Chapter 11 Her world was shrinking…
Her world was shrinking. It was confined to the rocking chair by the window in their bedroom where she sat as Begumjaan took care of Yathaarth.
Away from Yathaarth’s field of vision. Iram gaped quietly as she brought him out of the bathroom, wiggling wet and mewling in her arms, ready for his nightdress lying on the bed.
“Come here, Iram, learn how to dress him.”
She swallowed.
“Bathing him was easier when he was an infant. Now he wiggles a lot. But he is also a little happier in water,” she set him in the middle of the bed, rolled in his bunny towel.
Such a tiny bundle. Iram kept gaping, noting how Begumjaan expertly manoeuvred his little body from left to right, stomach to back, and he let out tiny happy gurgles while being dried.
“He also loves to aim for your shoulder,” she pushed his bum up and slid a diaper under him. “Always be careful of his last squirt. Atharva gets the brunt most of the time but…” her voice trailed. Iram looked from her son to Begumjaan.
“Iram?”
“Hmm?”
“Come here, Dilbaro, see how to put him in his nightdress.”
“He will cry.”
“Why would he cry?”
“He has cried every time before.”
Begumjaan chuckled weakly. “Nothing like that. He had just woken up from his sleep in Nagar. Both times…”
“He cried this afternoon too…”
“He will not cry now. Night-time baths are his favourite. Aren’t they, Dilbaro?
” She cooed down at Yathaarth and his mouth opened in a toothless, gummy smile.
He was such a beautiful boy, such a cute baby.
Iram couldn’t believe she had made him. That he had come out from inside her — grey eyes, button nose, soft round lips, cheeks so full. He was a dream of a baby boy.
“Iram,” Begumjaan’s voice rose a notch. “Come here, now. Dress him in this onesie.”
She sniffed, gathered herself and decided to try again. She pushed to her feet and trudged towards them, but kept away from his direct line of vision.
“Here.”
Iram accepted the small white onesie. It was so tiny. He did not look so tiny as to fit into it. She held it up between her fingers. She had packed two onesies much smaller than this one in her hospital bag.
Iram jumped over that thought before it pulled her in yet again and moved to her son. He was happily flailing his arms on the bed, blowing bubbles at the ceiling.
“Lay it out on the bed, like this,” Begumjaan pulled open the buttons and laid it out. “Now gently lift him up and set him atop it. And button it all up.”
“Are you sure?” She hesitated.
“Yes. Go ahead,” Begumjaan stood back.
“I can’t lift him on my own.”
“Look at your weight and look at his weight.”
Iram tried to smile.
“Come on, Dilbaro, you can do it. Lift him up.”
Iram glanced down at her son. He wasn’t crying now.
But he hadn’t looked at her yet either. She inhaled and nodded, then reached down over him, slipping one palm under his head and another under his back.
He arched his back instantly. She preened.
Good boy. His eyes moved to her and froze.
Blinked. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
His lips smacked. Hungry? Iram let out a watery laugh — “Is he hungry?”
“That’s why he is so happy. He knows it’s bath, changing and night milk time. Go on. Change him.”
Bolstered, Iram began to lift him up and he let out a piercing cry. She immediately dropped him back — “What did I do? Why is he crying? Did I hurt him?”
“No, no,” Begumjaan was instantly by her side, circling her hand on his bare tummy.
“Shhh, shhh… Dilbaro. You lifted his head. You are supposed to hold his neck and his head,” Begumjaan slipped her palm under his neck, her fingers holding his head up as she transferred him on top of his onesie. “Like this.”
His cries were so loud, going louder. Her breasts began to feel heavy as her own eyes watered. She pushed her tears away with both hands, feeling something dampen her kurti.
“Now, who wants his mum-mum?” Begumjaan was singing to him. But he didn’t relent, screaming so loud that the hair on her arms stood on end.
“What’s going on here?” Atharva’s baritone broke the shrill crying. Iram stepped back, as if caught. He strode in, laptop bag in hand, bending over Yathaarth and throwing his bag on the bed. “What happened to you, mmm?”
Iram stared like an outsider as he turned him on his stomach and picked him up on his forearm, using only one arm. Yathaarth’s cries went quiet. “That’s my good boy,” Atharva’s voice went just as soft, rocking him, moving towards Begumjaan — “Is his bottle ready or I’ll pop it?”
“Iram was going to try feeding him.”
Grey eyes blinked. The bigger ones. Iram looked on, skeptical, as his face turned to her — “Are you sure?”
