Page 165 of The Circle of Exile
Iram swallowed, but before going to him, she lowered their sleeping son into his cot. Yathaarth mewled, trying to pucker his lips for his pacifier. She was trying to wean him off it for sleeping but he began to fuss around. Iram reached for a spare one, opened it and popped it into his searching mouth. The moment he quietened, she glanced up again.
Atharva had peeled his shirt off and was now unbuckling his belt, eyes still on the night sky. The muscles on his bunched with the movement of his arms. She wanted to go to him. But her feet wouldn’t move. As if there was a bubble, an aura around him, preventing anything from coming near him.
Resigned. I have resigned.Those words began to settle inside her.Resigned.From the position of Chief Minister. The Chief Minister of Jammu & Kashmir. If that wasn't Atharva then that position was… empty. Iram gaped at her husband’s bare back, the belt slowly being pulled out of the loops of his pants. She had seen many Chief Ministers in this state in her time here. But just three years of Atharva and she could not think of another.
His neck bent. She could feel the strain of that solid column in her own neck. Being the Chief Minister had been his big goal. He had given it 15 years of his life, 12 of them to just work and get ready for it. He had sacrificed a whole lot for it. His mother had passed in the tussle to reach here.
Resigned. I have resigned.
Just like that?
“Atharva.”
“Hmm?” He was looping his belt neatly around his fist, eyes still lost outside.
“Can I come there?”
His face turned to her over his shoulder, a frown and a smile playing together in those tired grey eyes. His arm stretched out and his hand opened up for her. Iram walked the distance between them and placed her hand in his. His fingers clasped around her hand and she went into his warm chest. She embraced him, breathing in the musk and Old Spice, holding the back of his head and pulling it into the crook of her neck. She smelled of khus tonight. And she felt the deep inhale of his nose, the pucker of his mouth on the hot skin behind her ear, the squeeze of his arms.
And then she felt his body loosen its taut tension and give itself away into her embrace. No tears, no rage, no silent scream. He just remained there, mouth and nose in that place where they always found liberation.
“You want to come down and eat dinner?” She asked.
“I want to take a shower.”
“Come.”
Iram pulled him back from her, took his hand and led him to their bathroom. She left the door half ajar in case Yathaarth woke up, switched on the geyser and reached for the top button of his pants. Atharva, surprisingly, remained quiet, letting her work the last of his clothes off. She let her own clothes fall. And led him to the shower, turning the knob to a full blast of hot, steaming water. She began to turn the cold water knob on but he reached around her and held her wrist.
“You don’t like scalding showers in summers,” she protested.
“You do.”
“Atharva.”
“I want scalding today.”
Iram glanced into his eyes, his scar looking pronounced and darker and deeper running down his left cheek today. She cupped the cheek and thumbed it, running her digit down the line. The things this man had sacrificed for her.
Her body was pushed under the shower and she pulled him along, the water scalding their skins, plastering their hair down their faces. Iram rubbed her hands down his body — his chest, his stomach, his sides, his arms. Without soap, without shampoo, she went on rubbing her bare palms over the water sluicing down her husband’s body. Slow, languid, cleansing. Her fingers reached his back and crawled up, rubbing circles until they reached the back of his neck. His head fell back.
Iram reached up and pushed the hair plastered on his forehead back, caressing his temple.
“I don’t know where I go from here, myani zuv.”
“I don’t know if I should drown in my guilt first or rise for you, Atharva.”
“I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“I don’t know how to make this bearable for you.”
“I don’t know if another peak will ever come in life.”
“It will!” She cut him off vehemently, scrunching her fingers in his hair and pulling his head down. Shocked grey eyes popped open.
“Atharva Singh Kaul — you may be a soldier or a Party President or a Chief Minister. You may be a trader or a gardener. You will always be at the peak of that point in life.”
His wet eyelashes blinked.
