Page 19 of The Circle of Exile
Atharva stilled. His momentary shock did not go unnoticed by Toru, who came to his side, running a ticklish finger under Yathaarth’s chin.
“Oh, his pupils are grey, alright, but the shape is all Iram,” she whispered, smiling at Yathaarth’s ‘bah’ sounds. Atharva bounced him up and down.
“Sir, everything is in order. No re-shoots are required.” Fahad informed him. “… and where have you been, Saba, Ehsaan was left on his own to deal with everything here.”
“I was just helping Begumjaan bring Yathaarth down…”
“Toru,” Atharva cut off that conversation, turning fully to her. “It was great seeing you again. Good interview.”
“You too. Give my best to Iram. And do something special on the other side of the fence, since you have made so many enemies to attend this event.”
Atharva gave a wry laugh, nodding his head in farewell.
“Saba, walk with me,” he commanded. She did. Happily. And as soon as they were out of his office and walking towards the backyard where Yathaarth’s playpen was set, he swapped his eyes from his son to her.
“Do not bring my son to my events or interviews without my permission. Ever.”
His cold tone left no room for wiggle, and Saba’s smile faltered.
“I… I’m sorry… I was just trying to…”
“Yathaarth has Begumjaan to look after him when I cannot. You do not force her or hound her to parade him everywhere. I decide where he goes, not you.”
“I just thought you would want to see him since you have been out all day. I apologize, sir.”
“I accept your apology. But make sure you understand what I said just now.”
Atharva walked out of the back porch and onto the wide gardens of his estate. They rolled into the forests behind, and the greens of its carpet were already looking ruddier with dryness. Begumjaan was waiting there, Yathaarth’s bottle in hand.
“Should we take his playpen inside?” Atharva asked, striding to her and sitting down on the steps. She came to him and sat down beside him, their eyes glancing over their backs to see that Altaf had closed the doors to any stray eyes or ears, including Saba’s. Begumjaan opened the bottle and popped the nipple into Arth’s smacking mouth. He latched on like he had been hungry for centuries.
“It’s getting colder, isn't it?” Atharva remarked, looking at the fiery red leaves now softened under the frost carpeting the sides of his estate.
“Children are resilient to cold.”
“My son is definitely resilient to it,” he smiled, the body in his arms so warm, just like his — a furnace. His throat clogged.
“It’s only a matter of a few days now, Dilbaro,” Begumjaan rubbed his arm. He nodded. He hoped. He prayed. He desperately, fervently, miserably prayed. There was no other chance for him after this. There was no other route for him to go back after this. Atharva’s eyes strayed to the Chinar.TheChinar. Its boughs were thick, leaves burnished, its branches canopying a chunk of his garden, a heavy branch going into his bedroom window.Theirbedroom window. This was supposed to be their children’s treehouse. Spiral staircase, two bedrooms, a slide on the side so that they don’t fall while climbing down.
Autumn had come and gone, and come again. His children weren’t here together, nor was she.
That house was not even visible in his visualisation. All he had were cards now, and houses that were made and blown with every new gust of wind.
“Begumjaan?”
“Hmm?”
“Will she come?”
When she did not say anything, Atharva brought his eyes back from the Chinar to her old, wise, knowing pair of green.
“She will come, first and foremost — for you.”
He did not believe it, but he nodded. Somebody believed it; maybe that would make it true. Atharva cuddled Arth closer, holding his bottle steady.God, let her come home. Please let my son see his mother.
The harrowed look on Begumjaan’s face told him how helpless she was. He didn’t press further, looking down at his son, whose mouth made a pop when she pulled his bottle out. They were flying out across the border, and Atharva realized that he had the task of searching for Iram while keeping Yathaarth safe from prying eyes in a foreign land. He decided he had to jump in again into the unknown pool, and take his fear with him even when everything inside him fettered his feet. He reached down and nuzzled his son’s head. Yathaarth clapped the toy in one hand with the palm of his other and bounced. Laughing grey eyes, the shape of almonds, blinked up into his.
“Our parents give us wings, Dilbaro, so that we can leap.” He whispered into the fine baby hair. “And then our children come along, and become the best fetters to our feet.”
