Chapter 22 #2
Iram looked on as she and Ada launched into a whole discussion about full circles and ‘dreamy’ love stories.
To bury the PoK debacle, a succession of media stories had been strategically planted for the Chief Minister, starting with his Accession Day parade.
Atharva had kick-started the parade this year to commemorate the day of the signing of the Instrument of Accession to India by Maharaja Hari Singh in 1947, holding up the tricolour and encouraging a cultural carnival in Srinagar.
That story had been followed by the saffron harvest festival started in Pompore and drummed up across Kashmir, patronised by Atharva for the traders of the valley.
It would now be rounded off with his son’s naming ceremony, done in the traditional Indian way.
“Come here, I’ll help you with your ath,” Begumjaan offered. Iram shuffled in their locker and picked out the box of her dejhoor.
“How do you know this, Begumjaan?”
“We all had Pundit friends and neighbours. I had a special liking for dejhoor,” Begumjaan accepted the box and began to pick the small hexagon pieces out of the red threads that hadn’t been touched since her wedding night.
“My friend, Godavari, used to wear a spare of her mother’s when we played under tents. ”
Iram sat down on the bed as she expertly threaded a dejhoor into one of the gold chains Atharva had gifted her and pushed it through her earlobe piercing — “It’s supposed to be worn here,” she patted the curve in the shell of her ear. “But many wear it in the main piercing too.”
“I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“Found some video on your YouTube to learn,” Begumjaan fixed one ear and walked around her to do the other.
“No, I mean… with Arth.” Iram eyed her sideways — “I don’t find it in me to even say thank you because it’s so small.
And in some strange way, I have come to believe like I have a right over you.
Like you taking care of him when I wasn’t here is part of that right.
I have never felt like this about anyone except… Yamma.”
“You are too emotional. Stop or you’ll be crying before the ceremony starts.” She finished the fastening, and the long chain dangled down to her shoulder. Begumjaan began to move away when Iram caught her hand.
“You were right.”
“I am right about everything.”
“This land remembers me.”
Begumjaan’s face softened, her smile suddenly bright and a little… watery. She glanced at Ada and Amaal discussing in the background and lowered her voice.
“You are seeing how everything is slowly becoming ok, Dilbaro?”
Iram nodded.
“Remember this every time something goes wrong in the future. It might look like it won’t be ok. That time will be difficult to pass. But believe it will be ok, and you will pass it holding onto that belief. Hmm?”
Iram nodded.
“And on that note, it’s time for me to pack my bags.”
“No!” She panicked. “No! It’s not all ok yet. We need you… what if I can’t take care of him alone?”
“You will. You are.” She swallowed. “I don’t want to leave either. In fact, I have half a mind to ask Zor to buy property somewhere nearby and stay back.”
“Then stay. Stay here with us…”
Begumjaan’s smile turned indulgent, her hand coming to hold her jaw like she was patting a child — “You will become independent again. It’s time to take the splint off.”
She felt like crying now. “Begumja…”
She pushed her hair behind her ear and stood back — “Show me?”
Iram tipped her face up to show her the earrings, not realising she was frowning.
“Smile now. Soon you are going to have a toddler out to eat his weight in mangoes.”
Iram grinned. Suddenly, these tiny moments began to feel more precious to her.
Begumjaan’s adoring smile became more meaningful.
Ada and Amaal’s banter became more serene.
Noora’s tuneless songs became adorable. Suddenly, life itself became more vibrant, popping with colours she had appreciated before, but now found meaning in.
As Iram changed in her bathroom, with the ladies outside growing in number as Sarah’s voice mingled too, she did not ask who she was. She tucked her saree around her waistband and draped the pallu over her shoulder, coming face to face with herself.
This too shall pass. This joy too shall pass.
Iram smiled at herself, her eyes dark brown, her cheeks fuller now than they were last month, her lips soft and moisturised, full, kissed a little too full.
Everything would pass, but she would remain.
Because now she knew how to deal with both. Accept both, and let both go.
“Iram, quick!”
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“Janab, yim zara heth traav[36],” the man tying his turban pushed the end into his hand. Atharva held it as he wound the fabric, one of his father’s, around his head.
“I would have tied it for you,” Zorji pushed his hands behind his back.
“Amaal,” Atharva managed to grunt as the fabric was tightened around his forehead in their traditional Pundit style.
The last time he had tied this dastaar was on his wedding day.
His son’s Annaparashan sanksar was just as big a day.
