Page 77 of The Circle of Exile
Atharva stepped out of the shower, pulling on his T-shirt. It was too thin and threadbare for winter that was knocking on their doors. He rubbed the towel through his hair and exited the bathroom, glancing up at the tiny noises. Yathaarth’s gulps were loud in their silent room, his face buried in Iram’s chest as she sat back on the bed, pillows in a nest around her. Her eyes were down on him, no doubt holding his gaze. Atharva couldn't believe it was just one night ago that she had struggled to even hold him steady.
“Your pasta is there,” she said quietly, not looking away from their son. Atharva frowned, searching for what ‘there’ meant. His eyes roamed the room and zeroed in on the console table. That was ‘there,’ the place where she had brought a plate of pasta ladled in white sauce, steaming in the cool of the room. He quietly opened the window, spread his towel to dry and closed it with a click.
“I told you I am not hungry,” he murmured, striding to the plate steaming with creamy garlicky scent. His stomach growled.
“When you don’t say it with your words, trust your stomach to betray you.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, twirling his fork in the spaghetti.
“Don’t patronise me,” he barked, without the bite.
“Eat,” she commanded, eyes still smiling at Yathaarth, hands busy switching him from one breast to the other. Atharva soaked this. Something normal. Something so completely them. And after long months, they weren’t trying hard to do it.
He padded to the bed and quietly sat beside her. Yathaarth was suckling her other breast, so he wrapped some noodles around his fork and held it out to her like it had been his reflex of years. She hesitated. “I had my dinner.”
“What was dinner?”
“Pizza.”
“How many slices?”
Her brows snapped together — “Begumjaan cannot report to you.”
He stared at her.
“Ada?” She tried.
Atharva didn’t let his glare waver.
“My appetite is not fully back yet,” she finally grumbled, looking like the adorable woman who would turn into a girl only in front of him. Feeding his son, guessing the traitor of their clan, looking at him like he knew everything that went on inside Kashmir —thiswas Iram. For the record, he did not know what had gone on at their dinner party tonight, neither did he know how many slices she had eaten.
Seeing her reaction, he would hazard a guess.
“Aa,” he held the fork up.
“Atharva.”
“Aa.”
“I am…” he stuffed the bite into her mouth. She chewed, her gaunt cheeks swelling with the food — “Aotharvoo.”
This little bubble… he soaked more of it, feeling his chest swell right there along with her cheeks and her eyes. And then he realised something.
“Have you been following Dr. Baig’s diet chart?”
“Yes.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I started feeling gassy after one slice, ok? But I drank the milk and ate the corn.”
He twirled more noodles and held the fork out.
“No…”
“If you are feeding him, you must be full first.”
“I am full…”
