Chapter 15 #2
“She was the one who suggested channeling my mind into a task. And I realised that had always worked. She also walked me through my hormonal crashes. And without even me telling her my systemic symptoms, she was pinpointing what would have been my state of mind at a particular time.”
“But this is more than postpartum depression. It started way before.”
“Some women also go through prenatal depression. There might be fancy terms for it but in a nutshell, it happened because the traumas of my entire life crashed on me in that one piece of news. I see it now, in hindsight,” the vulnerable pool of her eyes solidified.
“And even as I get scared and have bad thoughts and bad feelings from time to time, I also feel myself getting seasoned. Like I am developing resistance after Nagar.”
A sudden, incredible smile formed on her lips — proud, bright, like the sun.
Her eyes widened — “I had never told this to myself until the words came out now in front of you. But I find myself becoming stronger and stronger every day even if I get really scared in those episodes. That’s good, isn’t it? ”
His hands tightened on her delicate face. It was so gaunt. But the glow on her wet cheeks was like looking at the fire that had been extinguished but managed to spark off again.
“Make me a part of it.”
She frowned.
“Your bad moments. Make me a part of them. What would you like me to do when you feel that?”
“I don’t know, Atharva.”
“Ok. Just tell me when it happens?”
She wetted her lips. They looked dry. He ran a thumb over them, rubbing the crusty surface. “I have nothing to offer you right now except my support, Iram. I cannot cure this for you. I wish I could, but I can’t. Let me be a part of it until it is cured.”
She nodded, tears streaming down her face and onto his thumb. He whirled his eyes up from her lips and saw hope in her eyes. That feeling he had experienced a moment ago, of them being ok? That was solid now. Because she believed in it too.
“Is there still anger inside you?”
He began to shake his head.
“Honesty, Atharva.”
He nodded. “It’s irrational but still there. I know you did not leave me. Now I do. In time, I will understand too.”
“So, if I say or do something that makes you angry at me?”
“I will swallow it down.”
She glared up at him. That stubborn, sweet, old-Iram expression broke the last fetter holding him down in the trenches. His body felt lighter as he answered — “Tell you and pray you don’t throw something at me.”
“Right answer, Janab.”
“That reminds me,” he pushed his face closer down to hers, their noses touching — “Don’t call your son Janab. That’s me.”
Her mouth dropped open. Atharva felt his face stretch, the smile wobbling down and then building back up again as their eyes remained connected.
He held her gaze, pushing himself to stay in this moment.
Her answering chuckle was nothing but a silent huff.
Silent, but unmistakable. Like it was a breath of wind itself, it blew and made his entire body buoyant as he stepped away from her and strode towards the door.
“Come on, he would have wreaked havoc in Begumjaan’s room. It’s his midnight feed time.”
————————————————————
Atharva stepped out of the shower, pulling on his T-shirt.
It was too thin and threadbare for winter that was knocking on their doors.
He rubbed the towel through his hair and exited the bathroom, glancing up at the tiny noises.
Yathaarth’s gulps were loud in their silent room, his face buried in Iram’s chest as she sat back on the bed, pillows in a nest around her.
Her eyes were down on him, no doubt holding his gaze.
Atharva couldn't believe it was just one night ago that she had struggled to even hold him steady.
“Your pasta is there,” she said quietly, not looking away from their son.
Atharva frowned, searching for what ‘there’ meant.
His eyes roamed the room and zeroed in on the console table.
That was ‘there,’ the place where she had brought a plate of pasta ladled in white sauce, steaming in the cool of the room.
He quietly opened the window, spread his towel to dry and closed it with a click.
“I told you I am not hungry,” he murmured, striding to the plate steaming with creamy garlicky scent. His stomach growled.
“When you don’t say it with your words, trust your stomach to betray you.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, twirling his fork in the spaghetti.
“Don’t patronise me,” he barked, without the bite.
“Eat,” she commanded, eyes still smiling at Yathaarth, hands busy switching him from one breast to the other. Atharva soaked this. Something normal. Something so completely them. And after long months, they weren’t trying hard to do it.
He padded to the bed and quietly sat beside her. Yathaarth was suckling her other breast, so he wrapped some noodles around his fork and held it out to her like it had been his reflex of years. She hesitated. “I had my dinner.”
“What was dinner?”
“Pizza.”
“How many slices?”
Her brows snapped together — “Begumjaan cannot report to you.”
He stared at her.
“Ada?” She tried.
Atharva didn’t let his glare waver.
“My appetite is not fully back yet,” she finally grumbled, looking like the adorable woman who would turn into a girl only in front of him.
Feeding his son, guessing the traitor of their clan, looking at him like he knew everything that went on inside Kashmir — this was Iram.
For the record, he did not know what had gone on at their dinner party tonight, neither did he know how many slices she had eaten.
Seeing her reaction, he would hazard a guess.
“Aa,” he held the fork up.
“Atharva.”
“Aa.”
“I am…” he stuffed the bite into her mouth. She chewed, her gaunt cheeks swelling with the food — “Aotharvoo.”