Ideally, his Naamkaran sanskar should have been this grand an affair but he had foregone that.
And questions hadn’t been raised because of the tragedy of them losing Hayat.
Atharva looked around now. His hall was teeming with people — staff and a few of his friends and early guests. More security hidden in plain sight.
His gaze met Altaf’s. This ceremony was more than just a personal affair. It was his reassurance to the Pundits and the peace-loving people of the valley, as well as the rest of the country. The CM was sturdy, the state was steady, and Pundits were welcome home.
“Oh, this it?” A loud, booming voice fell on his ears, gruff but familiar.
“There he is, Tim,” Grandma’s soft and awed words followed.
“Janab, khatam kor.[37]”
“Shukriya,[38]” Atharva got to his feet and strode to the door just as his grandparents crossed the threshold, taking off their coats. “Grandma,” he opened his arms just as she opened hers and rushed into him.
“Ooh,” she patted his back, her small body feeling as sturdy as it had two years ago when they had parted. “You look so different,” she pulled back, gaping at his face. “The turban suits you just like it suited Mahi.”
He grinned, letting her leave him for Pops to shake his hand, then pull him into a back-slapping hug — “Congratulations, mate.”
“Thank you, Pops.”
His grandfather pulled away and looked him in the eye for an added second, his ancient eyes slightly dull even in the smile. Atharva pushed his smile wide — “Everything is smashing, Pops.”
“Where is Iram?” He asked, glancing at the big hall set up with chairs and the mandap.
“Already done with me?” Atharva eyed his grandmother. She rolled her eyes — “Be a good boy and tell him. He has brought along his Viking books.”
Atharva’s eyes widened. “Far be it from me to keep you,” he pronounced. “She is upstairs. Let me show you to your room first…”
“You look busy here, just tell us where and we will find our way,” Grandma waved him off.
“We have been here for your Mum and Da’s wedding. Nothing much has changed, innit, Jane?” Pops remarked, looking around.
Grandma nodded — “Even the dining room is unchanged.”
“I have kept it all the same, just polished it and kept it up to date.”
“Pops!” Iram’s voice sounded from behind him, and Atharva saw his grandfather’s face light up.
“Oh, look at you,” Grandma was faster as she raced him to the stairs. Atharva turned, just in time to see her wrap Iram in an embrace, Yathaarth squished between them.
“Show me my little one,” she tickled his chin. Atharva stood proudly as his son smiled shyly, hiding his face in his mother’s hair. Grandma moved for Pops to greet Iram and that’s when Atharva got a full look at his wife. His breath was knocked out of his chest.
He quickly turned his eyes away before somebody noticed how affected he was by her.
She wore their wedding reception saree, and contrary to her claims, it moulded perfectly to her new curves, her face glowing.
And… he took his eyes casually back to her, hidden in Pop’s chest as he held her and Yathaarth.
Atharva found gold winking from the waves of her hair. His Dadi’s ath, his Mama’s dejhoor.
“Janab, the room is ready,” one of Shiva’s minions informed him.
“Yes, show my grandparents upstairs.”
————————————————————
Their son was very well-behaved as the guests were beginning to file and settle in their hall. But the moment Iram passed him to Atharva to sit down in the mandap created for the ceremony, he let out a loud cry.
Atharva began to take him in the cradle of his arms from his shoulder but Iram was faster.
She plucked a marigold and held it out to him.
He reached for it, his sound gone from 60 to 0 in a heartbeat.
He tried to cram it into his mouth and this time she was even faster.
She pulled out his chewy toy and pushed it into his mouth with a practised hand as the priest began to chant.
“Shishu ki aavashyakta nahi hai, aap dono baithiye.[39]”
Atharva caught Begumjaan’s eye and passed Yathaarth to her. The havan kund was lit to life and the hom began. They sat through the havan, invoking the deities to partake in the first meal before it was fed to their son.
The ceremony itself wasn’t elaborate. Iram had cooked a batch of kheer with the basics — rice, milk, and honey instead of sugar.
Poor baby, Atharva smiled as the kheer was now served into separate silver bowls.
Mantras were recited over them, then Iram was directed to take one to the threshold of their house.
“Dubh se shishu ko ashirwad dijiye, Janab[40],” the priest passed him a few wisps of grass. Atharva accepted Yathaarth back into his lap and set the tiny grass blades atop his head, followed by the yellowed grains of rice. Iram followed suit.