Page 120 of The Circle of Exile
Atharva glanced from his family gathered around the mandap to Iram — “I was told I leapt over onto a basket of mangoes on the side.”
Groans of the anticlimax and angry grunts.
“And then my father pushed me towards the objects and I pounced on the book.”
————————————————————
He had kept the ceremony for close-knit friends and family, and hosted a lunch for his political colleagues. As Atharva mingled with them, people from all parties — MLAs, spokespersons, heads, bureaucrats, officers, admin and support staff — he realised that a massive chunk of his government was here in his backyard today.
The space had been covered and insulated with portable heaters for this cold December day. And the warm scents of scrumptious wazwan delicacies added to the cosy noon, the sun diffused through the translucent canopies.
As he walked from one Awaami MLA to Janta MLA, his gaze landed on a crying Yathaarth, banging his head and writhing on Grandma’s shoulder. His first reflex was to step up and take him away. But then Iram turned from her conversation with some of the KDP members and smiled at their crying son. As soon as Yathaarth saw her, he flailed his arms out to her. Atharva blinked with a sheen in his eyes as Iram took him in a sweep and cradled him just as effortlessly on her shoulder. His head rested on her hair and she carefully swept it behind her shoulder to give him a wide berth. His naughty son, though, even in the throes of a crying fit, held a few strands in his fist.
She rocked from side to side and her palm splayed wide on his back, patting him in a soothing rhythm. It was different from the way he patted Yathaarth but the little monster calmed down in an instant, burrowing his chubby face underneath her chin. She lifted her jaw to accommodate him and cuddled and rocked again unconsciously, still talking. It was an act ingrained into mothers since as long as time existed, perhaps. And yet, Atharva felt so happy seeing it in the mother of his child.
Her gaze lifted to his and her polite smile turned beaming. Her brows rose in question. He shook his head, the ball of emotion hard and heavy in his throat. Her eyes held his, and an unnamed emotion rose in brown swirls. Then, in that eye lock, they both knew what nobody else did. That they had finally thrown an anchor into Dal — and it had latched on with its precious life.
“Mubarak ho, Kaul sahab,” Momina Aslam’s low voice made him break from that moment. He turned, pasting his statesman smile on his face — “Momina Madam, thank you for coming.”
She was a striking woman, tall and wraith-like, older but groomed so well with her classic pastel salwar kurtas, flawless makeup and perfectly styled hair that she could pass for somebody decades younger. She adjusted her dupatta over her head and smiled. “We have our differences in the assembly. Outside, we are just two regular colleagues.”
Atharva nodded.‘Regular’ and ‘colleagues’ were two words they would never use for each other.
She tipped her chin at her aide, who stepped up and held out a set of wrapped gift boxes.
“Thank you, I appreciate you bringing these. But we are not accepting gifts. My son is lucky to be blessed with your presence.”
“Now, Kaul sahab,” her head cocked to one side, her smile soft and genuine as she pulled the dupatta over her head higher, as was her habit. “Let’s keep our formalities limited to work. If you don’t accept, I will go and give these to your son myself.”
No way.Atharva chuckled, nodding at one of the servants to accept the presents. He waited until her aide had stepped back and moved away, leaving them in a reasonably private space. There were party members and MLAs from both their parties around them. This was as private as it got.
“Are all the ceremonies completed?”
“We finished about an hour ago.”
“Congratulations. It must have been a long day already.”
“For my son, more than all of us. He isn’t used to napless mornings.”
Momina Aslam laughed — “I am a mother myself, so I would agree. But it’s fine. It’s your son’s big day.”
“That it is.”
She nudged her chin behind him, possibly at Iram and Yathaarth — “After all, how many children can claim to get their mothers back from across the border?”
Blood chilled in his veins. For a moment, he felt like his head was vacuumed out. He kept his expression schooled as Momina Aslam smiled. “You do enjoy playing the rescue specialist all the time; it’s actually fun to watch.”
Atharva raised his eyebrows — “What is this now? A new fantasy?”
Her smile turned into determination, her voice dropped. “If it were fantasy, you would have been affronted.”
“Why would I be? It’s not the first time you are alleging something fantastical about me.”
“True. But then fantasies don’t have planes that disappear from Gilgit and magically appear in Kargil, no?”
Atharva remained silent. She shook her head — “Anyway. You may be right. Maybe it’s my fantasy. Is that zafran phirni?”
Atharva stood unmoved as she moved, chasing the server with pots of phirni. His ears roared. He glanced back at Iram. She was now with Pops, laughing about something with him, Yathaarth in her arms turned to him. Atharva’s panic mounted.
