Chapter 35 #2
“Aaa…” she cued to her son. But he was transfixed on the melancholic grandfather music crinkling from the gramophone. His mouth opened in awe and she stuffed the bite in. He chewed with his gummy lips, riveted by the music.
“Your son finds fascination in the exact same things as you do,” Iram remarked, finding it easier and easier to feed her son his most disliked breakfast. “Other kids need TV or iPads, and your son is happy looking out the window, and now at your grandfather music.”
“Take it downstairs for his meals then,” Atharva muttered distractedly. “Did Daniyal leave for college?”
“Yes. His first month’s attendance report reached Sarah. She is shocked that it’s 100%.”
Atharva’s mouth quirked up, eyes on the paper. Iram knew it wasn't his most wholesome smile but she made do with the breadcrumbs. She herself was only able to give breadcrumbs to herself, even though she brought the whole pie for the rest of the house.
“Did you speak to Qureshi again?”
“After Daniyal’s admission day? No.”
“How is he ok with Daniyal living with us and being like this? On one side, he is elongating your case and fuelling the media trial, on the other, he is leaving his son with you.”
“He doesn’t have a choice in the latter.”
Which was true. Daniyal had refused to return home. Sarah had come, pleaded, even cried. He had refused to go. She had tried to convince him to go to his Nani’s house a few blocks away. He had instead asked to be allowed to live in Atharva’s outhouse on his own or rent out a flat in town.
At that point, Atharva had intervened and offered that Daniyal continue to live in the room he had been inhabiting since they had set foot in this bungalow.
Qureshi had been livid. Iram didn’t know till date what Atharva had spoken to him about on that phone call.
Not that Atharva hid it from her. But his mood had been so morose, she had never asked.
Never brought it up again. Anyway he went through every day like it was a punishment.
After all, this was exile. Even if spent in a glass observatory with weather created in romantic books of yore and sceneries painted in ancient Indian portraits — this was exile. Banishment. A man without a mission. Moreover, a man without a purpose.
The song switched to an upbeat number.
Jiyara… kahe tarsaaye…
Yathaarth’s face perked up. She fed him another spoonful and observed Atharva, searching for some spark of bonding with this part of his life’s history, some feeling of joy on his face. Nothing. He was flipping the paper and folding it to continue reading.
“Let’s go out for coffee today,” she proposed.
“I won’t have any, but we’ll go if you want to.”
“Atharva.”
“I cancelled breakfast too, Iram. I am still too full from last night.”
“You didn’t even finish your rajma…”
“I am having bad bouts of acidity nowadays.”
Her nostrils flared. She knew why he was getting acidity.
“Alright, then don’t have coffee. We will go out for a walk, stop at a cafe to sit. I’ll have coffee, you and Arth can look out at the tees, then we will go to Mall Road to see bathroom mats. Our bathroom floor is very slippery…”
He had still not looked up.
“Atharva?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you even listening?”
“Yes, myani zuv.”
“You will also burn off some of your acidity.”
“Hmm.”
“I am also thinking we’ll get plums and pears. Shiva was saying he saw some really good ones on his way to the market yesterday but couldn’t stop because his hands were full…”
“Send Noora with the car with him.”
“I thought we could bring them on our way back?” She smiled, pleasantly surprised at the almost empty bowl in her hand, and Yathaarth still riveted by the music, eyes blinking up at the fog disseminating over the glass dome.
His mouth was covered in white goo, grey eyes wide, curls looking darker in the gloomy light.
“You are the cutest thing I have ever seen in my life, Janab.” She dropped the J word and pressed a noisy kiss on the top of his head.
Her eyes went to the original Janab but he was undisturbed, eyes still down.
Iram felt a sudden sadness take over her entire being.
What would bring him some semblance of normalcy?
If not joy or even contentment, what would bring him back to daily life?
Not as a ghost of himself but as himself?
She understood his struggle, identified it too. She gave him what she wished she had gotten in a similar stage of life. Patience and unconditional support. He had given her the latter, the former coming in bursts. Iram tried to give him both.
She wiped Yathaarth’s mouth clean and swooped him down onto the floor.
As if fitted with brand new batteries, he ran to his father at double the speed and crashed into his knees.
Iram observed with small consolation as Atharva set his paper in his lap and reached down for his son.
His eyes did not spark off but they smiled, thumbing the stuck food from his cheek and kissing the area before settling him on his lap.
The song changed. From Lata Mangeshkar’s upbeat lilts, it switched to Mohammad Rafi’s bass words.
