Page 114 of The Circle of Exile
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Derek Walcott
Iram was half delirious with getting her six month-old big boy to lie still. But then, she was also just too happy. Her mock frowns and giggles were new to her as she wrestled Yathaarth into his cream pheran. He just wouldn’t cooperate, sensing the change from his usual thick cotton or wool fabric.
“You will like it,” she took the tiny silk pheran and ran it over his cheek. His mouth opened in a toothless grin, one tiny white pearl sprouted on his lower gum. Iram had a crush on that little tooth of her son. She bent down and nuzzled his nose, making his grin turn into a chortle as he banged his hands on her shoulder. His body began to turn and roll over the bed but she turned him back — “Aye! There’s no pillow there, dummy.”
He looked happy enough to attempt dressing him again. She braced herself, took the pheran over his head without his eyes falling on it, and began to weasel her way down.
“How’s the mission going?” His father’s loud boom made him perk up and throw her pheran off.
“Atharva!” She groaned, inhaling his aftershave as he exited the bathroom. The room filled with Old Spice and steam. Who would say it was the peak of December and frigid freezing weather outside? Their room was toasty thanks to two heaters. Iram bent down and blew rapid raspberries on the mini heater’s warm tummy. He again began to roll around, looking happy enough to go for attempt number… she had lost count.
“Dilbaro,” Atharva’s warning voice echoed as she sensed him moving around their room, getting dressed. “Who’s my good boy?”
Iram used his distraction of trying to hunt for his father’s voice and pushed the pheran down his head.Aha!Down to his neck. He did not protest, flailing his head happily at whatever Atharva was doing behind her.
“Captain Kaul, you can do the Indian dressing next time,” she pronounced, pushing his tiny arms through the sleeves and pulling the thing in place.
“Not my fault that he understands early on who calls the shots here.”
Iram rolled her eyes, slipping the matching pants up his nappy-clad bum. Her son still did not protest, too busy moving his head around as his father got ready. She gaped at Atharva over her shoulder. And closed her mouth. He looked dashing in his own white pheran, chuddidar and matching shawl. One of his father’s — a proper Pundit ensemble.
“Eyes up here.”
She scowled up at his clean-shaven face, pasted in the mirror as he ran his fingers through his hair.
“I’ve seen better.”
Grey eyes met hers through the mirror as she climbed up on the bed and splayed beside her son, leaning her head on her palm.
“Who?”
“Who calls the shots here?” She asked.
His eyes narrowed, working one end of his shawl over a shoulder while passing the other end under his other arm and throwing it over the opposite shoulder.
“I do,” he grinned.
“Objectively, Noora has better features than you.”
Atharva whirled — “Take it back.”
She bit the insides of her cheeks — “Who calls the shots here?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Milk here, milk there, everywhere milk milk…” she sang the awful little song Noora had made for Yathaarth and her son looked too happy for his father’s taste.
