Page 184 of The Circle of Exile
The man still did not relent, his thumbnail tracing the line down the centre of his palm, running parallel to the current scar. Atharva turned his head to the window, seeing the landscape emerge from under the pale gold of the rising sun, letting this episode play itself out and holding himself aloof to be left alone soon.
“Your janmabhoomi is not your karmabhoomi.”
His body locked up.
“There is struggle for the next few years, but then there is great progress. Four children…”
Atharva snatched his palm from his hands. The man startled up. Before he could take a good look at him, Atharva got to his feet and bounded over stray bags and trunks sticking out from under the seats. He walked down the quiet compartment’s alley, the stench of burning wood, farms, faecal matter and sleep patent to the Indian Railways following him through the swiftly moving train’s windows. He marched to the doors of the compartment and popped one of them open, letting the wind batter his face. Four children. He scoffed, thinking about the one he had lost.Twothat he had lost. Their first baby and then Hayat. He looked down at the lines on his palm, itchy and scarred. Too many.
Atharva tucked one end of the bandage between his teeth, held his palm steady, and started to wrap it up.
IV: EXILE IS ROUND IN SHAPE
35. The land of gods…
TWO MONTHS LATER
The land of gods was ethereal. Just as mountainous as home, equally stunning, but so different in its experiences. August in Srinagar would be summer — touristy, warm, Dal and Jhelum melting into pristine blues. They would get their mattresses and pillows out to dry in the sun, use the AC a little extra due to the rising temperatures with Global Warming and keep ice cream stocked in their freezer all month-long.
Iram saw the rain in front of her eyes — a sleet, drenching the land of gods. Chains of mountains rose and fell in the distance, covered in glistening emerald green, looking deeper, darker, a shade she didn’t remember ever seeing back home. Almost too much for the eyes. The Chinars back home would be already on their way to paling this time of year, their leaves losing that sunlit swagger. Here, the deodars stood like quiet sentinels, unmoved by season or sentiment, dripping rain from their needles day after day.
The rain slowed and instead of making way for the sun, it made way for a blanket of fog. Iram stared and saw the change of weather from rain to fog in the span of an hour. Emerald green turned pale in the heavy fog of white. The sky lost the last of its blue to grey. And her open windows began to sway.
“Arth’s breakfast is ready,” Shiva hollered from the kitchen.
“I’ll get it,” she called out. The fog in front of her was just as magnetic as the rain before it. Try as she might, she couldn't tear her eyes from it. A small voice inside her reared its ugly head — would she ever be able to see the sun of August in Srinagar again?
Iram tore her eyes from the scenery in front of her and turned away, grabbing the shawl draped over the armchair. She did not drench under a cold rain anymore. And she did not wait for somebody to drape shawls over her anymore. She was the one who draped them nowadays. And she was proud of it.
With a whirl, she covered her shoulders in the warm frayed shawl, bright yellow in colour — a purchase of Atharva when they had scouted the streets of Edinburgh. It wasn't exactly the colour of mango but came close.
Iram got Yathaarth’s breakfast of porridge and banana from the kitchen and went in search of him. With Noora and Daniyal both here, she never knew what her year-old son was found doing — singingOld McDonald had a farmand dancing to Noora’s toneless lilt or vibing to One Direction while arm wrestling with Daniyal.
This time it was the latter. In Daniyal’s bedroom.
“Don’t you have college, Mister?” She went inside since the door was already open. Atharva and she had made a rule — they wouldn’t enter without knocking on a closed door. But if it was open, it was fair game.
“Going, Bhabhi, going,” he laughed, splayed on the carpeted floor, pretending to throw Yathaarth off his chest as the toddler sat armwrestling with him. Iram smiled at her son, trying to make growly noises and ending up with wheezes instead. He couldn’t even frown properly yet!
“Breakfast time, Arth, let Dani bhai go now,” she rounded the two of them, setting the bowl on the bedside.
“Dani fut! Dani fut!”
“Dani what?”
“Fudge,” Daniyal sat up in a whoop. Iram narrowed her eyes at him. He cradled Yathaarth close — “Dani fudge. I got walnut fudge yesterday…”
“He does not like chocolate.”
“Yeah, but he heard me talk about it.”
“Daniyal.”
His eyeballs went everywhere but at her.
“You taught him F.U.C.K?”
“No! I didn’t!”
