Page 132 of The Circle of Exile
“Aye!”
More chortles. More raspberries. More zuuus from his little rebel.
Iram’s face came into his view from over his son’s neck. And her eyes were wide, rimmed, heavy. Her face buried in his curls and Atharva gathered her close.
“Arth, Mama or Baba didn’t catch on,” she vibrated, her voice watery.
“Goes to show that I chant your name more than you chant mine,” he intoned. Her head came up, brown eyes wet but shiny lips curved. Their gazes locked. It was their son’s milestone, and yet it felt like theirs.
“Zuzuv!” Yathaarth’s hand thumped his chin. Atharva jostled him to his shoulder. “Mymyani zuv!”
“Zuuuv,” he giggled.
“This game is going to be the end of me,” Iram buried her face in her fingers and wiped her eyes clean. He tipped her chin up and brought her face up for a kiss.
She grinned — “Happy birthday.”
“You wished me this morning.”
“I can wish you as many times as I want.”
He laughed out loud, thumbing the impish grin on her mouth. He had barked the same words at her once in a fit of jealous rage.
“It’s good we didn’t call everyone for dinner tonight,” she stepped closer and under his arm. “Just you, me and Arth.”
“And Shiva and Noora.”
“How did you know Noora is here?”
Atharva’s eyes strayed to the photo frame of the said man-child, staring back at him from his TV console. Iram followed his gaze and gasped. Then burst out laughing.
“Why would he set his photo on our TV console?”
She shrugged — “Should we ask him? He is in the kitchen.”
“No! Please, no. I am going to go shower. What’s for dinner?”
“Mango milk cake, a special Italian feast,” she rose on tiptoes and whispered in his ear — “And a tired baby who didn’t take his evening nap.”
He smirked — “Which means his zuvzuv is available to entertain his father.”
Iram kissed his cheek, plucked Yathaarth from his arms and pushed him to go up the stairs.
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After a long, scrumptious dinner, half of which was spent teasing Iram and the other half fending off Noora’s attempts to butt into their table for two, and a spongey vanilla cake dripping in mango milk (only god knew how she had found mangoes in this season) cut with Yathaarth’s fascination for the lone candle burning on the side, Atharva lounged back in the living room.
The lights had been dimmed and Shiva had retired, leaving their bungalow empty and quiet. Eerily so. Atharva didn’t remember ever lounging in this hall. Today, as Iram had asked him to relax here as she put Yathaarth to sleep, he had agreed. The still, silent winter air was broken by the low voices of crickets outside, the hum of the heater muffled behind him. His thoughts turned to work, media, operations, Momina Aslam. They began to bombard the back of his head and he took a long breath to break free from them.
There had to be a way out. He couldn’t see it yet but therewasa way out. Atharva threw his head back on the sofa and blinked at the double ceiling. How could there be a way out if the trap hadn’t even opened up yet? He thought, and thought hard. If she had figured out one small intel, why come to him and blurt it out? She wasn’t one of those loose pegs. Some even compared her to Sayyid Butt in wits. What was she after that day…?
“That’s it, shut it out,” Iram’s soft body slinked close to him and plastered herself to his side. His arm automatically opened and he pulled her closer.
“I was relaxing,” he lied.
“With this?” She tickled the frown between his brows. Atharva smiled.
“How was your day?” He asked. “Sent those chapters?”
