The Circle of Exile (Heaven #4)

PROLOGUE

Nagar, Gilgit (PoK)

One morning if I come knocking at your door

Iram scratched the line on the slate, seeing white letters come to life.

The chalk in her hand was a solid reminder of something brittle, something fragile, something at her mercy.

Many times her fingers had wrapped around it to snap the head off the stalk, anticipating a satisfying crunch.

The nail of her thumb, many times, had scratched the smooth surface, just to feel the current of shiver run down a tired spine.

But every time she had thought of destroying the chalk or herself, the slate had beckoned to her.

Even after all this time, creating was more peaceful than destroying.

The screech of chalk on slate made her shudder. Goosepimples erupted on her arms.

It was a small, old, wood-framed board, black as the night. It was worn on the sides and smelled of chalk and childhood, looking a lot like the one she had used as a young girl in her father’s home in Srinagar. Her chalk halted before it touched the board again.

Father’s home.

Srinagar.

Iram didn’t dwell too deep on that thought. She had learned to skim thoughts and move on.

She took the blackboard in her lap and re-read the line she had scrawled.

One morning if I come knocking at your door

She blinked, processed the words, and wrote more.

Knowing, that the mist has not yet settled over Dal

That the rows of shikara bob in the water

And lotuses are not yet plucked from their home

The wind was chilly and misty, whistling in through the crack in the glass pane. She could hear the shrill patter of a rain that had battered on since last evening. It had not slowed its pace. If it went on like this, flooding wasn’t out of the question…

Floods.

Cloudburst.

Srinagar.

She skimmed that thought and went on, eyes blinking rapidly to focus on the board.

It was like getting down from a moving bus and running. Still running. Stuck between two different motions. Quietening thoughts for a person who had done nothing but think was an uphill battle. She had some practise now.

Iram had felt her feet touch ground from the running bus weeks ago, maybe months ago.

But she was still running, trying to make sense of what had happened.

Every time she turned to see what was left behind, her body locked up.

And she took an instant U-turn — waiting for a better time, until it would feel safer to venture there again.

She would have to venture there someday.

One day. To make sense of how to go forward, she would have to venture there.

To take steps ahead, she would have to glance back once.

Not yet.

My journey has been long and tired

She wrote.

I crossed mountains

Went beyond the heavens I knew to the heavens I don’t

From faces that speak my language to faces that look at me different

I had my road cut out

As words flew and lines came to life, she realized she was writing on the lines of a long-lost poem. A Turkish poem.

Thoughts began to flood her mind.

Dal.

Bank.

His arms.

Anchor.

She skimmed those thoughts and jumped. Like she had jumped over that river. The one that had flowed between there and here. Neelam, they called it. Kishanganga, he used to say was its ancient name.

“Aa jao, Iram baby, aa jao![1]”

A hand on her still swollen bump, another out, and a lunge. Splash.

Iram startled out of that memory, the freezing water of Kishanganga piercing her skin like ice needles even now. Cold. So cold. Mist. So much mist. Nothing to see. Only the water. Water in her nose. Water in her throat. Water everywhere.

Save me.

No, this is peace.

Save me.

Let me go.

Blood. Wetness. Wetness of the water. Wetness of her womb. Wetness everywhere. Blood everywhere.

She cleared her throat loudly, working to orient herself in the here and the now. The hazy picture of the sky and the rocks over that river swirled in her mind. She jumped over that picture, feeling the warmth of Rahim Chacha’s hand catch hold of hers before she passed into the flow.

Iram sat up, working doubly hard to let that moment go. Go, go, go. It went.

She concentrated on the blackboard in front of her. She put chalk to board and went on.

I ran through a maze of mountains

Bled over swelling rivers

Landed in the thick of tangled roots

The wind turned furious outside, screaming on her window. She pushed her head down, as if she was still under its tormenting blitz, like on that windy summer evening.

“Rahim Chacha! Rahim Chacha!”

Bang, bang, bang of splintered wood. Her palms hurt. The wind and the night behind her. Her dead children’s graves behind her. Her husband’s empty hands behind her. Two onesies behind her.

“Rahim Chacha!”

“Iram baby?

“Mujhe andar lelo…[2]”

“A… aao baby, aa jao.[3]”

“Kisi ko aane mat dena.[4]”

Bolting of the door.

The screams of the wind silenced.

She heaved and silenced that memory, putting chalk to blackboard again. She was down to the end of the board. She crammed her words and wrote smaller.

