hi nahi. Jaise kabhi tha hi nahi. Main pagal sa ho gaya. Par main journalist hoon, haar nahi maanta. Dusri raat camera lagaya, recorder on kiya. 12:02... kuch nahi. 12:03... darwaza khud ba khud bandh. 12:04... ek aur cheekh. Main bhaaga, par iss baar ground floor pe. Kitchen mein ek aur laash. Aur uske haath mein mera ID card. Uska chehra pura jala hua tha, lekin uski shirt pe tha “V. Sharma.” Main samajh gaya, yeh koi bhoot-pret nahi, yeh kuch aur hai. Har murder mein main hi mar raha hoon, alag-alag tareekon se. Jaise ghar mujhe baar-baar maar raha ho. Har angle se. Har style mein. Har version mein. Ramdas bola, “Babuji, aap jaise log hi iss ghar ka khaad ho. Yeh ghar bhookha rehta hai, aur yeh sirf unko khata hai jinko zindagi se pyaar hota hai.” Usne mujhe ek purana file diya. Usme likha tha — 1942 se leke ab tak is ghar mein 739 murders hue hain. Aur har laash ya toh gayab ho jaati hai, ya kisi aur ke chehre mein badal jaati hai. Main woh file padh raha tha jab mujhe ek awaaz ne rula diya — meri maa ki awaaz. “Beta... ghar aa jaa...” Main bhaaga, par yaad aaya meri maa toh 2017 mein mar chuki thi. Tabhi mujhe samajh aaya — iss ghar ka asli horror yeh hai ki yeh tumhare pyaar ke logon ka bhes le ke tumhe khinchta hai. Aur har raat, ek murder isiliye hota hai kyunki yeh ghar kisi aur ke chehre mein, kisi aur ki yaadon mein tumhe khatam karta hai. Taa ki tum kisi aur version mein wapas aa jao. Aur yeh silsila kabhi rukta nahi. Main ab 2 din se wahan hoon. Shayad 4 baar mar chuka hoon. Har raat ek naya main. Har raat ek nayi maut.