Page 71 of The Circle of Exile
She held her hands up — “As you wish.”
Atharva grabbed his glasses and put them on, burying his head inside the file. The moment Amaal left, he slapped the file back on his desk and pushed his head back on his seat. A moment. He needed a moment of peace.
His phone rang.
“Yes, Zafarji?”
“Sir, the railway project you inaugurated this morning has been vandalised. ‘Go back India’ was found sprayed on the walls.”
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It was past midnight when he drove home, hoping everything had quietened and he would get a moment of peace here. The day had taken a turn for the worse as soon as he had left the house this morning, going worse and worse. He wasn’t even surprised anymore. Ever since Usama Aziz had been eliminated, his Secretariat had been a war zone, even when the streets of Kashmir had relatively quietened.
His intel was working overtime, telling him this was far from over. The Haq Force was just getting started, recalibrating their efforts to destabilise the valley after two peaceful years when they had skittered into their holes. And their master in Pakistan — Atharva had a name and a face to him now, was pumping maniacal amounts of money into it. The rate per boy for stone pelting had gone from 200 per day to 500 per day.
“Sir.”
Atharva startled at Altaf’s signal and followed his gaze. Rahim was standing at the gate of his house. Hunched, taking the support of the gate's pillar, eyes squinted in the headlights of their cars. He began to push towards his window as his car slowed for the turn into the estate but their convoy was quick.
“Why is this man standing outside?” Altaf relayed into his earpiece. Heard the answer. Then — “Send him away.”
Atharva collected his stuff, sliding his iPad into his laptop bag as the car stopped outside the main door of the house.
“He has been waiting here since this evening, sir. He came yesterday too but it rained and he left.”
“Hmm.”
“Should I ask them to barricade 100 metres up and down?”
“If it’s a security concern, then go ahead. I don’t have any personal bone to pick with him. Let him stand and tire himself. He will stop coming eventually.”
Atharva pushed the door open, stepped out and strode into his house and down the alley. The lights were dimmed, the house asleep. He opened his office door and reached his table, setting his laptop bag down and finding the bottle of water blindly in the dark. He had no energy left to heat up the food or even eat. He finished the water in quick gulps, knowing he had to go and check on Yathaarth. Begumjaan had called him this evening with happy news — his son was slowly latching onto Iram, breastfeeding, spending time with her. Atharva felt the twinge. A tiny, unwanted, jealous twinge. He hated that he felt it, but he did. He was jealous of Iram for getting their son all day. And he was jealous of his son for being so easily reunited with the woman they had both been born to love.
But he did not fight the feeling. Dr. Baig was right; it would come and pass. He had to let it pass.
Atharva sighed, reaching behind his desk and switching on the lights. He needed ten minutes to justbeand then he would go up to his son.
He pulled back and did a double-take. His house of cards was still standing on his desk. Atharva squinted, bending down to bring his face to eye level. The top floor had moved a smidge, the angles of the bottom layer were greater. How? He had Shiva come in to clean the room every afternoon. And even if he did not touch it, the wind of working around was enough to topple it.
He went around the table and opened one of the three windows. Cool wind hissed inside. The house quivered. He waited for the top floor to blow away. It didn’t. Atharva opened another window. He started to feel the sting of the wind and a few stray twigs but the house did not fall.
He strode to the table and flicked the top. The entire house toppled. As one.
Stunned, Atharva picked it up between thumb and forefinger and found that the entire thing was glued together. He examined the edges, the joints looking shiny with dried Fevicol.
The wind rattled the half-open door and he glanced up, shifting to go and close it when Iram’s shadow darkened his door. He recognised even her shadow. How did he not recogniseheranymore?
Atharva trailed his gaze up her legs, her tummy, her chest, her neck. She wore a new pair of night clothes — a white frilly maternity top with ribbons over loose bottoms. She looked… so beautiful. With her hair flying in the wind, her eyes hopeful, shining in the reflections of his office’s light, she looked like a new mother, soft and vulnerable.
“You did this?” He held the house up.
“If things fall, they can be put back together. You taught me that.”
He set the thing down and took a seat. “How was Yathaarth today?”
“He was… good,” she smiled, stepping inside his office. “He loves grandfather music.”
His lips curved at the thought of his tiny baby dancing to the beats of his gramophone. “His muscle memory has been updated from before birth.”
