Chapter 2 #2
“Atharva?” Her voice was soft. Not angry. His gaze went beyond her, and the room was busy, Fahad holding court with the director and the cameraman over raw footage, spot and light dismantling equipment, Altaf ready at the closed door.
“I deserved that,” Toru’s soft voice found his eyes whirling back down to her. “I apologise for what happened in London. If Iram is here, I want to speak to her too…”
“It’s alright, I accept your apology on both our behalf,” he lied. His myani zuv would get a word or two or more in before accepting the said apology. He didn’t know what this Iram would do. Or say.
“You don’t look too happy accepting it,” she quipped, her face impish. Atharva chuckled — “That’s my standard expression nowadays, don’t take it personally.”
“Smile more, Janab. Your kid wouldn’t want to look at a scowling father.”
“Oh, he sees more than his fair share of scowls.”
“I am sorry,” Toru’s eyes turned solemn. “About your daughter. It became prime news in no time. I tried stalling them from running it immediately but it was already out of my hand.”
A small lump went down Atharva’s throat. He nodded, diplomatic smile in place.
“Have you been in Delhi or Mumbai this last year?” He asked, compelled to switch topics.
“All over South India.”
“Let me guess, Karnataka and Tamil Nadu elections.”
“Yeah, well, touring with you through Ladakh’s mountains and monasteries felt like a holiday compared to the other election campaigns I have had to cover this season.”
“I don’t remember you being of quite the same opinion at the time.”
She gave a bark of laughter. “You did insult me.”
“You were late.”
“You were not that big a leader at that time.”
“So? Only big leaders’ time is the time that matters?”
That shut her up. Then something struck her, and she gave him a cheeky grin.
“How can we still argue like I am that brash journalist from 2014 and you are the guy who was standing in an election with the odds stacked against you?”
He laughed, his muscles feeling a little lighter than they were at the start of the interview. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it suddenly when a baby was pressed into his arms. His baby.
“Hey, where did you come from?” Atharva smiled down at Yathaarth, who was bright and happy in his white romper with sailboats all over it.
He cooed on Atharva’s shoulder before his gummy mouth closed on his shirt.
Atharva cupped his skull to keep his newly balanced head on his neck. He was known to throw it off.
“There you are now, happy?” Saba beamed, handling Yathaarth’s carrycot on her wrist. Atharva’s eyes cut to her but he didn’t return her smile. Then he saw Begumjaan enter the room and pitied Saba. She looked ready to slaughter her.
“That is a beautiful baby boy,” Toru cooed from behind him. “Yathaarth, right?”
Atharva nodded, his fake smile in place, one that he was accustomed to flashing at every person who tried to butter him up in the guise of praising his baby. Toru craned her neck and blinked into his son’s face over his shoulder.
“He has Iram’s eyes.”
Atharva stilled. His momentary shock did not go unnoticed by Toru, who came to his side, running a ticklish finger under Yathaarth’s chin.
“Oh, his pupils are grey, alright, but the shape is all Iram,” she whispered, smiling at Yathaarth’s ‘bah’ sounds. Atharva bounced him up and down.
“Sir, everything is in order. No re-shoots are required.” Fahad informed him. “… and where have you been, Saba, Ehsaan was left on his own to deal with everything here.”
“I was just helping Begumjaan bring Yathaarth down…”
“Toru,” Atharva cut off that conversation, turning fully to her. “It was great seeing you again. Good interview.”
“You too. Give my best to Iram. And do something special on the other side of the fence, since you have made so many enemies to attend this event.”
Atharva gave a wry laugh, nodding his head in farewell.
“Saba, walk with me,” he commanded. She did. Happily. And as soon as they were out of his office and walking towards the backyard where Yathaarth’s playpen was set, he swapped his eyes from his son to her.
“Do not bring my son to my events or interviews without my permission. Ever.”
His cold tone left no room for wiggle, and Saba’s smile faltered.
“I… I’m sorry… I was just trying to…”
“Yathaarth has Begumjaan to look after him when I cannot. You do not force her or hound her to parade him everywhere. I decide where he goes, not you.”
“I just thought you would want to see him since you have been out all day. I apologize, sir.”
“I accept your apology. But make sure you understand what I said just now.”
Atharva walked out of the back porch and onto the wide gardens of his estate. They rolled into the forests behind, and the greens of its carpet were already looking ruddier with dryness. Begumjaan was waiting there, Yathaarth’s bottle in hand.
“Should we take his playpen inside?” Atharva asked, striding to her and sitting down on the steps.
She came to him and sat down beside him, their eyes glancing over their backs to see that Altaf had closed the doors to any stray eyes or ears, including Saba’s.
Begumjaan opened the bottle and popped the nipple into Arth’s smacking mouth.
He latched on like he had been hungry for centuries.
“It’s getting colder, isn't it?” Atharva remarked, looking at the fiery red leaves now softened under the frost carpeting the sides of his estate.
“Children are resilient to cold.”
“My son is definitely resilient to it,” he smiled, the body in his arms so warm, just like his — a furnace. His throat clogged.
“It’s only a matter of a few days now, Dilbaro,” Begumjaan rubbed his arm.
He nodded. He hoped. He prayed. He desperately, fervently, miserably prayed.
There was no other chance for him after this.
There was no other route for him to go back after this.
Atharva’s eyes strayed to the Chinar. The Chinar.
Its boughs were thick, leaves burnished, its branches canopying a chunk of his garden, a heavy branch going into his bedroom window.
Their bedroom window. This was supposed to be their children’s treehouse.
Spiral staircase, two bedrooms, a slide on the side so that they don’t fall while climbing down.
Autumn had come and gone, and come again. His children weren’t here together, nor was she.
That house was not even visible in his visualisation. All he had were cards now, and houses that were made and blown with every new gust of wind.
“Begumjaan?”
“Hmm?”
“Will she come?”
When she did not say anything, Atharva brought his eyes back from the Chinar to her old, wise, knowing pair of green.
“She will come, first and foremost — for you.”
He did not believe it, but he nodded. Somebody believed it; maybe that would make it true. Atharva cuddled Arth closer, holding his bottle steady. God, let her come home. Please let my son see his mother.
The harrowed look on Begumjaan’s face told him how helpless she was.
He didn’t press further, looking down at his son, whose mouth made a pop when she pulled his bottle out.
They were flying out across the border, and Atharva realized that he had the task of searching for Iram while keeping Yathaarth safe from prying eyes in a foreign land.
He decided he had to jump in again into the unknown pool, and take his fear with him even when everything inside him fettered his feet.
He reached down and nuzzled his son’s head.
Yathaarth clapped the toy in one hand with the palm of his other and bounced.
Laughing grey eyes, the shape of almonds, blinked up into his.
“Our parents give us wings, Dilbaro, so that we can leap.” He whispered into the fine baby hair. “And then our children come along, and become the best fetters to our feet.”