Chapter 46 #2
“You are not supposed to raise your hand at a girl, do you understand?”
“Mehek push.”
“Mehek is your friend at school and if she pushes you, you go to the teacher. You do not push her back. Understood?”
“Baba…” he began to fling his arms around his neck but Atharva held them back — “You are not supposed to raise your hand at your mother.”
This time he burst into tears. Atharva let him cry.
“Arth, you will never hit your mother again.”
He hiccupped, crying, reaching for him. Atharva held him bodily back — “Yes or no.”
“Ye…ss.”
“You will go now, say sorry to Mama and kiss her where you hit her.”
He nodded, his eyebrows going down to those curves that got Iram every single time. Atharva did not pick him up into his arms. Instead, he swooped him up and set him on the sand.
“Walk.”
He had to understand the shame of hitting his mother, and crawl his way to apologise to her.
His son walked. That was one trait he was proud of in his son.
He did not have an inflated ego like so many kids his age.
He had his moments, the tantrums were slightly louder nowadays, but he did not draw up walls when he knew he was in the wrong.
Atharva rounded the car behind him and saw him break into a run until his face was thrown into Iram’s knees. Loud sobs. He knew where they worked.
“Ok,” Iram picked him up, cradling his head into her shoulder as she rocked from side to side. Their old soothe-rock. Her eyes met his and their gazes held as he walked towards them.
“Arth.” Atharva cued.
“Sowie.”
“Properly.”
He’s hungry, Iram mouthed to him over their son’s shoulder. Atharva shook his head. Don’t.
“Sowwie, Mama,” Yathaarth’s face popped out, wet and drawn. He buried his face sideways into her neck again and pressed a kiss to her jaw. Iram melted. But Atharva kept his gaze hard on her to not let her break.
“It’s ok, baby,” she kissed his hair. “But we’ve spoken about this. Hitting is a bad thing. We don’t hit, ok? If you are angry, you say you are angry.”
“Mmmm…”
“Now you want to eat your breakfast cookie?”
He shook his head, bringing his thumb up to suck.
Iram reached down, plucked a cookie and handed it to him.
He had said no, but his son pulled his thumb out and began to nibble on the cookie hungrily.
Both pudgy hands wrapped around it and Iram deposited him on the passenger seat of the car, making sure he was safely sitting back before turning to him.
“It’s ok, Atharva,” she whispered. “He is hungry and sleepy. And in a new place…”
“Not ok to hit you.”
“Ath…”
“This was the second time. I saw him take a swing back there too.”
She glanced over her shoulder at their son, and for a boy who had said he didn’t want it, Yathaarth had eaten his way through the cookie. Iram grabbed another one and handed it to him through the open window. He crammed it into his mouth, his face leeching of frustration slowly.
“Hunger is equal to anger in Yathaarth-land,” she turned and smirked.
Atharva still couldn’t shake his anger off. “There are other ways of showing it. This one is unacceptable.”
“I agree…”
“Baba angry,” a tiny voice popped from inside the car. Atharva eyed him — “You are telling me that you are angry or that Baba is angry?”
“Baba angry at Arth.”
Atharva held back his smile — “One more cookie?”
His head bobbed. Atharva grabbed another one and handed it to him, leaning his arms on the window panel.
“I was angry at you because you hit Mama. Will you hit her again?”
He shook his head.
“Will you hit anybody again?”
He crammed the top of the cookie into his mouth and shook his head. Atharva couldn't hold onto his anger any longer.
“Good boy,” he wiped the crumbs from his chin. He turned and Iram’s eyes were fixed on him, amused and awed.
“What?”
“You.”
“Me what?”
She shook her head — “You know we have a week’s touring in Uttarakhand and then Punjab, right? Our family drama has just begun on this road trip.”
Atharva chuckled, glancing back at Yathaarth, on his way to finishing his third cookie in five minutes.
“We’ve seen a lot of drama on road trips, this one will be the best of them all.”
“What is your plan this evening?”
“Why?”
“I am behind on my writing schedule…”
“Say no more. I have a meeting with the local hotel owners and then Shayan Aarti in Rishikesh. Arth is with me tonight. You write peacefully in the hotel.”
“What would I do without you?” She mocked dreamily.
