Page 189 of The Circle of Exile
The hour was pre-dawn. He had woken up even before his alarm had gone off, or so Iram had pointed. In truth, Atharva hadn’t slept all night, thinking and mulling over the membership drive trip. He had thought exactly what he would do, planned it down to the hours, made notes on his phone about what he would say at every citizen group and community gathering that they would visit, pulled up the research notes that he had drawn up himself — because he did not have the privilege of an assistant here. Zafarji was still tied up with being discharged from office. Atharva had asked him to stay put but he had decided to leave after his first month in Qureshi’s government. Without him, Atharva was a man on his own.
He felt a familiar thrill course through his body. A thrill he hadn’t felt in long years. As KDP had grown and flourished, the basics had been outsourced while he had taken higher, more important matters into his hands. Speeches, networking, policymaking, interviews, press barrages and the lot. This, the low level booth visits, the talking one-on-one with the most common person on the street, had been lost in his quest for bigger targets.
“Atharva,” Iram walked into their bedroom with a whisper. Yathaarth was peacefully sleeping on the bed between their pillows, cocooned by more pillows since they were both up and about.
“I was just coming down,” he grabbed his wallet and pushed it into his back pocket, reaching for his car keys and phone — a combination he hadn’t filled his pockets with in a long time.
Iram’s arms came around his torso and her mouth pressed into his back. Atharva glanced up in the mirror. The room was dimmed, a low night light illuminating the length of her hair visible behind his shoulder.
“Myani zuv…”
“Are you happy?” She asked.
“I was always happy,” he swallowed.
“No, you weren’t.” Iram nuzzled into his back. “You were content, maybe, in the peace of our family. But you weren’t happy.”
Atharva leaned to the side as she came around him, pushed up on her tiptoes and kissed his jaw. He framed the back of her head in his hand, holding her close.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For seeing through me and letting me be.”
She pulled back, grabbed him by the collar and tugged him down to her mouth, fusing it quick and hard over his before stepping back.
“Hey,” he bound his arm around her to snap her back but she escaped, laughing quietly. “I have packed coffee and sandwiches for you both. Quick. Noora is already setting up the back of your Land Rover with pillows and shawls.”
“Give me that kiss first.”
“I gave it.”
“You teased it,” he stepped up and she turned and ran. Atharva felt the first thrilling smile build up over his mouth at her escape. He ran a hand through his damp hair, walked to the bed and kissed the fluttering hair of his son. “Bye, Dilbaro.”
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His car smelled faintly of wet wool and cheap air freshener — both belonging to the man lounging in the nest of pillows in the rear seat.
“Pass me the coffee, no!” Noora’s arm weaselled from between the front seats. Atharva kept driving. Noora tapped his shoulder — “Coffee, coffee. Iram packed it in that brown thermos.”
Atharva reached down, grabbed the thermos, eyed the hand resting on his shoulder and smacked it on pudgy wiggling fingers.
“Ooooooooow!”
“Nap for twenty minutes. You will take over then.”
“Why?!”
“Because I said so.”
“But I didn’t say so!” He pushed his face forward, holding his hand close to his chest. “My hand is injured now.”
“Drive with the other one.”
“I forgot my rock music pen drive at home.”
Atharva toggled the music button on his steering wheel and Lata Mangeshkar’s voice filled the car.
