Chapter 22 #3
“Ab munder ki kheer, prasad-swarop, shishu ko khilaaiye. Ghar ke bade aarambh karein, Dada-Dadi, Nana-Nani?[41]”
Atharva’s gaze went to Begumjaan.
“Jane,” Begumjaan called out. “Please, come.”
Grandma made her way to the mandap but stood back clueless — “What am I supposed to do?’
“You are supposed to feed him his first solid meal,” Begumjaan stepped back.
“Oh, that’s an honour. But you must go first.”
“You are his great-grandmother…”
“Begumjaan,” Atharva pronounced. Her eyes met his.
He smiled. She had done his first tilak before his wedding, she had danced the hardest, she had also fed him his first sweet on the discovery of Yathaarth and Hayat’s conception.
She had picked up Yathaarth in the NICU before he had ever had the courage to.
And held him close to her chest until Iram returned.
And even when she did, Begumjaan had just as gracefully stepped back.
Iram held the silver bowl out and Begumjaan looked unsure.
“Jaan Dadi,” Iram joked, and Atharva felt it land deep inside him.
Begumjaan’s eyelids dropped, then rose, and she accepted the bowl.
She bent on her haunches and held a tiny spoonful out to his son in his lap.
Yathaarth’s tongue immediately came out to lap at it but the moment the spoon was pushed into his mouth, he sputtered.
Laughter rose up around them. And he broke into an angry cry.
“Try coffee,” Noora hollered.
“Then we will give him to you only to put to sleep,” Begumjaan snapped back, holding out another spoonful. Even crying it out, his son opened his mouth.
“He is not wrong,” Adil chimed. “His father likes nothing but Americano.”
“Your people don’t know about their CM’s sweet teeth,” Iram whispered in his ear as Grandma swapped places with Begumjaan to feed Yathaarth. By now, he had gotten over his new-food tantrum and was happily lapping the tiny spoonfuls.
“You make me breakfast trays like a truck of mango exploded on them. Doesn’t mean I douse myself in sugar.”
“You said, and I believed.”
“Ab shishu ke saamne pustak, kataar aur kheer rakhiye,[42]” the priest directed. His assistant lined up a book, a knife and a bowl of kheer in front of Yathaarth.
“What is this for?” Grandma leaned in as Atharva let go of his son’s hands.
“It’s a game,” Atharva explained. “Whatever he reaches for, foretells his future.”
His son went straight for the book and everybody around them broke into chuckles.
“Oops,” Adil muttered. “Family profession over father’s profession.”
“Father wasn’t good with knives anyway,” Samar commented, sitting in a chair, looking much healthier and normal without his compression garments. If one did not glance at the backs of his hands or the sides of his neck, one wouldn’t know he had been burnt to the third degree six months ago.
“If you mean how to use it for slicing open
stomachs, then no,” Atharva traded the barb.
“Shishu gyaani banega[43],” the priest announced with a flourish and everybody broke into a round of applause. Atharva found that his son enjoyed the attention even as he buried his head into his chest.
“What does it mean?” Grandma asked, holding her palm out to Yathaarth. He banged it like a banjo with both hands and she made entertaining noises for him with every bang.
“It means he will grow up to become a scholar.”
“What did you reach for as a baby?” Iram pointed.
“The knife, of course!” Ada answered for him.
“First, we need to know what the kheer stands for,” Mirza interjected.
Atharva glanced at their priest to enlighten the lot.
“Shishu agar pustak chunta hai toh woh gyaani banega, agar kataar chunta hai toh shur-veer banega, aur agar kheer chunta hai toh daani banega.[44]”
“Bhai is our in-house Harishchandra,” Fahad declared. “It would have been kheer for sure.”
“Ha, they didn’t know you during SFF,” Adil lamented. Atharva laughed. He had been their Captain and pretty generous, but before that, he had been the biggest Maggi masala thief in their platoon. Ruthless, merciless, pitiless.
“So, what did you choose?” Iram nudged him. “Grandma, were you there?”
“No, child. Athar’s ceremony happened around the time of Claire’s delivery.”
Yathaarth began to reach for the blade of the naked knife and Atharva held him back, pushing the objects back to the priest.
“He is coming to the fraternity, everyone!” Adil clapped.
“Almost,” Qureshi added as the knife was packed up, away from Yathaarth’s little hands.
“Can I also do it?” Maha pleaded.
“What did you choose, Atharva Bhai?” Daniyal pushed, holding his sister back.
Atharva glanced from his family gathered around the mandap to Iram — “I was told I leapt over onto a basket of mangoes on the side.”
Groans of the anticlimax and angry grunts.
“And then my father pushed me towards the objects and I pounced on the book.”
