Page 187 of The Circle of Exile
“Are you even listening?”
“Yes, myani zuv.”
“You will also burn off some of your acidity.”
“Hmm.”
“I am also thinking we’ll get plums and pears. Shiva was saying he saw some really good ones on his way to the market yesterday but couldn’t stop because his hands were full…”
“Send Noora with the car with him.”
“I thought we could bring them on our way back?” She smiled, pleasantly surprised at the almost empty bowl in her hand, and Yathaarth still riveted by the music, eyes blinking up at the fog disseminating over the glass dome. His mouth was covered in white goo, grey eyes wide, curls looking darker in the gloomy light.
“You are the cutest thing I have ever seen in my life, Janab.” She dropped the J word and pressed a noisy kiss on the top of his head. Her eyes went to the original Janab but he was undisturbed, eyes still down. Iram felt a sudden sadness take over her entire being. What would bring him some semblance of normalcy? If not joy or even contentment, what would bring him back to daily life? Not as a ghost of himself but as himself?
She understood his struggle, identified it too. She gave him what she wished she had gotten in a similar stage of life. Patience and unconditional support. He had given her the latter, the former coming in bursts. Iram tried to give him both.
She wiped Yathaarth’s mouth clean and swooped him down onto the floor. As if fitted with brand new batteries, he ran to his father at double the speed and crashed into his knees. Iram observed with small consolation as Atharva set his paper in his lap and reached down for his son. His eyes did not spark off but they smiled, thumbing the stuck food from his cheek and kissing the area before settling him on his lap.
The song changed. From Lata Mangeshkar’s upbeat lilts, it switched to Mohammad Rafi’s bass words.
Man re, tu kahe na dheer dhare. Woh nirmohi, moh na jaane, jinka moh kare…
Iram filled her eyes with the sight of Atharva, showing Yathaarth pictures in the newspaper — completely his son’s and yet not his own. She knew where he was going, she could see the downward spiral, and was unable to stop it.
“What time do we want to leave?” She asked him.
“Whenever you want to.”
“Look at me, Atharva.”
He sniffed. He had developed a cold last month and his nose was still stuffy. He never developed such minor ailments.
Lighter grey eyes came to her and she stared into them. Then smiled — “Let’s get going in half an hour? The rain has stopped.”
“Ok.”
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Walking down a Shimla street in fog, on a morning, with a stroller full of a wide-eyed toddler and a strong husband pushing it for you was a dream for many. For Iram, it was only wrapped like a dream. Yathaarth was fascinated with swaying deodars chasing away clouds of fog over them, Atharva was hauling the bag of bathroom mat in one strong arm, pushing the stroller with the other, and she was wrapped tight in a warm shawl. But there wasn't any joy that sprang between them.
The people around them weren’t exactly touristy, mostly locals on this side of town. Harishji had advised them to avoid Mall Road. Instead, they had taken the back street to the local market and gotten their purchases at half the price.
“That one looks good…” she pointed to the white cafe facade rising into the fog. It had pretty fencing. But what caught her eye was the stained-glass covering its windows and doors. There was outdoor seating and the streetlamp light reflected from those coloured glasses and painted the outdoor seats in shades reminiscent of their shikaras. If she kept an ear out, she would hear the dip of an oar in Dal over the cacophony of shoppers. If she sniffed hard enough, she would surely smell algal greens over coffee roasts.
She rammed into somebody and immediately rattled back, holding her arm out — “I’m so sorry…”
Saba.
Iram cleared her shocked eyes by blinking but the woman in front of her was still the same. Saba. Unmistakably her, standing in their way. Not having run into them butstanding. Atharva’s hand came to her back, holding her like he needed to pull her aside. Iram’s blood boiled. She had never gotten her pound of flesh. Amaal had ensured to transfer Saba before Atharva or her could do anything. Now that Iram recalled, she wasn't in a state to do much either.
She opened her mouth but Saba’s head whirled to Atharva. Her dark red lips stretched in a smirk.
“You have been transferred too,sir?”
“How dar…” Iram started but was cut off by her sidestepping them.
“Cool it, Iram. It’s just karma coming to bite you in the ass.”