Man re, tu kahe na dheer dhare. Woh nirmohi, moh na jaane, jinka moh kare…
Iram filled her eyes with the sight of Atharva, showing Yathaarth pictures in the newspaper — completely his son’s and yet not his own. She knew where he was going, she could see the downward spiral, and was unable to stop it.
“What time do we want to leave?” She asked him.
“Whenever you want to.”
“Look at me, Atharva.”
He sniffed. He had developed a cold last month and his nose was still stuffy. He never developed such minor ailments.
Lighter grey eyes came to her and she stared into them. Then smiled — “Let’s get going in half an hour? The rain has stopped.”
“Ok.”
————————————————————
Walking down a Shimla street in fog, on a morning, with a stroller full of a wide-eyed toddler and a strong husband pushing it for you was a dream for many.
For Iram, it was only wrapped like a dream.
Yathaarth was fascinated with swaying deodars chasing away clouds of fog over them, Atharva was hauling the bag of bathroom mat in one strong arm, pushing the stroller with the other, and she was wrapped tight in a warm shawl.
But there wasn't any joy that sprang between them.
The people around them weren’t exactly touristy, mostly locals on this side of town. Harishji had advised them to avoid Mall Road. Instead, they had taken the back street to the local market and gotten their purchases at half the price.
“That one looks good…” she pointed to the white cafe facade rising into the fog.
It had pretty fencing. But what caught her eye was the stained-glass covering its windows and doors.
There was outdoor seating and the streetlamp light reflected from those coloured glasses and painted the outdoor seats in shades reminiscent of their shikaras.
If she kept an ear out, she would hear the dip of an oar in Dal over the cacophony of shoppers.
If she sniffed hard enough, she would surely smell algal greens over coffee roasts.
She rammed into somebody and immediately rattled back, holding her arm out — “I’m so sorry…”
Saba.
Iram cleared her shocked eyes by blinking but the woman in front of her was still the same.
Saba. Unmistakably her, standing in their way.
Not having run into them but standing. Atharva’s hand came to her back, holding her like he needed to pull her aside.
Iram’s blood boiled. She had never gotten her pound of flesh.
Amaal had ensured to transfer Saba before Atharva or her could do anything.
Now that Iram recalled, she wasn't in a state to do much either.
She opened her mouth but Saba’s head whirled to Atharva. Her dark red lips stretched in a smirk.
“You have been transferred too, sir?”
“How dar…” Iram started but was cut off by her sidestepping them.
“Cool it, Iram. It’s just karma coming to bite you in the ass.”
Iram stared dumbfounded as she threw her hair delicately over her shoulder and walked off, her heels tittering on the glistening road. She gaped at Saba over her shoulder, wondering how people had the gall to own righteous indignation after doing something so repugnant.
“How is she here?”
“PR associate of HDP.”
“Amaal didn’t even demote her?!”
“Let’s go.”
“Atharva,” she caught his forearm, thwarting his attempt to turn her towards the cafe.
“Yes?”
His phone buzzed. He didn’t break eye contact with her but reached inside his pocket and pulled it out. He got a peek at the caller.
“One minute, it’s Samar… Yes?”
Iram hung back, eyes on him, trying to read him.
“This weekend?”
Her eyebrows rose. His eyes went into the distance.
“Of course, I can. But are you sure…? Hmm… And Zorji?”
Now she was curious. It had been a while since she heard all these names in one single minute.
“Ok, I will go. Send me the itinerary.”
She didn’t even wait for him to end the call — “What happened?”
Iram hated that there was hope in her voice. She hated more that he looked torn as he said — “It’s a membership drive. Here, in Kinnaur, Lahaul and Spiti. Samar is caught up in KDP in Jammu. He wants me to go.”
“That’s…” her mouth dropped open. That wasn’t the best news but it was good news. “Are they sure it’s safe for you to go?”
“Lahaul and Spiti are remote. Very sparse population. They are the Leh of Himachal. And even if the matter is still hot in Kashmir, it has cooled down visibly in the rest of the country.”
“So… you will go and recruit new members for KDP?” She couldn’t curb the excitement in her voice.
“HDP, yes,” there was a small spark in his eyes. Tentative, hesitant, but there. Iram forgot the bitter taste from five minutes ago and felt her mouth stretch into a grin. Her grin turned sly as she leaned closer. His ear dropped to her mouth out of reflex.
“Do you need a speechwriter, Janab?”