Page 34 of The Circle of Exile
“What time is it?”
“6.”
“In the morning?”
“In the evening.”
She shook her head, trying to get her bearings back. She hated the dark now. Lived in it, but hated it. It took away the passage of time but it also took away the hope of the sun.
“Can you open the window?” She panted.
He got to his feet and she heard him pad to the far end of the room. A streak, and curtains tore back, letting the sun in. It was mild, orange, piercing into the room from behind giant mountains. Iram squinted, letting it pierce her eyes and her skin and her insides too.
The rattle of a handle startled her. She turned at the sound. The door to the connecting room pulled open and Begumjaan stepped out. Bundle in hand. Swaddled. Iram remembered him being swaddled earlier too. Head so big. She did not remember his face. She had not seen enough.
She jolted to her feet, eyes on Begumjaan.My roots did not die? I was cut off but they lived? Are they mine? Am I theirs? How did this happen? How do I do this?A shiver set in. She took one step forward and again her knees were buckling. They locked in place. Begumjaan took the steps, covering the distance between them, holding the baby like it did not weigh anything.
Iram looked at the bundle, tiny suns all over the swaddle. Shivers were wracking up and down her neck, her skin trembling. Warmth spread behind her. She felt before she saw Atharva, coming to stand behind her.
“Take, Dilbaro,” Begumjaan began to hand over the baby and she instantly had her arms up, one over the other, as if she knew how to. But when she began to lower him, Iram panicked.
“I can’t, I am shaking, I can’t… I am scared of holding small babies,” she gasped. Begumjaan went on lowering him.
“You can, Iram, you can,” Begumjaan filled her arms with her son even before her head had completed shaking and Iram felt the scab on her chest begin to bleed. It gushed. Blood all over. A river. The warm weight pressed upon her bones. And it all dried.
He felt so much heavier than he looked.
“Oh,” she gazed down into the sleeping face. All tiny features. Delicate. Smooth skin. Two eyes closed, a tiny nose flaring with puffs of breaths. The sweetest pink mouth smacking in sleep.
Begumjaan’s hands began to retreat and she looked up — “Please keep your hands below mine!” Begumjaan slipped her arms below hers and the warmth under them made her break down. Iram didn’t make noise, letting this bundle, this baby sleep. But tears burst and flowed down her eyes, her cheeks, her jaw. Her vision blurred.
Right here, in this moment of pure joy, she wished that tragedy was true after all. She couldn’t handle this joy, she couldn’t handle this blessing. What was she to do here? What was she to do with her son? Where did he fit in her again? Where did she fit with him now? After everything she had made peace with, how could god turn the wheel of her life again?
Her knees buckled and she was falling. The ground was coming closer and she clutched the baby tighter. But Atharva’s arms came faster, his chest bracing her back before she touched ground. Iram didn’t realise how she moved to the bed, lowering on the edge with her son still clutched tight in her arms. She just knew she was wailing, sobbing, her body shaking as little as possible to keep this tiny body cocooned in hers asleep. He did not stir. And she did not make a sound. Begumjaan’s telltale warm scent closed to one side of her. Atharva’s on the other.
How?She sobbed, eyes blurry again.How?
Begumjaan’s thumbs came to wipe her eyes and the world cleared. Iram looked her way.Why?Her mouth opened, her face falling into the crook of her neck, pulling the baby closer to her chest. She held him tightly in shaking arms, realising Atharva’s arm was under hers now. Her face turned. And she looked into blank grey eyes from Begumjaan’s neck.
She cried looking into those eyes, baring her all, her everything, showing him the skinned version inside. She wailed quietly, not breaking contact, pulling her son even closer if that was possible. The scent of sweet milk assailed her senses. The scent she had smelled with Atharva’s Old Spice. Her scent. The scent of her milk that he did not get to drink. The scent of them.
A loud squeak made her tear her eyes away from Atharva’s. When she glanced down, she was gazing into matching grey ones. This time she couldn’t keep the wail quiet inside her. The baby, her baby, with Atharva’s eyes, broke into a shrill cry and instantly was torn from her arms. Iram didn’t even have the energy to reach for him as Atharva took him on his shoulder.
“Who’s a good boy,” he crooned, walking away from her. The baby kept crying and he kept walking back and forth, rocking him like he weighed nothing. One arm under him, the other patting his back. “Shhh, shhh, who’s my good boy, Dilbaro…”
The soothing lilts of those words, the rhythm of their sound, the tenderness of his face — Iram saw not only her son but his father for the first time.
“It’s dinner time already, isn’t it?” He glanced at the clock, then at Begumjaan, skimming completely over her. “Is his bottle ready or we need to heat it?”
Begumjaan glared at him — “It’s ready.”
Iram saw that exchange but sat there like a stranger as Begumjaan stood to her feet and took him from Atharva’s arms.
“Would you like to feed him his bottle, Iram?” She asked.
Iram opened her mouth but Atharva cut her off — “We need to talk first.”
“Atharva.” Begumjaan clipped.
