Page 133 of The Circle of Exile
“I did. But today was your birthday. You tell me, did some dare-devil things in the jungles of Kupwara?”
Atharva turned to her. She knew exactly what he had done thanks to Amaal’s media tailing.
“It was a productive day. But I am exhausted.”
“Can I make a few minutes feel like…” she rolled her eyes from side to side, thinking, looking adorable. “Like those 500 hours you still owe me?”
“I don’t owe you 500 hours. Maybe 200…”
“You owe me 500uninterruptedhours, Janab. But that debate is for another day. Close your eyes.”
“Iram, just kiss me like this.”
“Atharva,” she scowled. “Just close your eyes.”
He huffed and shut his eyes.
“Open your hands.”
He held his palms out wide. Something fell into them. A box. He opened his eyes and squinted at the small black box.
“Open it.”
He popped the top and his brows shot up. Two classic gold cufflinks. The light caught some carvings on them and he squinted more — “What’s written here?”
“Read it.”
“Pass me my glasses.”
She plucked his glasses from the coffee table and fixed them on his nose. Atharva brought the box closer and peered.
Yathaarth Singh Kaul
Hayat Singh Kaul
His breath caught.
“It’s not to make you sad,” Iram began to clarify. “I thought she must exist. She does exist in us, but she should also exist between us. I carried her for nine months but you carried the weight of her mourning all by yourself. When I got these made, I thought it would be right to complete you. One for each wrist. Now… you don’t look too happy. I’m sorr…”
“No!” He exclaimed, tearing his eyes away from that name. That full, complete name. His name. His forefathers’ name. Given to the little girl he had gotten to hold for a sum total of 15 minutes.
“I am not sad,” Atharva murmured, taking her chin in his hand and using his thumb to caress it. “Maybe the thought of Hayat will always leave me in this strange space — wanting her, missing her, feeling a thousand what-ifs and then making peace with what is. But the thought of her also warms me up. Knowing we made her, kept her for that time, had her. As I said last night, it’s a mix of pain and joy. This is…” he left her chin to tenderly pluck the cufflink with his daughter’s name. He caressed the top of Hayat’s name, like he had caressed Iram’s chin — “beautiful.”
Her face pressed into his neck and she pasted warm, puckered lips there. They remained like that for a long moment, breathing, being, smiling at the sight of that complete name.
“There’s something else too,” Iram whispered. Atharva glanced down at her, eyebrows raised.
“Close your eyes again.”
This time he did not banter. He held them closed for her, and opened his empty hand.
This time it was… paper. He felt around. Envelope.
Atharva popped his eyes open and stared down at the piece of envelope in his hand.
To,
Hari Om Raina
