Chapter 22
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Derek Walcott
Iram was half delirious with getting her six month-old big boy to lie still. But then, she was also just too happy. Her mock frowns and giggles were new to her as she wrestled Yathaarth into his cream pheran. He just wouldn’t cooperate, sensing the change from his usual thick cotton or wool fabric.
“You will like it,” she took the tiny silk pheran and ran it over his cheek.
His mouth opened in a toothless grin, one tiny white pearl sprouted on his lower gum.
Iram had a crush on that little tooth of her son.
She bent down and nuzzled his nose, making his grin turn into a chortle as he banged his hands on her shoulder.
His body began to turn and roll over the bed but she turned him back — “Aye! There’s no pillow there, dummy. ”
He looked happy enough to attempt dressing him again. She braced herself, took the pheran over his head without his eyes falling on it, and began to weasel her way down.
“How’s the mission going?” His father’s loud boom made him perk up and throw her pheran off.
“Atharva!” She groaned, inhaling his aftershave as he exited the bathroom.
The room filled with Old Spice and steam.
Who would say it was the peak of December and frigid freezing weather outside?
Their room was toasty thanks to two heaters.
Iram bent down and blew rapid raspberries on the mini heater’s warm tummy.
He again began to roll around, looking happy enough to go for attempt number… she had lost count.
“Dilbaro,” Atharva’s warning voice echoed as she sensed him moving around their room, getting dressed. “Who’s my good boy?”
Iram used his distraction of trying to hunt for his father’s voice and pushed the pheran down his head. Aha! Down to his neck. He did not protest, flailing his head happily at whatever Atharva was doing behind her.
“Captain Kaul, you can do the Indian dressing next time,” she pronounced, pushing his tiny arms through the sleeves and pulling the thing in place.
“Not my fault that he understands early on who calls the shots here.”
Iram rolled her eyes, slipping the matching pants up his nappy-clad bum.
Her son still did not protest, too busy moving his head around as his father got ready.
She gaped at Atharva over her shoulder. And closed her mouth.
He looked dashing in his own white pheran, chuddidar and matching shawl.
One of his father’s — a proper Pundit ensemble.
“Eyes up here.”
She scowled up at his clean-shaven face, pasted in the mirror as he ran his fingers through his hair.
“I’ve seen better.”
Grey eyes met hers through the mirror as she climbed up on the bed and splayed beside her son, leaning her head on her palm.
“Who?”
“Who calls the shots here?” She asked.
His eyes narrowed, working one end of his shawl over a shoulder while passing the other end under his other arm and throwing it over the opposite shoulder.
“I do,” he grinned.
“Objectively, Noora has better features than you.”
Atharva whirled — “Take it back.”
She bit the insides of her cheeks — “Who calls the shots here?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Milk here, milk there, everywhere milk milk…” she sang the awful little song Noora had made for Yathaarth and her son looked too happy for his father’s taste.
“You are so done.” He strode down the room and swooped over her, making her fall to her back. Before he could do more, their son rolled over sensing fun time and began to climb up her stomach between them. Atharva laughed, carefully holding his bum as he reached his summit on top of her chest.
“Who calls the shots here, Dilbaro?” Atharva pecked his head. He began to sit straight and go towards his father when she wiggled her fingers under his pheran on his back. His favourite spot to laugh. Her son instantly turned and threw himself on her chest.
“Oh, Janab has decided!” Iram laughed, holding him tight and looking up at amused grey eyes. Atharva’s head came down and pressed his lips to her cheek, then her mouth — “You look good while cheating.”
Her mouth dropped open. He pressed his mouth back down on hers, pushing his tongue inside to sweep lazily.
“I am going down. You want me to take him and leave you to get ready in peace?”
“Yes, please. I will have to wrestle my way into my reception blouse with the way I have been eating.”
“You are not there yet, myani zuv. And today is wazwan.”
She grinned — “Dum aloo.”
Atharva smirked, straightening up with their son swooped in his arms like some Samurai. Yathaarth loved these tricks and was already shaking.
“Pops and Grandma have landed,” she informed him. “You were in the bathroom when Pops called.”
Atharva pulled his pocket watch from the depths of his pheran pocket — “They should be here in half an hour. I hate this last-minute thing with Pops. He could have flown in this weekend. Or even last night.”
