Chapter 10 One morning if I come knocking at your door…
One morning if I come knocking at your door,
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.
My journey has been long and tired.
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.
I ran through a maze of mountains,
Bled over swelling rivers,
Landed in the thick of tangled roots,
Uprooted from the only family I knew —
You.
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.
But can it be so that my haven still waits for me?
That the lotuses I plucked left their roots in you?
So one morning if I come knocking at your door,
Knowing that you will still be plagued by sleep,
Knowing that you won't be dreaming of me,
Please, for the woman you once knew, open the door.
And see me.
Iram struggled to keep her eyes open as the tiny lights of an airstrip came closer.
She didn’t look out of the window but the plane tilted and the lights pierced her eyes in the dark.
What was happening to her? She hadn’t slept until after 4 every night these past months, sometimes not even after that. And now she couldn’t see straight.
“Landing. ETA 2 minutes 19 seconds,” Altaf relayed into his satellite phone.
Iram glanced at him sitting across from her.
Atharva had remained in contact with him all through their journey from the closed, lonely airport of Gilgit till here.
Atharva must have asked something on the lines of permissions because Altaf reached for his second phone, scrolled, then relayed some technical-sounding aviation words.
“Please fasten your seatbelt, Madam,” he relayed to her.
“You too,” Altaf eyed Rahim Chacha by her side, who hadn’t stopped murmuring prayers under his breath as soon as they had taken off.
“Chacha,” Iram reached out and helped him fasten the seatbelt. He had been fearless, a constant source of strength to her as they had crossed the LoC on foot amid circumstances worse than this.
“Sir wants to speak to you,” Altaf held out his phone. Iram accepted it.
“Hello?”
“Amaal and Captain Husain are waiting for you on the tarmac. You will be staying at a hotel until sunrise and then take the road. If my engagements here end on time, we will land in Srinagar around the same time as you reach there.”
A squeak sounded behind him.
“Is that Yathaarth?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He woke up for a feed.”
“You are feeding him?”
“Yes.”
Iram’s heart clenched, imagining him monitoring her safe undercover return to Srinagar while feeding their son.
The image it conjured was both tender as well as caused a deep, aching longing inside her.
She still couldn't wrap her head around the fact that she had a son.
They had a son. And that… Atharva was taking care of him.
Begumjaan had told her a little. How Yathaarth had been born with a heartbeat, then it had stopped, and then been revived.
He had suffered for two full days in the NICU with a low heart rate before Dr. Shankar announced that he would pull through.
And Atharva. Begumjaan did not tell her what Atharva had been doing then and Iram didn’t want to imagine what he was doing while their son was fighting for his life, their daughter… gone, and she had run off, abandoning him to it all.
“Hand me back to Altaf, Iram.”
She dutifully passed the phone back, setting her head back on the seat as the plane began to circle the tarmac.
The Indian tricolour fluttering in the wind was the first sight she witnessed in the middle of the bright tarmac lights.
The military airstrip was lit up for their plane.
And Begumjaan’s words stirred echoes inside her ears.
If you can’t recognise yourself, remember that this land, this place, this mud remembers you.
It holds you in its bones. This land recognises you.
The plane touched ground and the hair at the back of her neck rose stiff. An unbelievable thrill coursed through her body. She hadn’t acknowledged it to herself on the way here but every second in a foreign land had felt like a ticking time bomb. Snooze was hit now.
Iram gasped quietly. She had called that land foreign in her head. That meant she recognised this land, her land, her home. Srinagar. Not Nagar. Her Srinagar. Not Aamir Haider’s Srinagar. Not Atharva’s Srinagar. Her Srinagar.
The plane taxied and trailed to a stop. Iram didn’t get a chance to even glance out of the window as Altaf rose to his feet and strode to the door, unlocking it and rolling it down.
“Madam?”
“Yes,” she pushed to her feet and walked down the small aisle, Rahim Chacha behind her. She stopped at the door and turned to face Altaf — “Thank you.”
His stoic face softened momentarily before he tipped his chin in front of her.
Iram turned and the icy wind slapped her in the face.
