Page 134 of The Circle of Exile
PO Box 144
Edinburgh EH1 1AA
United Kingdom
He slowly sat up, running his thumb over the aged paper. His father’s handwriting.
Return address:
Captain Mahendra Singh Kaul
Badam Bagh Cantonment, Srinagar
Jammu & Kashmir
India
“This…” he immediately began to look for the flap and it was open. “This is that letter?” He tilted the opening in his palm and out slid two folded letters. One was aged, the other brand new.
“Professor Raina got in touch last week,” Iram set her chin on his bicep. “He found out your birthday was coming up and wanted to send you a gift. He sent this.”
Atharva unfolded the newest paper.
Dear Atharva,
Vohorvod Mubarakh! Wish you a very happy birthday. I sincerely hope you are reading this in a moment of rest and solitude. From what I hear, you are a busy man getting even busier with what is happening in the valley. To tell you the truth, I am not worried. In long decades, this is the first time I am feeling this sense of faith. If you are there, I am not worried.
Congratulations on the birth of your son. How life comes full circle. Iram and you are now tasked with raising a human being and I know from having known your father, and now you both, that your son will turn out just as exemplary as his father, if not more. Iram sent me his photograph from when he was born and he does look just like how you did in the photograph I have. I am keeping that one, but sending you your father’s letter. You must have it. Maybe share it with your son when he is a young man. These things must pass down generations. They strengthen our values and our faith in our roots.
I am seeing Kashmir rediscover its roots through you. Whatever is happening is friction. When parts start moving, they are bound to create sparks. When you start going up, hands are bound to pull you down. But that’s enough of my lecture. My students bear them because they have to, you don’t have to.
I pray for your and your family’s good health and happiness here. I am in good health myself and will take a sabbatical from teaching this spring. Maybe it will turn into my retirement, who knows? The truth is, I am unable to read for longer periods, making work difficult. The Edinburgh winters are also making my lungs gasp. It’s time to let them rest.
Dr. Donovan sends you his best, and wishes you a happy birthday. You made a fan out of him with just one session. I told him you are a natural. After all, it is in our blood to spread the light of knowledge. May Maa Sharda bless you.
Yours,
Hari Om Raina
Atharva reached the end of the letter and wanted to read more. He chuckled, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“We have instant messaging and video calls, and Professor Raina manages to do this from across the continent.”
“There’s more,” Iram pecked his shoulder and reached behind her to open a sweet box. Qalaqand. Atharva let out a laugh. Their eyes met and she was grinning. Her hand came up to his mouth with a white creamy square and he opened his mouth, ate the sweet that his father had once commanded his friend to distribute to all of Scotland on the occasion of his birth. Iram licked her thumb. He kissed her mouth.
“Call him later.”
“I intend to. You read the letter?”
“Of course. I asked him if it was private and he said, no. It was for both of us.”
Atharva shook his head, smiling, folding the paper back. He eyed the yellowed, aging paper. He brought it to his nose. Old paper, ink and glue. He had read its contents on a picture taken on Professor Raina’s phone.
“Open it.”
He carefully peeled the folds open, the paper crinkling. He had half a mind to go and scan it to get a dozen copies and have them sealed in vacuum boxes for safekeeping. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have his father’s belongings with him. But this was… special. A letter that Professor Raina, a complete stranger to him until his trip to Edinburgh, had shown him. A letter of some of his father’s rawest thoughts and emotions when he was born.
Dearest Hari,
