Chapter 12 True love has a way of coming back…
This time around, it didn’t seem straight. Like she was lost in a jungle and going around in circles — no sun to guide her, no light, no signs.
Iram tipped her face up to the dark Srinagar sky.
This terrace was the only thing that was just as she had left it, this sky just as clear as she had last seen it.
She continued to walk, letting her feet tire themselves out.
Dr. Baig had recommended walking and music.
She had been walking for the better part of an hour.
Music… not yet. Step by step, she told herself.
The night was cool and lonely. She breathed it in, inhaling the smells of Srinagar’s autumn.
Pine and burning foliage, coal kaangri and the sound of silence.
It was so quiet. Yathaarth and Begumjaan were in the hall downstairs, Atharva at work.
She didn’t even know what time it was. Dinner had ended.
She had stuffed herself with as much as she could from Dr. Baig’s list. Her feet reached the end of the terrace and turned around, going round and towards the opposite end.
Tiny drops of water touched her face. She slowed, squinting up at the suddenly hazy sky.
The water fell harder into her face. Cold.
The wind blew colder. She shivered. And felt the most alive inside.
Iram stood there, gaping at the expanse of inky purple over her as the sky opened and rain began to patter.
Thunder struck, and it was pouring, plastering her hair over her head.
Her mouth opened, feeling droplets slip in and onto her tongue.
Lightning roared across the sky and she gaped at it, feeling this explosion of nature inside her, hoping it would jolt her back to life.
She had come home, she had gotten her family back, but she was still not completely herself.
She was doing everything she could, facing every pile of carnage she had left behind, brandishing herself as the only weapon left to fight a world aggrieved by her, but it was still not enough.
“Iram!”
She whirled, just in time for something heavy to land over her head and shoulders. His coat.
She met furious grey eyes and stepped back.
His arm was quick to snap her back, his face drenched and dripping over hers.
She opened her mouth but he led her away, running the last few steps to escape the deluge.
The sudden patter of water on their heads was gone.
But the haze remained. In the dry cold of the corridor, the space between them chilled. She averted her gaze.
Atharva’s hands came to the lapels of his coat, tightening them around her. She realised it then — she was soaked. Her mind and soul were already soaking. She couldn’t afford to get her body ill too. Her shoulders caved in with a shiver and he held them up. Again, their eyes clashed.
“I am sorry…” she croaked.
He blinked, damp, wet lashes fanning over tired undereyes.
“I was just walking. It started raining. I couldn't move.”
He kept staring, silent.
“I am trying very hard, Atharva…”
His gaze tore away from hers — “Go dry yourself.”
She gasped, stepping back. He did not look at her again.
Iram began to walk past him, away from him, towards their room.
And she did not look at him either. It was like the forcefield around him was keeping her tethered and his eyes were pushing her away.
Throwing her away. Iram reached their bedroom door and couldn’t help it. She peeped over her shoulder.
He had stepped inside the corridor bathroom and shut it.
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“Where do you want him?”
Iram finished drying her hair and turned. Atharva stood there, Yathaarth situated on his shoulder in a diaper. She glanced at the rocking chair. She had failed to hold him steady there. She needed a place where, if he slipped, he would land on something padded.
“Maybe the bed?”
“Be decisive.”
Her eyes whirled at that sharp command. He was looking at her with nothing but bland courtesy.
“Bed,” she asserted quietly, moving to their bed and climbing onto her side.
“Go to the middle,” he ordered, and she followed, wondering what he was about to do.
Then she gaped as with one arm on their son, he leaned to cover her with pillows on all sides.
In case he slipped. Iram swallowed the bitter feeling and extended her arms. She had prepared for this all day, massaging her breasts as Dr. Baig and her lactation expert had taught her, taking warm showers, eating a lot of food and drinking a lot of water.
It had made her nauseous but she had stuck to her chart.
“Aren’t you…” he cleared his throat, pointing at her chest.
“Oh… yes,” she reached down to unbutton the snaps on her maternity kurti. She got down to three and stopped, glancing up at him — “Can I try… skin to skin?”
“You don’t have to ask me, he is your son too,” he snapped.
“You don’t act it!” She snapped back. Then froze. “I am sor…”
“Take your top off,” he commanded, reaching under her feet to pull the duvet. She let him, slowly buttoning down all the way and slipping the top off her arms just as he pulled the duvet close to her neck. She grabbed it, pushing her hair behind her back and awkwardly working her bra off.
