Page 49 of The Circle of Exile
“Captain,” Altaf handed over some papers to him. Captain Husain passed him a baby bag in exchange. Altaf’s head swivelled to her — “Madam. I am returning.”
“Come back this afternoon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
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SRINAGAR
25 KM
She sat with her head turned towards the window as the milestone passed their car. The late afternoon sun was heavy on the cool autumn day, quickly running towards winter. Iram ran a hand down the smooth, silk top of her favourite Madhuri Dixit dress. Amaal had brought the famous orange one and it fell loose down her body. She adjusted her dupatta on her neck, the stones of her autumn ring winking at her. Four months ago, these parts of her identity had fallen off her body, felt alien, like she had been a farce stuffed inside them to create a bigger farce.
Today, they didn’t feel completely hers yet, but she knew she was beginning to fit into them better than she had then. Maybe better than she ever had. The part of her that had always vied for a happy ending, a destination, anending— had finally woken up to the bitter reality that it all passed. Her best days so far had passed, as had her worst. And when they had all come and gone, she had still stood, even if slimmed down to a narrower version. With her, Atharva had stood.
Iram glanced around her — Amaal beside her, working from her laptop, Captain Husain driving their car, Rahim Chacha in the bucket seat beside him. Fahad and Altaf had come to PoK for her. Begumjaan had taken Yathaarth and given him a mother’s warm lap. Ada, Mirza, Adil, Qureshi, Sarah — they had all stood in grief but solidarity with Atharva in her absence.
As the car sped into her city yet again, Iram promised herself that she would remain. Whatever came her way now, she would remain. Moreover, now she knewhowto remain.
Abba had been right about the strife —this too shall pass.
The monk of Lamayuru had been right about joy —this too shall pass.
But Atharva had been right about the beyond —we will remain.
“They have landed,” Amaal relayed to her.
Iram’s breath came easy. She beamed through the mesh of thoughts in her mind. Whatever came, now she would remain. She glanced up at the cobalt blue sky leading towards Srinagar. Pigeons were fluttering in flocks back home.
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Their car stopped just behind Atharva’s and Iram glanced up at her home. Their home. Her door was pulled open and she found herself climbing down in a trance, her heart racing to run inside. The thuds were loud, so loud she feared the guard holding it open would be privy to them. Iram took a deep breath and calmed herself, pasting her Madam-smile on her face.
Yathaarth’s happy squeals made her whirl, and that thudding heart stopped. Atharva was pulling him out of his car seat and consequently holding him up, shaking the top of his head into his tummy. Yathaarth let out the sweetest squeak, then curled over his father’s head as Atharva expertly cupped his neck and manoeuvred him back into his arms. Iram closed her eyes, taking that vision and keeping it safe. Atharva had once sung to him in her tummy, blew bubbles to get him to kick — the baby lying high up near her diaphragm.
“Iram?” Amaal’s voice brought her back before she could think about the other baby and how she had slumbered longer, always kicked slower, later than Yathaarth. Except that first time…
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” she stepped aside as Rahim Chacha got down. She stared at him, unable to form the words to thank him for what he had done.
“Rahim Chacha…” she started.
“Khush raho, baby,[35]” he smiled his broken smile, his hand rising to her head. She swallowed, bending her neck to make it easy for his tired arm. He looked like he might fall off.
“Amaal, can you have somebody drop Rahim Chacha off at his house?”
Amaal looked conflicted, glancing behind her shoulder. Iram followed her gaze and found Atharva standing there, Yathaarth in his arms, cool eyes on Rahim Chacha.
Amaal cleared her throat — “Atharva might want to talk to him.”
“I’m done,” his clear voice reverberated. “Take him.”
“Don’t talk like that standing outside, all of you.” Begumjaan’s firm voice sounded. “Iram, come. Atharva, take Iram inside.”
He did not move. Iram stared at him. An extra second passed and he nodded to the door — “Come.”
Before he had said that one word, she hadn’t realised that he gate-kept the house she had inhaled as her home just a few minutes ago. Not her father’s house, not those forts and palaces of Nagar — Atharva’s house had been her home.
