Page 183 of The Circle of Exile
“Iram, it’s a one-day thing. I will take the morning train, reach there by noon, finish everything by night and take the train back. I will be back by the day after tomorrow.”
“Still. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“And Noora being with me will prevent it?”
“It will keep me sane knowing there is somebody looking out for you.”
Atharva was now attuned to his wife’s pet peeves, her fears, her ways of coping with them. So he did not fight them. This was what three years of marriage had taught him. That some fears and some superstitions lived inside you. There was no exorcising them. As a partner, you had to embrace them.
“Ok.”
————————————————————
The last twenty-four hours could very well be a dream. The familiar hot air of Jammu blowing from the window as he sat in a small nondescript flat belonging to Khatriji made him delude himself into thinking that for a moment. But then, Atharva looked down at the papers in front of him, the bundles of MOUs and power of attorney. He glanced up at Adil sitting beside him, their lawyer in front of him and two of their tenants reading through the paperwork. Noora sat in one corner, tying and untying his own shoelaces. And the delusion cracked.
“Here as well, sir,” his lawyer pointed at the line with a tiny cross that Atharva had missed. He added his signature there and passed the papers to one of the tenants. The document was dated one day before, making it eligible for registration on his behalf. Adil had the power to register now. And three of his properties — two non-agricultural lands and one 15-acre plot, were now rented out. It would cushion their lives for some time, preventing him from dipping into his stocks and other savings. Those were the safety nets. At this stage of life, where he had to start building up for Yathaarth, he was forced to fall back on old savings.
Atharva pushed the bitter resignation of that thought away and pulled the second bunch of the rental agreement closer.
“We are starting at a 3-year lease agreement with a right of first refusal after that for renewal at 10% hike every year…” his lawyer started to explain the standard clauses to them and Atharva inhaled the hot air of his home greedily. Kept inhaling.
————————————————————
The rattling of the train on the rail tracks kept him in a state of hypnotic half-doze. With his cap pulled low over his forehead, a simple blue T-shirt and jeans and a backpack, he knew he looked like any other solo backpacker on a budget. The third-class compartment was full to the brim. Their coupe was overflowing with four passengers sitting on each berth. The sun was out and they were two hours away from Shimla. Atharva stared out of the window, feeling like he was back to his post-SFF days. Untethered, lost, in search of the next turning of his life. The difference was — that time he had left the last turning of his own free will. This time…
“But you don’t even have a parrot, Babaji!” Noora was heckling with a man in a white dhoti and kurta sitting on the window seat opposite theirs.
“Parrot astrologers are the biggest scam.”
“Then tell me my future…” Noora held his forehead out. Atharva glanced at his eternal joy. Smirked. How had Iram thought he would be saved if Noora were with him? His ears were half-eaten, and the blankness in his head was broken from time to time, if that was called saving.
“No, wait, tell me my past. I can’t say if you are right or wrong about the future, no?” He snickered.
“Hmm…” the man bent forward. “Born in respectable household…”
“Anyone can say that looking at me!”
Atharva zoned out, feeling his hand itch. It had been tucked inside the bandage for a week now. The itching meant new skin was coming in. He hadn’t even bothered to change the dressing in these last five days.
He reached for the tape holding the bandage and slowly peeled it off, unwrapping the white gauze that was yellowed. The cut in the middle of his palm from slipping the grip on the saw had healed well. The skin was slightly puckered but settling well into a dry red scab. He lightly scratched the area around it and it itched even more.
Atharva knew he would scratch it to bleeding again so he set the gauze on his thigh, tamped it down with the back of his hand and began to retie it again.
“One minute, one minute,” the man sitting in front of him called out. Atharva glanced up but did not raise his face fully. The crowd in this Jammu Tawi was touristy and mostly Punjabi, ignorant of Kashmir politics. But they would recognise the ousted CM, even with a light beard.
“You have three rajyogs!” The man exclaimed, sitting up and scooting closer to the table shelf between them. “Can I see your hand?”
Atharva was about to grunt a no when Noora took his hand and pushed it up on the table shelf between them. “See, see. Maybe you will be right about something.”
Warm hands cradled his injured palm and the man’s head bent over it. Atharva glared at Noora.
“You are in a challenging time of life.”
“Who isn’t?” Noora chuckled smugly. The man’s head did not rise from his scrutiny of the palm. Atharva couldn't pull it away without drawing attention to his face.
“Youth was very turbulent,” the man went on. “Clarity came late in life. Won a good life partner.”
Noora let out a shrill laugh. “You tell everybody this or what? The story of every common man.”