“Correction — What would I do without you? You stretch five ways to make things work for me, myani zuv.”
“It’s not a competition.”
“I know.”
“And this is the least I can do when you are stretching five hundred ways to take us back home.”
“It’s not a competition.”
She laughed — “Oh, I know.”
————————————————————
“…left from here, Atharva.”
“Baba, shola-shola song!”
“Sorry, what was that?” Atharva spoke into the single wired earphone jammed inside his ear as the exit for Amritsar came closer.
“I am in Nowhatta right now and Mirza is gathering the groups you listed.”
“Good,” Atharva checked the side view and turned the indicator on.
“Shola-shola song!” Yathaarth demanded.
“Baba is on a call, Arth,” Iram quietened him.
“They are your first line of workers, Vikram. They are not KDP volunteers. So there is no clash of interest. You know what to do.”
“Bhaiya, last time you were with me every step of the way.”
“This time I am with you in spirit,” Atharva laughed, then slowly changed the lanes on the highway as the exit came closer.
“My cash will vanish in Kashmir itself. I don’t think I’ll have money for even tea by the time I reach Leh.”
“Sonam will take care of you.”
“But he is KDP.”
Atharva nodded, turning the wheel and driving under the banner reading — Amritsar 18 KM.
“He will take care of you. If you need money, or anything else, contact him.”
“Not… your other contact?”
“No. Never him.”
“Ok. Janta workers are going to gather by tonight.”
“You have the map, you have the constituencies. Take preliminary meetings today, get a sense of the place and the people. We will talk more tomorrow. Yes?”
“Yes, Bhaiya… and, Bhaiya?”
“I am here.”
“People still talk about you.”
Atharva cut his eyes to Iram.
I need them to stop.
“Hmm. Ok, I am driving and it’s getting jammed. I will talk to you later, Vikram.”
“Shola song!” Yathaarth pumped his hands up and down. Atharva chuckled, toggling the button on the steering wheel.
Bholi surat dil ke khote…
“Baba!”
“If I leave the steering wheel, Mama will scream at me. Tell Mama to change.”
“Mama, shola song.”
“Arth, you are not supposed to enjoy shola song.”
Even as she rebuked him, she reached out and put on his shola song.
Shola jo bhadke, dil mera dhadke
Atharva eyed his son break into his own version of the song, singing along with his eyes wide and happy.
“The first song you made him smile to,” Iram accused him.
“It’s Khayyam.”
She rolled her eyes, their faces grinning and looking forward at the Golden City opening up before them.
————————————————————
Life on the road was a whirlwind. He had travelled a lot, for most of his adult life.
First in the SFF, then as a politician, then as the CM.
But he had travelled most of those paths alone.
A few with Iram. But now, there was a live-wire of a toddler with them who didn’t mind life on the road except for when he was hungry.
If one day they were on the banks of Gangaji in the mountains, then the next they were in Rudraprayag.
If one day he drove them into the city of Golden Temple, then the next they were in a remote village on the border of Punjab, recruiting workers for NDP.
The name hadn’t been officially finalised, but KDP and HDP’s goodwill carried with it an air of confidence among the people.
News spread fast, but word of mouth spread faster.
Himachal stories were still not ripe but Kashmir, for all its controversies around the CM’s chair and some turbulent months, was a model of exponential growth and development for a society that had been fighting to even survive.
And as Atharva ventured farther from Kashmir, he realised he wasn't such a big thing. His face was not recalled so easily. People did not ‘think’ they had seen him on TV. He was just a regular party worker, come to town with his wife and kid to set up the skeleton of booth-level cadre.
And while he was at it, Iram became the champion.
She would write in the front seat of their car while he drove and Yathaarth slept.
She would supply unlimited snacks from her Pandora’s box — healthy as they were but not unwelcome during hunger pangs.
She would take the car from him if he had to stay back at a place longer and Yathaarth needed a real bed and some hotel pampering.
In short, as Atharva saw her drive away from him in Phillaur, leaving him to finish up a working session on booth-management, he couldn't help but be in awe of her.
At one point in their life, he had believed that Iram needed his protection, his arms surrounding her.
Today, she singlehandedly held his entire family together.
Became the wind beneath his wings. And, he turned to the booth agents he had recruited and began to speak — the words beneath his voice.