“Are you ready?” He asked again, those words just as curt as last night.
What if he cries again? Iram peeped at the bottle Atharva had already popped into the boiler. He was ready to swoop their son away the moment he cried. Truth be told, so was she. If he so much as whimpered, her heart would break again and she didn’t know how many tapes she had to keep it together.
“Here.” Atharva pushed one knee on the bed and brought Yathaarth to her.
She pulled the duvet down and accepted him in her arms, this time her bones not shaking.
Maybe because she was honed in on making him latch.
His warm skin met hers and her tummy pulled in on a breath.
The inside of her body knew him. It would take some time for the outside to know him too, isn’t it?
Hi. Remember me?
She looked into his big, grey eyes blinking slowly at her.
Dark grey. Darker than Atharva’s. His eyelashes were long, just like his father’s.
So pretty, and so devastating once he grew up.
She ran her finger in tiny circles on his waist, recreating the rhythm of those circles she would always draw on her tummy.
His mouth opened, his eyes squeezed shut as if ready to break into a wail.
“Atha…” she didn’t even have a chance to finish the sentence before Atharva’s hand came under their son, holding his back.
She thought he would take Yathaarth away but he just patted — “Shhh, shhh, Dilbaro. Time to load up, see,” he reached down and ran his fingers through his wispy hair. His grey eyes met hers — “Try.”
“You are holding him?”
“Yes. Try. You feel it?”
“Hmm,” she pushed forward and met his open mouth with her right breast, the one that produced the most. He bit and let go.
She winced but tried again. He pushed back.
He did not latch, but his face relaxed and his nose tried to find her again, eyes blinking at the sight in front of him.
Elated, Iram brought him close to her bare chest again and he purred. Was that a happy sound?
“Look? Is he happy?” She half-laughed, half-cried. “Ooooh, oooh,” she patted his back. “Hi. Remember me?”
Yathaarth didn’t respond but his father’s thumb reached the corner of her eye. Iram glanced up, and Atharva was wiping the tear spilling out of her eye. “This is…”
“I know.”
“You felt it too when you fed him for the first time?”
“Hmm.”
She rocked slowly back and forth, holding her baby on her skin, feeling like they were one again.
“Oooh,” she cooed quietly, letting her chest vibrate into his face. “Hi, baby… Yathaarth.”
He whimpered and tried to push back, his lips rooting but not latching onto her breast. Atharva’s hand left hers and she glanced up “What happened? Don’t go…”
But he was unbuttoning his shirt, getting his cufflinks off. Iram stared dry-mouthed as he stripped it off and climbed on the bed beside her. The back of her bare arm met his chest as he slowly pushed half behind her, his arm going around Yathaarth and pulling him closer into the circle he created.
“Come on, Dilbaro. Mama is waiting to feed you, aren’t you hungry?
” He talked to their son about her with such tenderness.
Iram drank back tears of elation and pushed her breast forward.
This time, Atharva reached for the side of her breast and held it steady, caressing Yathaarth’s head and guiding him to latch.
His tiny rosebud mouth opened and closed over her nipple. He sucked. Strong and hard.
“Ow,” she jerked.
“It hurt?” Atharva’s hand ran circles on her back.
She shook her head, biting her lip between her teeth as the momentary pain rolled.
He sucked again and she felt the twinge.
But it was bearable now because she was prepared.
And he was sucking again. He popped it out for a breath, then gaped at her.
She smiled. “Are you hungry?” She asked softly.
“You are such a big boy, the biggest boy. My big boy. So strong. Just like Baba,” she pushed his head to her breast, now confident in holding him under one arm and using the other to manoeuvre him because Atharva held them both in the circle of his arms.
“There,” she encouraged quietly as he suckled. Not sucked but suckled, the sounds of his gulping — the best music of her life. “Oooh, there. My smart Arth… look, he is so good, Atharva.”
“I know,” he declared proudly.
“Does he suckle his bottle this hard?”
“How would I know? I don’t feel his bottle-sucking.”
Iram burst out laughing. Yathaarth’s mouth dislodged and he gave out a piercing cry.
“Aaah,” she chuckled, cupping his head and pulling him back. “I’m sorry, Janab.”
“Janab?”