Page 245 of The Circle of Exile
All of that was Atharva. He had kick-started all those projects. He hadn’t been there to flag them when they started. Iram’s guilt and resentment had transformed into a low-simmering rage in the last two years. If Qureshi had been decent in replacing Atharva, it would not have mattered at all. But he was hostile, and continued to be hostile, barring their way home. He took the credit for Atharva’s work as all of the projects started in the first three years of KDP government were coming to fruition now. He took them into election campaigns. That was ok, that was how the world worked. But he was so insecure that he was driving Atharva further away from Kashmir.
A tiny hand hit her cheek. She startled.
“Dilbaro, no,” she grabbed his wrist and kissed the centre of his palm. “What did I tell you? No hitting.”
He threw his head into her shoulder and let out a wail. She immediately turned and started to walk back towards their parked car in the distance. A fleet of three others from local leaders was parked but their Land Rover was front and centre. Iram glanced over her shoulder at Atharva stepping down from the stone, still talking. So he had reached that stage, where he would begin interacting and talking about the natural disasters in the region? She would miss that part.
Yathaarth’s body began to wiggle and his cries grew louder. The terrible twos had hit him too late.
“Quiet, Arth,” she handled him one-handed and reached into the open window of the car to grab the ziplock of cookies she had kept ready on the dashboard for these hunger pangs. Iram took it and settled her son on the bonnet of the car. His wet eyes were angry and his hands flailing.
“Quiet,” she widened her eyes at him. He frowned, pouted, but kept crying. Iram handed him one of the almond-honey cookies and he threw it away. She liked to believe it was because he was generally irritated and not because the cookies were made of oats. She had raised him on the good kind of baked goods. “Arth…” she snaked an arm into the open window and grabbed his sippy cup of water. She popped it into his mouth and he went silent.
Iram sighed inwardly, holding eye contact with him. The stubborn boy was basically an amalgamation of her and his father. A combination that turned brutal when he was hungry and did not understand it. Iram let him sip his water in silence, breaking away from his eyes to check for the village meeting. It was disbursing, the people chatting with the HDP members they had brought along. Atharva was striding towards them, talking to Anand Bisht, his contact in this village.
“That went well…” his voice carried over on the wind.
“That went better than well. Now that you have opened this conversation, we will take it forward, Atharva Bhaiya. Bhabhiji…” he waved to her. “We are done here. Now we will go to my home for breakfast. Munna alright?”
“Yes,” Iram smiled. “Just hungry and… I think, sleepy.”
Bishtji waved and turned back. Atharva continued to stride towards them.
“How was it?”
“Exactly as we planned.”
“Aren't you staying back to do your post-rally networking?”
He rounded the car and came to them, eyeing Yathaarth as he mutinously sipped his water.
“If I open up for conversation, the questions will be crazy.”
“I know,” she gave him an ‘I-told-you-so’ look.
“My job was to gather, address and spark it off. Now I have a meeting with the local members that we are recruiting for HDP.”
“Wait, this is Uttarakhand. It should be UDP,” Iram pointed.
“Yes, so… that might change to NDP. That discussion is happening next weekend with Zorji, Adil, Samar and Qureshi. They are all coming to Shimla. Khatriji and some senior leaders from Himachal will also be present.”
“North India Development Party?”
“Correct.”
“Just make it India Development Party…”
A thump and Iram glanced at the sippy cup rolling down the car bonnet. She caught it before it fell down in the sand when her son’s little hand whacked her jaw.
“Arth, I said…”
“What did you just do?” Atharva’s cold words cut through her slow rebuke. Iram straightened to see his eyes locked on his son. Yathaarth flung both hands out in anger but before they could reach her, Atharva had grabbed them and lifted his son up. He began to stride away.
“Atharva…”
He did not listen.
Atharva strode, Yathaarth squirming in his hold, trying to get his hands free. He wouldn’t meet his eyes and Atharva kept staring into them. He ignored the conversations going on in the background, the flow of the river making enough noise to drown out what he was about to tell his punk of a toddler.