Uprooted from the only family I knew

You

His face came to her. Iram jolted. Her palm went to erase that word, not ready to see what it would look like now, what it would have looked like on that day… she jumped over that thought too. But her palm could not erase his name.

“Chai, baby, chai…[5]”

Warm glass. Her hands hurting, cold. The tick of the clock. 10 pm. He would be back. I need to go.

“Mujhe waapis jana hai, Chacha.[6]”

Atharva. Atharva. Atharva. Your babies are gone.

“Yeh lo, baby, phone karlo.[7]”

Phone in one hand, cup in another. Atharva’s number. 9820… she blanked out. Tried again. 98205… nothing. Shivers. And searing pain.

“Baby, kya kiya![8]”

The cup was snatched, cooling cloth on her burning skin. Moving. Walking. A basin. Water flowing.

She glanced up and recoiled. The blankness blanked out. Who was this? She was looking at herself in the mirror? Iram. Iram? Iram Haider?

Blanked.

“Iram Kaul!” She called out to herself. Lost. Lost.

Iram, stay, hold on, stay, go to him.

“Laao, main karta hoon, baby.[9]”

“Nahi!” She snatched the phone back. “Mat karo. Chacha, mat karo.”[10]

Her throat burned. But it wouldn’t relieve.

Why couldn't she cry? She pulled her jaw muscles. Tried again. No tears. Iram screamed inside as she was helped onto a small seat. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths. Her stitches began to throb. She ignored the pain. There were painkillers in her bag. She didn’t want them.

This feeling, she concentrated on this feeling. Something had to help her come back.

The pain was real, her hands were real, the burning red skin on the back of it was real, Rahim Chacha was real. She was… she couldn’t identify herself. She wasn't real.

“Baby, kya karna hai?[11]”

Iram stared at the small window, the chinars of Dal thrashing in the lamplight outside.

What will she take back to him? She had to come to herself before going back.

He had lost his children, how would he cope with her in this form?

And what if she could never return to herself? What was the way back to herself?

Mir Qadri Rehman Ali.

Where it all started.

Nagar.

Seeing that would jolt her. It would have to jolt her. There was no other way.

Hearing about it had started it all.

She stared down into her cupped palms, burned skin reddened on one side. Sitting and staring would drown her. She had to move. Do. Seek. Finish.

“Ghar nahi jaa sakti.[12]”

“Toh phir?[13]”

Her chalk nib snapped. Particles splattered across the black of the board. She blew on them. Then looked at the little space left. It was so small. Iram continued to write, making her writing smaller, tiny ants.

But don't you know what they say about the devil you know and the devil you don’t?

You were the heaven I knew

And the heaven I lost

“Mehrunisa… is Mehrunisa here?”

“Soni Mehru?”

Her head nodding, half-dizzy, half-hot.

“Mehru…”

“Kus-a?[14]”

Her sister. Her elder sister. Her elder sister’s face at the door of this vast palace.

“Kus un[15]?"

“I… don’t know what you mean… mujhe…”

“It’s alright, I understand you. How can I help you?”

“Can I see your mother, please?”

“My mother?”

“Hmm… Soni… umm…”

“She passed away years ago. But why do you want to meet her?”

Her hands losing feeling. Collapsing. Warm arms around her.

“Who are you? What has happened to you? Somebody get water! Ase ?hé gurt![16]”

Iram felt her throat go dry at the feel of that first touch of a glass’s rim to her lips. She coughed, feeling something stick there at the thought of the hands of that princess of Nagar, her sister, pouring water down her throat. She had been a beggar to her then.

She pushed her eyes wider, feeling the burn of sleeplessness but no sleep. Iram launched her chalk on the board again.

But can it be so

she wrote, then, without thought, felt words leave her hand.

that my haven still waits for me?

The space on the board ended. But his thought remained.

The man who always stood between her and danger.

The man for whom she always waited. Both untrue this time.

But still he remained. He couldn’t save her, she couldn’t wait for him.

And yet. And yet. And yet. Iram experienced a feeling other than sorrow or joy inside her. It wasn’t love either. It was… him.

A thrill coursed through her.

For the first time in days, the thought of him did not make her want to tear out, black out or go to sleep. Atharva. Three syllables, her whole world. She wanted to write more.

Iram treaded further on his thought, with caution. He would be alone. He would have had to see their dead faces…

She shuddered and tore out of that thought, rose above it. Not yet then.