“It’s alright now, don’t frown. Today is a good day, and we are seeing them after a long time. Don’t pick a fight.”
Yathaarth was straining in his arms, for what, they couldn't figure out. That was his SOP when he was bored being held in one position. Atharva changed arms — “You think I’ll have time to pick a fight?”
“No, but you can do that with your eyes too.”
His brows relaxed. Iram smiled. His gruff was his love language where his Pops was concerned. Like Pops, like grandson.
“Happy?”
His mobile buzzed on the bed beside her. Iram saw it was Adil and swiped the speaker button — “Janab is currently trying to contain Junior Janab,” she informed.
“Ask Janab to come down for his dastaar.”
“Your turban person has come,” she relayed.
“I am coming, Adil. Ask him if he needs the fabric or he brought it along?”
“He brought it, but Noora wants it.”
Iram snorted.
Atharva rolled his eyes — “Give it. I am getting my father’s.”
He handed Yathaarth down to her and strode out of the bedroom.
She waited, playing with her son, relaxing before their home came alive with happy pandemonium.
It was after a long time that so many people would convene at this house.
The security was tightened beyond anybody’s imagination.
The ceremony was supposed to be a small, intimate one with only friends and family.
But with the recent attacks on Pundits coming back home to the valley, Atharva had decided to open this ceremony up for more than just their family.
Make this a way to show the Pundits that were on the edge about if they should return home or not, that it was safe.
Show those who were trying to target Pundits that they would not stop until they had claimed their home back.
Atharva had decided to include his political partners and contemporaries too.
Which would mean everybody — from Janta Party to Awaami biggies, MLAs to bureaucrats.
“Behave in front of all of them and try to eat the new food we feed you,” Iram tinkered with her son’s chin.
His mouth dropped open and his happy face banged into the crook of her neck, his hand coming to her breast. Iram preened, feeling like she had never felt before with this little gesture of need.
“I’ll always be here, but now you have your big boy food too.
You are going to love it, mmm?” She kissed his head.
He smelled of the sweetest baby powder and milk mix.
Mehrunisa had told her to fill herself up with this scent because once he started solids, he would not smell this pure and serene.
She kissed him and took another deep whiff, making a mental note to email today’s pictures to her.
She had given her an email ID made during her university days in the US.
It would be safe enough to send these pictures on that ID once she consulted Atharva.
“Myani zuv?”
She craned up to find him walking back in, a folded beige fabric in hand.
“Come here.”
“What happened?” She sat up and pressed Yathaarth in her lap. Atharva strode to her and came down on his haunches between her legs, offering her the small red velvet box.
“I had this polished for you.”
She picked the box between her fingers and snapped it open one-handed, holding Yathaarth with the other. Two dangling gold chains were wound on two notches on the velvet bed.
“My Dadi’s ath. I couldn’t find Mama’s. We were supposed to give this to you the day after our wedding but…” grey eyes rose from the box and smiled with a wince. “It’s two and a half years too late.”
“But it made it to me at the end,” she chuckled. “Yamma’s dejhoor are still suspended on those red threads. I’ll wear them today.”
Yathaarth’s palm knocked on the jewellery and she instantly pulled it back — “No, no, no, it’s for girls.”
“You come with me, Dilbaro,” Atharva swooped him up.
“Oh, wait, show me how to change it!” Iram pushed to her feet, straightening her pheran and going to her cupboard in search of her dejhoor.
“How am I supposed to know how to change it?”
“Pundit women know it!”
“Do I look like Pundit women to you?”
Iram craned her neck out of the cupboard door and glared at him, an amused Begumjaan and Amaal standing behind him at their door.
“Go, Atharva. Don’t sit on my head now.”
“I was going anyway,” he turned and stopped short.
“Also, do tell who calls the shots here!” She yelled and saw him shaking with mirth, amusement and mock rage as he left their room.
“Hoo haa,” Ada danced in with her arms out to karate chop. “There’s my DI.”
“Why are you not ready yet?” Amaal went straight for her saree and accessories already stacked on the lounger. “Not pearls, wear gold with this,” she picked up her saree. “It’s your reception saree, right? We can run a picture of that day and this one…”