Chapter 47
Recovering body and mind was an uphill battle.
He had been at the back-end of many a battle like that for others.
For himself, this was the first one, even though he had suffered through one fourteen years ago as a prisoner of war.
This battle was different. This battle was fought with somebody by his side.
This battle not only wore him out every night but also wounded the woman beside him from time to time.
But every morning, the sun rose. And every morning, Amaal rose with it. Ready again.
After their initial hiccups, they had slipped into a routine of life together with surprising ease. It didn’t happen instantly, but the fact that she was at work all day now and not looking at him botching up and failing and sometimes falling like a reptile on his physiotherapy, helped.
Some days it felt like he was recovering, and then by night he would regress. One morning he would be moving his knee without a single creak, the next evening he would be limping so bad that the steps between the bedroom and the bathroom looked impossible.
It was a hell of its own kind, and Amaal bore most of its brunt, even when he tried to curb his mind and his tongue.
Either she was pushing herself into the line of fire or firing back, provoking him.
He was grateful that she was away to the Secretariat for majority of the day through the weekends too nowadays.
The bell rang and he finished rubbing the towel over his wet hair. Even the rubbing happened in bursts, because his wrist wouldn’t bend. Samar set the towel down and limped to the door, wondering who it would be at 7 in the evening.
He adjusted the waistband of his loose shorts and tightened the drawstring, still not being able to fill his old clothes with so much fat and muscle loss. He grabbed his specs from the side table, put them on and opened the door.
“Look at you, weren’t you in some accident just yesterday?” Begumjaan leaned in playfully, entering the house with her hands full. Samar quickly reached for them out of habit but felt his back pull.
“I was joking, don’t touch these!” Safiya Begum moved past him, carrying weight he would never have let her carry otherwise. In that, Samar was again reminded of his inability. To do anything.
She walked into his house and navigated it like she owned it, in true Begmjuaan fashion. “Eh, where is Amaal?”
“At work.”
“Leaving you all alone so late?”
Samar entered the hall and found her setting the bags down on the dining table, pulling tiffins and boxes of food out.
“She has a job, Begumjaan.” He held straight, not taking steps too fast. His physio had taken it out of him today, making the recovery even worse.
Samar noticed Begumjaan’s eyes touch his throat over the round neck of his T-shirt, then move downwards towards his arms that were bare because he had not pulled on his compression top yet.
“How is it healing?”
“Healing.” Samar nodded, not even a little embarrassed when her eyes touched his scars. He did not care when Atharva, Adil, Qureshi, his doctors, his caregivers, his physiotherapists, complete strangers saw them. But when it came to Amaal…
“It will heal.” Begumjaan went to the sofa and sat down.
Then she glanced up and patted the cushion next to hers.
Samar huffed, lifting one foot and managing fine, then another and managing again.
He went slow, but walked without limping too hard.
Then took the support of the sofa’s backrest and lowered himself beside her.
“I wanted to come to you again after the hospital,” Begumjaan said. “But there was nobody for Arth.”
Samar smiled, looking into one of the kindest and strongest pair of eyes he had ever had the honour of seeing. “I am not a child, I understand.”
“Good.” She approved. “Samar miyan is maturing.”
He chuckled, feeling the strain in the grafts of his chest.
“How is he doing?”
“Doing? He is dashing.” Her brows touched her hairline. “All his milestones are before time. His paediatrician is very happy, and surprised, especially after how he was born.”
“Atharva’s son.” Samar mused. “He will cover up for lost time.”
“He will cover up, but,” Begumjaan’s joyful smile softened. “What about you?”
“What about me?” Samar slowly sat back. “I am fine too.”
“Don’t hit me up with this I am fine line.”
“Hit me up?”
“Don’t start. Atharva has tried and regretted making fun of my lingo.”
Samar laughed silently, mindful of his chest this time.
“Daaxsaab.”
“Yes, Begumjaan?” He preened, hearing that moniker from her after ages. It had always been used in jest in their circle once upon a time. Now, it meant something more.
“It’s high time you grow out of the past.”
He nodded.
“Give a new life a chance.”
He swallowed but kept nodding.
“And stop nodding.”
“Why?”
“Because it means you are just taking this in from one ear and out the other.”
