Chapter 17
“Thinking is a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Begumjaan told her as her palms ran down Yathaarth’s soft, smooth torso, slick with the baby oil she was using. “What you think, you keep thinking. And what you keep thinking, you do, until you become it.”
“I wish I could stop thinking,” Iram sat beside her, tickling the open palm of her son.
He let out a happy bellow with his entire mouth open, enjoying the ticklish massage before his bath time.
His eyes met hers and she felt that thrill again because he did not cry.
He still did not recognise her like he did Begumjaan or Atharva.
At feed times, yes, he did cuddle into her, recognising her milk and her scent.
But her face still did not make him smile like Atharva’s did.
Iram did not take it personally. A week of feeding wasn’t long enough to expect the child she had left for months to become completely hers.
“You don’t have to stop thinking, Dilbaro. Pass me that cloth,” Begumjaan held a hand out. Iram passed the rough but clean cloth she had brought with her and saw her scrub it down Yathaarth’s body. Now, after all these days, she had that routine rote learned. But she had never tried.
“If you stop thinking, you will only think harder in the next minute. It doesn’t work that way, does it?”
“No,” Iram chuckled. “But one can try.”
“Don’t try. It doesn’t work.”
Iram stared at the profile of Begumjaan’s beautiful, wrinkled face.
She had these lines around her eyes that were wise.
And now Iram realised that maybe that wisdom wasn’t age or struggle but experiences like hers.
Maybe everybody had their own demons and their own times to battle them.
Some spoke out loud, some didn’t. A phase of life when the questions were too many and answers too few, when you could not make sense of yourself or the world around you.
But with the right people by your side, some patience and some resilience, you managed to climb out of that demon’s well. She hadn’t managed to do that yet, but Iram could see the sky now, within reach.
“Begumjaan?”
“Hmm?”
“Have you ever felt like… like I did? Or something similar?”
She smiled — “It’s so good to know that you are not alone, no?”
Iram shook her head, knowing that answer was not coming. But she liked this answer too.
“Don’t fight your thoughts and feelings, Iram. Let them come.”
“That’s what Dr. Baig said too.”
“See? No point in hiding from your thoughts. It’s ok if they scare you. You tell Atharva, don’t you?”
She beamed. Nodded. That she did. It had started with the morning after their big showdown. She had felt it begun to weigh on her at dot 9 am and he had been at the Secretariat. Her first thought had been to tide over it herself, but then she had picked up her mobile and dialled him.
He had answered her call on the second ring and listened quietly as she had launched into a monologue.
She had hated describing what she was feeling, the fears that were surrounding her.
She had been scared of being sucked into them, those thoughts — of being alone, without any family behind or ahead of her, without her identity, without her children, without him.
All irrational. All baseless. But what did you do with feelings?
When did logic ever work? She had told him everything.
Uncensored. And when she had finished, she had heard nothing but silence on his end.
“Atharva?” She had called out.
“Still here. One moment, please.”
When a second had passed, he had told her that he had been reviewing the situation in Baramulla where a rail project had been vandalised. The area was being monitored closely by the forces and he had exited the room to listen to her.
“Go, this is not that important,” she had laughed through her tears, immediately out of that lost space as her mind had started to calculate what his next steps would be to secure the town.
“Do you still feel it?” He had asked instead.
“A little, but it feels better.”
“Tell me more.”
“No, that’s it. You go now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
And he had gone.
After that, she had not stopped. Every time something felt out of the usual — be it while feeding Yathaarth or sitting in the kitchen with the menu lists, be it in the middle of the afternoon or early at dawn, she would always tell him.
He would listen. Patiently. Sometimes they would talk about it.
Sometimes they would not, because things would feel a little too raw.
Shiva was ecstatic and he showed it in his morose moods.
Iram had begun to help him more regularly.
She had volunteered to be his sous chef for menial work like chopping and prepping.
He abhorred having her in his space all the time, she knew.
But she was the head of the house and she wanted to chop, deal with mindless chores.
They surprisingly always lifted her mood.
