Page 98 of The Circle of Exile
“Iram! Myani zuv?” He took off his coat and caught a whiff of bread baking. That couldn’t be her. It had to be Shiva. The sound of the music sounded crinkly too. Radio.
“Shiva?” He strode into the kitchen and was proven wrong. His wife was sitting on the platform, brushing butter over some dough balls, humming to Lucky Ali playing on the radio.
“You don’t see any difference between Shiva and me?” She tried to pick one of her fun fights, stray locks of hair escaping her messed-up bun. Atharva strode to her and grabbed her by the waist, twirling her down from the platform. She screamed, the brush in her hand raised high.
“You smell a little better,” he set her down but not before taking a quick whiff of her neck. She was laughing, her body light as a feather. “You also weigh much less.”
“I am putting on weight,” she tried to push her hair behind her ear with her wrist. He slapped it off and tucked the locks tight behind her ears.
“And I like you a lot better than Shiva,” he tapped her cheeks with his thumbs. They were beginning to fill out nicely, as was her body. Her appetite had opened up after the first couple of weeks of force-feeding herself for Yathaarth. Atharva reached down and pulled her face close up to his mouth, pressing his lips to one smooth cheek. She stilled, her skin going hot under his face.
The oven timer pinged and she pushed back from him, running and bending down as if some great miracle was about to pop out.
“What are you doing so late in the night?” He asked, grabbing her wrist to pull her up. She pulled him down instead — “See!”
Atharva peered inside the glass.
“Buns. So?”
“They rose! I made them,” she grinned at the sight excitedly. “From scratch. Without Shiva’s help. On my own.”
“That’s good to know, myani zuv, but why are you running a night kitchen in our house?” He took her hand and helped her up. This time she came, her eyes straying to her buns as if they would vanish.
“Did you eat dinner?” She asked, setting her brush down and walking to the fridge.
“No. I texted you that I would eat at home.”
“You also texted that you would be home by the time of dinner. Then Zafarji called to inform that you would be late. How late, nobody can tell because ‘Janab is with the PAG.’”
“Budget planning has to start for next year,” he fiddled with Shiva’s old radio as she went about plating his food. “We have a fiscal deficit as usual.”
“But last year you recorded a surplus, no?” She popped his plate in the microwave. Her Lucky Ali trailed to an end and the channel went into static. Atharva tuned it to newer frequencies, eyes raising to her — “You remember?”
“Of course I do.”
“You were busy and not in the state for my work talk,” he smiled, hitting a channel that played something nice. “You still remember?”
Jab deep jale aana…
“No, no, no. No grandfather music. And I remember everything you have told me.”
“This is Yesudas. Don’t insult Yesudas,” he pointed.
“I was here first. My choice trumps. Change! Change, Atharva!”
Those raised eyebrows, those wide eyes, that warning on her face screaming to throw every projectile object at him — Atharva stared a second too long to hype it up.
“Atharva,” she began to reach for the radio and he pulled it out of her reach — “Fine.”
The microwave pinged and she went to it. He tuned some more, praying for another old number to pop up. Rafi’s baritone hummed.
“No,” Iram’s warning voice was louder. He bit back a smile. He had seen her begin to enjoy her music again. If that meant his home was filled with Lucky Ali, Shaan, Falguni Pathak, Shankar Mahadevan and sometimes even those 2000s remixes, then he would happily let his ears bleed.
Musu musu hasi deoma lailai
He rolled his eyes.
“I went to the theatre twice to watch this movie,” she turned, carrying his plate without using mittens.