————————————————————
He had kept the ceremony for close-knit friends and family, and hosted a lunch for his political colleagues.
As Atharva mingled with them, people from all parties — MLAs, spokespersons, heads, bureaucrats, officers, admin and support staff — he realised that a massive chunk of his government was here in his backyard today.
The space had been covered and insulated with portable heaters for this cold December day. And the warm scents of scrumptious wazwan delicacies added to the cosy noon, the sun diffused through the translucent canopies.
As he walked from one Awaami MLA to Janta MLA, his gaze landed on a crying Yathaarth, banging his head and writhing on Grandma’s shoulder.
His first reflex was to step up and take him away.
But then Iram turned from her conversation with some of the KDP members and smiled at their crying son.
As soon as Yathaarth saw her, he flailed his arms out to her.
Atharva blinked with a sheen in his eyes as Iram took him in a sweep and cradled him just as effortlessly on her shoulder.
His head rested on her hair and she carefully swept it behind her shoulder to give him a wide berth.
His naughty son, though, even in the throes of a crying fit, held a few strands in his fist.
She rocked from side to side and her palm splayed wide on his back, patting him in a soothing rhythm.
It was different from the way he patted Yathaarth but the little monster calmed down in an instant, burrowing his chubby face underneath her chin.
She lifted her jaw to accommodate him and cuddled and rocked again unconsciously, still talking.
It was an act ingrained into mothers since as long as time existed, perhaps.
And yet, Atharva felt so happy seeing it in the mother of his child.
Her gaze lifted to his and her polite smile turned beaming.
Her brows rose in question. He shook his head, the ball of emotion hard and heavy in his throat.
Her eyes held his, and an unnamed emotion rose in brown swirls.
Then, in that eye lock, they both knew what nobody else did.
That they had finally thrown an anchor into Dal — and it had latched on with its precious life.
“Mubarak ho, Kaul sahab,” Momina Aslam’s low voice made him break from that moment. He turned, pasting his statesman smile on his face — “Momina Madam, thank you for coming.”
She was a striking woman, tall and wraith-like, older but groomed so well with her classic pastel salwar kurtas, flawless makeup and perfectly styled hair that she could pass for somebody decades younger.
She adjusted her dupatta over her head and smiled.
“We have our differences in the assembly. Outside, we are just two regular colleagues.”
Atharva nodded. ‘Regular’ and ‘colleagues’ were two words they would never use for each other.
She tipped her chin at her aide, who stepped up and held out a set of wrapped gift boxes.
“Thank you, I appreciate you bringing these. But we are not accepting gifts. My son is lucky to be blessed with your presence.”
“Now, Kaul sahab,” her head cocked to one side, her smile soft and genuine as she pulled the dupatta over her head higher, as was her habit. “Let’s keep our formalities limited to work. If you don’t accept, I will go and give these to your son myself.”
No way. Atharva chuckled, nodding at one of the servants to accept the presents. He waited until her aide had stepped back and moved away, leaving them in a reasonably private space. There were party members and MLAs from both their parties around them. This was as private as it got.
“Are all the ceremonies completed?”
“We finished about an hour ago.”
“Congratulations. It must have been a long day already.”
“For my son, more than all of us. He isn’t used to napless mornings.”
Momina Aslam laughed — “I am a mother myself, so I would agree. But it’s fine. It’s your son’s big day.”
“That it is.”
She nudged her chin behind him, possibly at Iram and Yathaarth — “After all, how many children can claim to get their mothers back from across the border?”
Blood chilled in his veins. For a moment, he felt like his head was vacuumed out. He kept his expression schooled as Momina Aslam smiled. “You do enjoy playing the rescue specialist all the time; it’s actually fun to watch.”
Atharva raised his eyebrows — “What is this now? A new fantasy?”
Her smile turned into determination, her voice dropped. “If it were fantasy, you would have been affronted.”
“Why would I be? It’s not the first time you are alleging something fantastical about me.”
“True. But then fantasies don’t have planes that disappear from Gilgit and magically appear in Kargil, no?”
Atharva remained silent. She shook her head — “Anyway. You may be right. Maybe it’s my fantasy. Is that zafran phirni?”
Atharva stood unmoved as she moved, chasing the server with pots of phirni. His ears roared. He glanced back at Iram. She was now with Pops, laughing about something with him, Yathaarth in her arms turned to him. Atharva’s panic mounted.
“Atharva?” Samar called.
“Coming,” he took steps away, unable to tear his eyes off them. It had just become ok. His family had just become ok.
“Atharva.” Samar’s hand landed on his shoulder.
“Huh?” He startled.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
He did not glance back at his family but kept repeating it to himself. Nothing. Nothing had happened. And he would let nothing happen.