One thing that she wasn’t able to do was write.
She had opened her laptop multiple times.
Opened her old drafts too. Sherry had been in touch, not-so-delicately asking for that draft of her second book that never saw the revisions she had promised her editor.
Iram had cited her time as a new mother and asked for an extension.
Atharva had proposed to return the advance and get done with it until she was ok.
Iram had opposed it. So what if she started feeling everything too deeply and too loudly when she sat to write?
It was right now. Not forever. She would climb out.
She already was halfway out. Though looking at her dismal progress with regard to her writing, she was beginning to drift towards her old glass-half-empty self.
Maybe returning the advance wasn’t a bad thing after all.
“Ready for his bath!”
Begumjaan’s cheerful holler brought her back to the now, her eyes snapping to a happy little slippery boy clasped between Begumjaan’s hands as she held him up. Iram was still scared to hold him in the cradle of her arms. She was in awe of Begumjaan’s daring to hold him like this.
“Take, carry him inside,” she began to pass him to her.
“No! He is so slippery, I’ll drop him.”
“Nothing will happen. Take him.”
Iram grabbed him tight between her hands and he let out a wail. She winced.
“Don’t strangle his chest. Loosen up.”
Iram tried but was scared his oily skin would slip. He went on howling.
“No, he is crying,” she returned him into Begumjaan’s waiting hands.
Begumjaan gave her a glare — the Safiya Begum glare.
Then got to her feet and walked inside the bathroom.
Iram knew she had to learn how to massage her own son, bathe him, carry him.
But she was unable to. He cried. And she couldn't see that.
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In her bid to expand her daily chores slowly, and because doing a lot of direct work for Yathaarth wasn’t possible due to her limitations with him, Iram decided to go one step further in the kitchen. That evening, she not only chopped but also cooked.
Winter vegetables were ripe and she had asked for five bunches of spinach to be delivered.
The sight of the lush, green leafy bunches had taken her back to Dal and Atharva’s bargain, to the swell of her stomach that had harboured two very active children.
She tuned herself back to the present, deciding to replace that memory with a good one.
She washed the leaves, blanched them, pureed them.
Shiva did not like it one bit. Yet he sat quietly on the kitchen table, peeling garlic to prep for the coming week.
Iram worked and found her mood lifting. She hadn’t felt this good in a long time.
Long hours passed where she was doing no thinking, just working.
And then when thoughts arrived, they were all good.
Like how this green gravy had turned out and what Atharva would say.
It had been two and a half years to their marriage and two fifty taunts by Atharva about her green gravy. After all this time, she finally had it cooked and ready for him.
She stirred the pot, fragrant with the green chillies, tomatoes, mint and fresh garlic. She went ahead and added sautéed vegetables, checking for salt. Perfect.
The sun was setting and the time for dinner was coming closer.
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“Where is Atharva?” Begumjaan asked, laying Yathaarth in his downstairs cot.
He had multiple spots in the house for his resting, playing and naps.
Iram couldn't help but preen and be grateful for how spoiled he was.
As he grew, she knew Atharva and her would have to come to a better consensus about how to tone down the opulence, considering he would grow up as the son of a Chief Minister.
“Janab went to his office,” Shiva droned.
“Office?” Iram set the plate of salad on the table. “I thought he went up to shower when he came.”
“Office.”
“Go and call him,” Begumjaan ordered.
Iram began to set the table, taking trips to the kitchen to get all the food out.
“You look very happy,” Begumjaan smiled up at her, taking a seat at the table.
She grinned — “I am. I haven’t felt so good in a long time. Let’s hope it lasts.”
“Again?” Begumjaan scolded. “What did I say to you? Thinking is a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you think it will last, it will last. If you hope, then that’s 50-50.”
Iram nodded, taking a deep breath and letting it go. “It will last.”
“Good.”
Shiva came back, alone.
“Where is Janab?” She asked.
“He said he will come. You and Begumjaan shouldn’t wait for him. Start.”
“Is everything ok?”
“He was on the phone.”