Page 131 of The Circle of Exile
“Who cleared air recon?”
“Captain Bedi got us satellite coverage for twenty-seven minutes pre-strike. That gave us the clean entry.”
Atharva gave Captain Bedi a brief look.“Did you find any signal jammers?”
“One, sir. Crude rig. Iranian make. Likely exfil from the Sialkot corridor. We’ve handed it off to NTRO.”
He turned to Major Banot.
“This site, it’s not a cell. It’s a station. That means they're laying groundwork for forward operating logistics. I want this forest mapped to the root. Canopy scans, heat-sigs, rabbit holes — everything. If they’ve buried anything, I want to know before winter buries it even more.”
Major Banot gave a curt nod. A stillness settled for a second. No one spoke. Then Atharva looked around. The men, the gear, the trees wrapped in frost and sun.
“You just gave this state a victory when it needed it most. Make sure that seventeen-year-old tells us what we need to hear. But don’t let him forget what he almost became.”
With that, he turned — the camera shutters in front of him already going off, catching him as he strode to his fleet. Questions were shouted, hustle ensued. He didn’t flinch.
Some wars were being fought in the forests. And some were just beginning inside the city.
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The sun was going down and Jammu’s sky was burnished copper. Atharva got down from the car and nodded back at Altaf and team. As the fleet of cars ahead of him emptied the long, broad driveway, Altaf came to stand in front of him.
“Happy birthday, sir.”
Atharva found it in himself to return the small smile — “Thank you, Altaf.”
The dickeys of the cars behind his were being emptied of flowers and gifts vetted by security at the Secretariat. Atharva couldn’t find any energy or joy in this day.
“I’ll be in the outhouse, sir. Are you going out tonight?”
“No. We are home.”
He nodded, stepping back and turning around to stride home. Atharva turned too, seeing the door of his house glow with happy orange light. Iram hadn’t touched the decor in the house but she had changed the light temperatures the first year they had stayed here. He had to agree that warmer lights switched moods instantly. Today, though, he was exhausted. Travel had never exhausted him before. Maybe it was age catching up. Or maybe the fear inside him.
He climbed the steps and crossed the threshold of his house, his face warming up at the boy sitting inside the playpen Iram had built around him. He was half on his knees, trying to strain out and grab the remote from the sofa, his bum round and dancing to some imaginary tune.
“Myani zuv!” He called out, striding in. “Myani zuv?”
“Zuuub zuv!” Yathaarth’s tiny voice echoed. He stopped in his tracks, head whirling to his son. His head was now turned to the kitchen, lips round on his last ‘zuv.’
“Myani zuv!” Atharva yelled louder, eyes on his son.
“Zuzuv!” He called out louder, dark grey eyes wide and waiting on the kitchen’s door.
Iram came running, mouth open — “Did he say what I heard?”
“Myani zuv?” Atharva grinned, stepping close to Yathaarth’s playpen. He was banging his hands on the playpen fence, grinning at Iram — “Zub zuv… zuuu!” He sputtered and Atharva swooped him up to a barrage of maddening giggles.
“She is my myani zuv, find another name,” he cradled his son in his arms, blowing raspberries into his neck. Yathaarth couldn’t stop chortling.
“Myani zuv, come here.”
“Zuvzuvzu…”
“Aye!” He mock-growled, making his son go off again.
“Zu…”