This little bubble… he soaked more of it, feeling his chest swell right there along with her cheeks and her eyes. And then he realised something.
“Have you been following Dr. Baig’s diet chart?”
“Yes.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I started feeling gassy after one slice, ok? But I drank the milk and ate the corn.”
He twirled more noodles and held the fork out.
“No…”
“If you are feeding him, you must be full first.”
“I am full…”
He thrust the fork into her mouth — “Appetite is like a muscle. You need to work it slowly to expand it.”
“You haven’t had dinner at all,” she scolded him, half chewing, half scowling. “Eat. Now.”
Atharva forked more noodles, twirled and closed his mouth around them.
Her eyes followed the path, even as their son suckled at her breast. And Atharva held her eyes, then closed his own to relish the fall of the first morsel in his mouth since this afternoon.
The pasta was good, but not as good as Mama’s or Iram’s.
His son made a mewling sound that made him pop his eyes open.
“He needs you to eat,” Atharva smirked, twirling another bite and holding it up to her mouth.
“He doesn’t; he is being jostled because I am eating.”
“He will manage. Aa.”
She rolled her eyes but opened her mouth, eating easily, chewing with some of that old relish he had become so used to seeing on her face. Atharva fed himself and her, eyeing her as she sat quietly, caressing Yathaarth’s hair. She didn’t move much, her body holding still for their son.
“You won’t drop him.”
“I don’t want to take a chance.”
“Is that why you are not using your rocking chair?”
“Hmm,” she ran a tender finger down their son’s cheek. His dark grey eyes opened wide in pleasure, his mouth closing tighter around her nipple. “Aye! You like it?” She pressed down and nuzzled the top of his head.
“He is smitten.” The words left his mouth.
Her head came up and wary brown eyes stared at him — “You think so? It’s just been two days of feeding. He still sleeps in Begumjaan’s room, bathes with her…”
And those words — those simple, vulnerable words from her soft mouth made the answering truth from his flow easily.
“His father has spent a lifetime smitten,” Atharva declared. “And it started with a few minutes in your company.”
Pleasure rolled across her guarded eyes. And then her lids dropped.
“What?”
Brown eyes popped open again — “You can’t still be all…”
“All what?”
“Swoony talking. I have basically burped and farted in front of you all through the pregnancy and right now I am feeding him in front of you. It’s not pretty.”
Atharva laughed. Deep and loud. He hadn’t laughed like this in eons.
Like nothing was being forced out of him.
His throat felt like the windpipe had cleared after ages.
Bursting through sorrow and resentment and fear and grief, the sound felt alien but so his as the vibrations lightened his already lightened chest.
“Low, he is about to sleep,” Iram knocked his shoulder with her fist. He continued to vibrate, turning the volume down when Yathaarth’s head began to crane up to him. He was proud that his son had not completely forgotten him in his new milk heaven.
“Myani zuv, this is one of my life’s best views,” he pointed at their son latched onto her like she was his last meal. “The fact that I can laugh right now and am eating and enjoying the hell out of this after fighting with you downstairs doesn’t tell you that nothing has changed?”
“Nothing has?” She tested, craving reassurance. “Right?”
He sobered, blinking into her hesitant face. How had it been so easy to laugh with her and slip back into a world that was just their’s? But then, that’s exactly how it been with her. With them.
“Right,” he fed her the last bite and finished the final stuck sauce himself. In any shape or form, he would end up as the slave to her well-being. “Want more?”
“There was just one box of pasta,” she pouted apologetically. “You should have eaten it yourself! Why did you feed me? Want me to make you something? I can make you more white pasta…”
Tempting as it was, she looked exhausted. He shook his head, “I am full.”
“You are not.”
“I am.”
“Atharva.”
“Iram.”
Yathaarth made a long, burpy sound.
“Is he done?” Atharva set the plate on the nightstand and climbed to sit in front of her. Her eyes were already down on their son, tenderness returning to her features — “Eyes going down. Almost down.”
Atharva pulled his T-shirt off, grabbed the pillow from in front of her and pushed closer.
Their knees touched. His chest met his son’s bare back and he pushed one arm behind Iram, bringing her closer and into the circle of his arm.
Yathaarth released her nipple with a pop and his eyes were already at half-mast. Atharva accepted him into his palms and let her clean herself up. She began to pull her top back up.
“Come,” he set Yathaarth in the crook of one arm and held the other open.
Joy crackled across her face, tears breaking down from the clouds of her eyes. Not a deluge, a drizzle. Slow, steady patters.
“Keep crying and I’ll make you hydrate too now.”
She chuckled, holding her open top to her chest and crawling into his arms. Her arm came to cradle Yathaarth and it was like nurturing their son in the warmth of the shared heat that they created.
Atharva saw his son’s eyes fall closed. His breathing went steady.
His body went slack. Happy. Fulfilled. Trusting.
“He went to sleep,” she whispered, the sob now not in tears but in her throat.
“Do you want to leave?”
Her eyes rolled up to meet his. And then she said the best no of his life.