Page 52 of The Circle of Exile
“He cried this afternoon too…”
“He will not cry now. Night-time baths are his favourite. Aren’t they, Dilbaro?” She cooed down at Yathaarth and his mouth opened in a toothless, gummy smile. He was such a beautiful boy, such a cute baby. Iram couldn’t believe she had made him. That he had come out from inside her — grey eyes, button nose, soft round lips, cheeks so full. He was a dream of a baby boy.
“Iram,” Begumjaan’s voice rose a notch. “Come here, now. Dress him in this onesie.”
She sniffed, gathered herself and decided to try again. She pushed to her feet and trudged towards them, but kept away from his direct line of vision.
“Here.”
Iram accepted the small white onesie. It was so tiny. He did not look so tiny as to fit into it. She held it up between her fingers. She had packed two onesies much smaller than this one in her hospital bag.
Iram jumped over that thought before it pulled her in yet again and moved to her son. He was happily flailing his arms on the bed, blowing bubbles at the ceiling.
“Lay it out on the bed, like this,” Begumjaan pulled open the buttons and laid it out. “Now gently lift him up and set him atop it. And button it all up.”
“Are you sure?” She hesitated.
“Yes. Go ahead,” Begumjaan stood back.
“I can’t lift him on my own.”
“Look at your weight and look at his weight.”
Iram tried to smile.
“Come on, Dilbaro, you can do it. Lift him up.”
Iram glanced down at her son. He wasn’t crying now. But he hadn’t looked at her yet either. She inhaled and nodded, then reached down over him, slipping one palm under his head and another under his back. He arched his back instantly. She preened.Good boy.His eyes moved to her and froze. Blinked.Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
His lips smacked.Hungry?Iram let out a watery laugh — “Is he hungry?”
“That’s why he is so happy. He knows it’s bath, changing and night milk time. Go on. Change him.”
Bolstered, Iram began to lift him up and he let out a piercing cry. She immediately dropped him back — “What did I do? Why is he crying? Did I hurt him?”
“No, no,” Begumjaan was instantly by her side, circling her hand on his bare tummy. “Shhh, shhh… Dilbaro. You lifted his head. You are supposed to hold his neckandhis head,” Begumjaan slipped her palm under his neck, her fingers holding his head up as she transferred him on top of his onesie. “Like this.”
His cries were so loud, going louder. Her breasts began to feel heavy as her own eyes watered. She pushed her tears away with both hands, feeling something dampen her kurti.
“Now, who wants his mum-mum?” Begumjaan was singing to him. But he didn’t relent, screaming so loud that the hair on her arms stood on end.
“What’s going on here?” Atharva’s baritone broke the shrill crying. Iram stepped back, as if caught. He strode in, laptop bag in hand, bending over Yathaarth and throwing his bag on the bed. “What happened to you, mmm?”
Iram stared like an outsider as he turned him on his stomach and picked him up on his forearm, using only one arm. Yathaarth’s cries went quiet. “That’s my good boy,” Atharva’s voice went just as soft, rocking him, moving towards Begumjaan — “Is his bottle ready or I’ll pop it?”
“Iram was going to try feeding him.”
Grey eyes blinked. The bigger ones. Iram looked on, skeptical, as his face turned to her — “Are you sure?”
No, she wasn’t. But her breasts were weeping. The right one was already trailing. She glanced down and began to turn away, seeing the spot wet. “I’ll change…”
“No, no, sit, Iram.” Begumjaan commanded. “You have to start somewhere. It’s alright. I’ll go out. Try to feed him.”
“You don’t have to, Begumjaan…”
But she was already out of the door, closing it behind her. Iram turned, feeling still just as embarrassed by the wet splotches on her chest. But Atharva’s eyes were respectfully turned away, looking behind her at some point in the distance. That hurt too.
“Sit down and try. I will make a bottle, just in case.”