No, she wasn’t. But her breasts were weeping. The right one was already trailing. She glanced down and began to turn away, seeing the spot wet. “I’ll change…”
“No, no, sit, Iram.” Begumjaan commanded. “You have to start somewhere. It’s alright. I’ll go out. Try to feed him.”
“You don’t have to, Begumjaan…”
But she was already out of the door, closing it behind her. Iram turned, feeling still just as embarrassed by the wet splotches on her chest. But Atharva’s eyes were respectfully turned away, looking behind her at some point in the distance. That hurt too.
“Sit down and try. I will make a bottle, just in case.”
She nodded. Then looked around.
“There,” he pointed with his eyes at the rocking chair she had found and he had ordered. The one where he had given her foot massages. Iram trudged to the same chair and sat down. He came to her with their son but she balked, her arms falling away. “I don’t know how to hold him!”
Atharva looked like he would abort the mission. She wanted him to abort it. But also didn’t want it. Was she crazy to want both?
Maybe he was too, because he went to their bed, picked up a pillow and set it on her lap. “I used to feed him like this when he came home.”
Iram didn’t want to hear about it. Was starved to hear and yet was too raw to picture that.
She made a cradle of her arms and set them atop the pillow.
“Open your umm… get ready for him first.”
She swallowed. Gazed into his eyes. Her hands froze.
He looked so much like a stranger. How could she…
? Suddenly nothing felt comfortable anymore.
Atharva took his eyes away from her and let them wander to the window.
He stayed, silent, rocking their son up and down quietly, eyes nowhere on her body.
And she slowly reached for her kurti, opening the top buttons. She was wearing her maternity bra, one from the collection she had stocked four months ago. It snapped in the front and she curled over herself to hide herself. Her hands trembled.
“Ready?” He asked, eyes still on the window.
“Hmm.”
Atharva’s eyes lowered but only to her face as he leaned down to place Yathaarth in her arms. Iram immediately zeroed in on him.
He was completely at ease now, eyes on his father.
She gathered him close as he turned his head towards her breast. It was already leaking white, thank god.
Iram palmed his little head, holding him close, hoping he would recognise something.
Some bond, some connection, some scent of his home of 9 months.
His mouth opened and his tongue lapped at a rivulet.
She gasped. Dark grey almond eyes snapped to hers.
She looked into them, trying to hold a smile.
Atharva’s hand was on his back. He pushed Yathaarth closer to her breast and her son tried to reach for her nipple.
She leaned forward, making it easy for him.
His mouth opened and clamped tight. The pain was blinding.
She hissed just as Atharva withdrew his hand.
Yathaarth let out a scream and fell away from her breast.
“Here, here…” she tried to latch his mouth back. But he resisted, his back arching, threatening to fall off the pillow. “Atharva, hold!”
His hands were immediately there, swinging Yathaarth up instantly.
“Hey, hey, why are you crying so much? What is it with you?” He brought him close to his face, pressing his lips to his temple, again swinging him in the cradle of his arms. Atharva’s eyes snapped to her and she looked down, pulling her bra cups and hooking them in place.
It was mortifying, to be here, rejected not once but multiple times, to be a criminal in the eyes of a soul that did not recognise her and another that could not accept her.
“I’ll give him a bottle today.”
She nodded, unable to look at him again.
Silence reigned in their room. She heard the telltale hiss of the boiler, then Atharva was crooning.
She felt him move in her peripheral vision and followed the tracing of his feet as he reclined on their bed.
When Iram looked up, Yathaarth was happily lying in the middle of the bed, Atharva curled on his side, holding his bottle as he suckled.
“Maybe you should see Dr. Baig,” Atharva said, eyes on their son.
“Dr. Baig?”
“For… breastfeeding. If you want to. He is perfectly fine with formula. But if you want to.”
She blinked back tears. It was so tempting to say no.
To spare the rejection. But what kind of a mother would she be if she did not keep trying?
God had blessed her with this baby when everything had burned down around her.
What kind of person would she be if she did not try her best to be worthy of it?
“Ok.”
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Iram did not ask Atharva how he was free at 11.
30 in the morning to take her to Dr. Baig’s nursing home.
She thought she would be going with Begumjaan when he had left the house before she woke up, Yathaarth quietly moved from their bedroom to Begumjaan’s room.
She had woken up to a bed as empty as the one she had gone to sleep in last night because he had fed Yathaarth, quietly put him to sleep and then gone to the couch to work.
Their car sped down the road of an autumnal Srinagar. Iram stared.
“Where is Shehzad?”