“I assure you I am not.”
“See, I am always asking for marriages and babies. Atharva and Iram delivered.” Her face did not lose even a bit of its light at the mention of Iram’s name, as if she was confident that Iram was alive and coming back sooner or later.
Samar aspired for hope, trust, faith, belief like that for his own future. “Now it’s your and Amaal’s turn.”
He scoffed.
“Aah, that’s like the Samar I know.” Her mouth broke into a grin. “Now you are listening.”
He shook his head. “Look at me…”
“Not right now!” She scolded. “You must be crazy to even think about it right now. But heal for that. Now forget about whatever the world and your party and these partners have demanded from you and concentrate on what your own life is demanding.”
“And what is that?”
“Care towards it.” Her voice went even softer. “My advice is, as always, free, but binding.”
He smiled.
“And therefore,” she pressed. “The next time I see you and Amaal together, I want to see you two actually together. Don’t make her life miserable like you did in the hospital.”
He looked away.
“Don’t make that girl cry.”
“I don’t want to.” He stared out of the window, blindly.
“But you can’t help it.” Begumjaan completed for him.
“Hmm.”
“Time.” She said.
His gaze whirled back to hers.
“Nothing and nobody is found before time.” Begumjaan drilled, looking straight into his eyes. “The trick is in spending the interim without causing too much harm.”
A second of silence ticked by, as those words settled and swelled inside him.
“I…” he hesitated. “I think to myself that I won’t. But I still end up causing some harm.”
“Learn to be silent before speaking in anger, then. Your Zorji has mastered that trick and made his married life a breeze.”
Samar felt his mouth tighten. “By morning I feel hope and silence myself, and then by night everything is so badly destroyed that I lose all control over myself.”
“Look, Samar, right now, in the morning it feels possible, then at night impossible. But a few more days will pass and some nights will start feeling possible. Then more nights. Then even more. And then one day, without you even realising it, a future will become possible.”
“Will it?”
“You know it will. Remember after SFF?”
He stilled.
“Look what became possible after that.” She nodded at the window, and the Kashmir outside which had changed, had evolved, had developed, and come closer to the Kashmir of their dream.
Her hand came to his cheek, a tenderness she had never shown him because he had never opened himself up to it like Atharva and Adil had. “You have lived it once, done it once. You will do it again. If nobody else believes it, I believe it.”
His head fell into her hand.
“And my belief is also free, but binding.” She commanded, making him chuckle even through the pain.
She patted his cheek, and made him believe. At least for tonight.
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He was getting better at movement.
With the passage of time, physiotherapy and regular massages, he was getting better at using his joints the right way again.
What was impossible on the day when he had been discharged, moving his left wrist in a circle, was now halfway possible.
The grafts on his chest had begun screaming in agony as his painkillers had been reduced.
His back was as numb as ever and every night he fought with the idea of that sensation never returning.
Of Amaal never feeling the pleasure of touching him and having him feel it.
He would regret the months wasted between them, spent between cities and work and his own inability to completely physically surrender to her.
He would now never feel that touch completely. Ever.
But come morning, Samar would recover from those despairing thoughts, remembering Begumjaan’s words.
He knew he had to one day accept Amaal and his scars in the same room together. But before that, he had a road ahead to recover his bodily strength. And make more nights feel possible.
“Where is the knife?” She came rumbling into the kitchen, hassled as usual on a work morning.
She woke up early, did her thing, was never late for work, and yet hopped around like a fire had been lit somewhere and she was the only one with the hose.
And today she had anyway taken a half day and was going in late.
“Here.” He picked it out of the glass she had set there to collect all the kitchen utensils, and passed it to her. She froze.
“What?” He held the knife up.
“You turned your hand.”
He looked down and found that his wrist had turned more than just ninety degrees. “Yes,” Samar smiled down at it, rotating it again. “I used to be good at knife combat once.”
“Hmm?” She stepped closer to him, reaching for the knife.
“Atharva taught me and I became better than him.” He tightened his hand on the hilt, not letting her take it.
“Leave it!” She fought.
“No.” He smirked.
“You want to do combat, huh?” She left the hilt and grabbed another knife, a bigger one. “Come on.”
“Amaal…”