The icy fangs of Ladakh. She had forgotten this wasn’t Srinagar but Kargil.
Still home. And there stood the woman who made this beautiful home so much more beautiful.
One single car was parked behind her, Captain Husain with his hands clasped in front of him.
Iram descended the stairs and Amaal was walking towards her, running.
“Oh, my god,” Amaal embraced her even before she had walked halfway across the tarmac. The warmth of her arms dispelled the cold of the night. Ice was cleared on both sides of the tarmac, as well as from inside her.
“I’m so sorry,” Iram said, squeezing her tight, burying her face in her shoulder. She didn’t know what else to say.
“It’s alright.”
Iram didn’t realise how soothing those two words felt until somebody said them to her.
“Come on.”
“Captain,” Altaf handed over some papers to him. Captain Husain passed him a baby bag in exchange. Altaf’s head swivelled to her — “Madam. I am returning.”
“Come back this afternoon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
————————————————————
SRINAGAR
25 KM
She sat with her head turned towards the window as the milestone passed their car.
The late afternoon sun was heavy on the cool autumn day, quickly running towards winter.
Iram ran a hand down the smooth, silk top of her favourite Madhuri Dixit dress.
Amaal had brought the famous orange one and it fell loose down her body.
She adjusted her dupatta on her neck, the stones of her autumn ring winking at her.
Four months ago, these parts of her identity had fallen off her body, felt alien, like she had been a farce stuffed inside them to create a bigger farce.
Today, they didn’t feel completely hers yet, but she knew she was beginning to fit into them better than she had then.
Maybe better than she ever had. The part of her that had always vied for a happy ending, a destination, an ending — had finally woken up to the bitter reality that it all passed.
Her best days so far had passed, as had her worst. And when they had all come and gone, she had still stood, even if slimmed down to a narrower version. With her, Atharva had stood.
Iram glanced around her — Amaal beside her, working from her laptop, Captain Husain driving their car, Rahim Chacha in the bucket seat beside him.
Fahad and Altaf had come to PoK for her.
Begumjaan had taken Yathaarth and given him a mother’s warm lap.
Ada, Mirza, Adil, Qureshi, Sarah — they had all stood in grief but solidarity with Atharva in her absence.
As the car sped into her city yet again, Iram promised herself that she would remain. Whatever came her way now, she would remain. Moreover, now she knew how to remain.
Abba had been right about the strife — this too shall pass.
The monk of Lamayuru had been right about joy — this too shall pass.
But Atharva had been right about the beyond — we will remain.
“They have landed,” Amaal relayed to her.
Iram’s breath came easy. She beamed through the mesh of thoughts in her mind. Whatever came, now she would remain. She glanced up at the cobalt blue sky leading towards Srinagar. Pigeons were fluttering in flocks back home.
————————————————————
Their car stopped just behind Atharva’s and Iram glanced up at her home.
Their home. Her door was pulled open and she found herself climbing down in a trance, her heart racing to run inside.
The thuds were loud, so loud she feared the guard holding it open would be privy to them.
Iram took a deep breath and calmed herself, pasting her Madam-smile on her face.
Yathaarth’s happy squeals made her whirl, and that thudding heart stopped.
Atharva was pulling him out of his car seat and consequently holding him up, shaking the top of his head into his tummy.
Yathaarth let out the sweetest squeak, then curled over his father’s head as Atharva expertly cupped his neck and manoeuvred him back into his arms. Iram closed her eyes, taking that vision and keeping it safe.
Atharva had once sung to him in her tummy, blew bubbles to get him to kick — the baby lying high up near her diaphragm.
“Iram?” Amaal’s voice brought her back before she could think about the other baby and how she had slumbered longer, always kicked slower, later than Yathaarth. Except that first time…
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” she stepped aside as Rahim Chacha got down. She stared at him, unable to form the words to thank him for what he had done.
“Rahim Chacha…” she started.
“Khush raho, baby,[35]” he smiled his broken smile, his hand rising to her head. She swallowed, bending her neck to make it easy for his tired arm. He looked like he might fall off.
“Amaal, can you have somebody drop Rahim Chacha off at his house?”