Page 37 of The Circle of Exile
The car veered into a strange place. A strange gate. This wasn’t the Mir’s palace. Iram sat up, gaping from side to side.
“Where is this?”
The car drove into a narrow alleyway leading into the structure. It was like a bungalow. The car kept going, coming to a stop right outside a gate. The porch was completely covered, the lights dimmed.
“Atharva, where is this…”
“Come,” he snapped his door handle and pushed out, opening an arm for her. She eyed him dubiously but got down. Even if she did not know what he was thinking, what he was doing or what he wanted, she would always go where he asked.
“What are we doing here?” She asked softly, keeping her voice low. There was nothing here, nobody except croaking crickets. But she had lived in forts that went eerily quiet at night and yet the shadows of guards and spies were ripe around.
“Finishing this off and exiting.”
“What does that mean?”
“Jannat…” Mehrunisa’s cry made her turn to the door. She was striding, running, leaping the last few steps. Her hands cupped her face — “Are you fine?”
Iram stared, shocked.
“Mehrunisa…”
“When I came to the hotel, I was told you were asleep,” she glanced at Atharva, then back at her. “Are you hurt?”
“I am fine. What is this? What are we doing here? Faiz cannot find out. He will not…”
“I would like to catch some cold but the fire smells better.” Faiz’s cool crazy voice reverberated. Their heads whirled to the door and there he stood, a shawl covering his chest. Iram felt Atharva’s body tauten beside her and began to position herself in front of him. Not that she could hide him, but she would talk. She would fight this. She would find a way to diffuse whatever this was.
She began to step in front of her husband when his hand caught her bicep and gently tugged her aside. She widened her eyes at him, pleading. Grey eyes did not relent.
“Let’s go inside.” Is all he said. Then turned and nodded at Altaf.
“Atharva, he is crazy,” she muttered to him behind his shoulder. “What are you doing? He is in cahoots with their ISI and military…”
He kept walking, Mehrunisa in front of him. She wasn’t covering her face; instead her dupatta was slung on the side of her shoulder, like she kept it inside the confines of her home.
“Atharva,” Iram grabbed his bicep in both her hands at the threshold. He stopped. His face turned to her.
“You don’t know what is about to happen…”
“I know.”
She blinked. Did he know how unhinged this man was or did he know what was about to happen? Again, she could not read him. And he gently disengaged her hands from his bicep, ran his palm down her back and ushered her in.
This wasn’t a palace or a fort. It was a house. Like a cottage of Enid Blyton books — all wood and stone. Faiz sat in front of the fireplace, lounging back on an armchair, holding his sock-clad feet out to the fire. These antics of his had earned him the title of theUnhinged. She knew he was not completely unhinged, but she also knew how he played up the part. And right now, she did not know how he would react.
“Mir sahab,” Atharva’s voice shook away her thoughts. “Can we talk?”
“Yes, please. Come,” he pointed to the matching armchair in front of him. Iram noted Atharva looking at her and Mehrunisa. Then he did something just as unhinged as Faiz. He ushered her to the lone armchair offered to him and helped her down on it. She glared at him. He nodded.
Iram took the seat and raised her gaze to Faiz’s. His eyes widened, confused, as if knocked back a few pegs. Atharva stood beside her chair and looked down his nose at Faiz. The soldier. Taking position above the king when the king couldn't be respectful enough to offer seats to everyone in the room. Their stare-off lasted. Long.
Iram glanced at Mehrunisa but she was just as clueless, standing quietly to a side.
“You were an Indian then,” Faiz addressed her.
“She is also our sist…” “Father’s daughter,” Faiz cut off Mehrunisa’s announcement.
This was said out loud for the first time between them and Iram waited for the weight of the moment to settle inside her. She glanced at the hand in her field of vision. The strong, steady, tanned hand that had held hers under a handcart, walked her through minefields, that had worn her ring with his favourite words — 10 feet tall, that had strived to bear the brunt of those criss-cross of lines on his palm so that those lashes didn’t reach her. She glanced up at Atharva. It hit her then. He was here.Here.
