Page 1 of The Circle of Exile
PROLOGUE
October, 2016
Nagar, Gilgit (PoK)
4 a.m.
One morning if I come knocking at your door
Iram scratched the line on the slate, seeing white letters come to life. The chalk in her hand was a solid reminder of something brittle, something fragile, something at her mercy. Many times her fingers had wrapped around it to snap the head off the stalk, anticipating a satisfying crunch. The nail of her thumb, many times, had scratched the smooth surface, just to feel the current of shiver run down a tired spine. But every time she had thought of destroying the chalk or herself, the slate had beckoned to her. Even after all this time, creating was more peaceful than destroying.
The screech of chalk on slate made her shudder. Goosepimples erupted on her arms.
It was a small, old, wood-framed board, black as the night. It was worn on the sides and smelled of chalk and childhood, looking a lot like the one she had used as a young girl in her father’s home in Srinagar. Her chalk halted before it touched the board again.
Father’s home.
Srinagar.
Iram didn’t dwell too deep on that thought. She had learned to skim thoughts and move on.
She took the blackboard in her lap and re-read the line she had scrawled.
One morning if I come knocking at your door
She blinked, processed the words, and wrote more.
Knowing, that the mist has not yet settled over Dal
That the rows of shikara bob in the water
And lotuses are not yet plucked from their home
The wind was chilly and misty, whistling in through the crack in the glass pane. She could hear the shrill patter of a rain that had battered on since last evening. It had not slowed its pace. If it went on like this, flooding wasn’t out of the question…
Floods.
Cloudburst.
Srinagar.
She skimmed that thought and went on, eyes blinking rapidly to focus on the board.
It was like getting down from a moving bus and running. Still running. Stuck between two different motions. Quietening thoughts for a person who had done nothing but think was an uphill battle. She had some practise now.
Iram had felt her feet touch ground from the running bus weeks ago, maybe months ago. But she was still running, trying to make sense of what had happened. Every time she turned to see what was left behind, her body locked up. And she took an instant U-turn — waiting for a better time, until it would feel safer to venture there again. She would have to venture there someday. One day. To make sense of how to go forward, she would have to venture there. To take steps ahead, she would have to glance back once.
Not yet.
My journey has been long and tired
She wrote.
I crossed mountains
Went beyond the heavens I knew to the heavens I don’t
From faces that speak my language to faces that look at me different
