Chapter 44 Exile is round in shape
Exile is round in shape, a circle, a ring.
Your feet go in circles, you cross land and it’s not your land.
Light wakes you up and it’s not your light.
Night comes down but your stars are missing.
You discover brothers, but they’re not of your blood.
You’re like an embarrassed ghost, not loving more those who love you so much, and it’s still so strange to you that you miss the hostile prickles of your own country, the loud helplessness of your own people.
-Pablo Neruda
2 YEARS LATER
October 2019
Thwack!
Atharva lunged to stop the ball with his shoe but it went straight down the slope of the garden.
Loud little giggles with thumping running feet echoed as he turned and ran.
“Count the runs, Dilbaro!” He called out, skidding down the slope until his shoe had stopped the ball from rolling out of the gate.
“Ten!”
Atharva bent down, scooped the ball and turned — “Ten, huh?”
“Ten!” His son held his plastic bat up.
“Either you are learning counting wrong or you are cheating, which one is it?” Atharva dribbled the ball in the air, grinning, climbing back up.
“Baba your batting,” he held out his bat, his ’t’s so soft and so sweet.
Atharva cocked his head to the side — “Don’t change the topic and don’t even try to bribe me.”
Two little wobbly jumps on the spot and then his son was running. Atharva gave a half-hearted chase, which sounded like he was out to catch the greatest thief of the century. Yathaarth ran around the house and straight into the kitchen. And suddenly, his loud giggles went silent.
Atharva rounded the door at a leisurely pace and stepped inside, the warm scents of simmering dal and pressure-cooked rice assailing his senses.
Shiva was at his platform, chopping stuff, looking harmless, while Iram sat on a high chair on the adjacent platform, writing on her laptop.
She had weirdly found this spot to be a fun place to write.
He had tried to decipher the psyche behind writing in this madhouse of a kitchen where Shiva was either silent all day or did not stop fighting with Noora for weeks on end.
She didn’t care. She called it her ‘multitasking spot.’ Cooking, chopping, baking, issuing recipe commands — all the while writing.
Atharva eyed the chubby leg between the legs of her chair, the body well hidden between her knees.
“Myani zuv?”
“Hmm?” She didn’t turn, typing at that furious speed. Her hair was up in a messy bun — her most common state at home with the active little toddler they had between them.
“Have you seen one cricketer who runs three rounds and says he scored ten runs?”
“No,” she answered instantly, glancing down at her son — “Dilbaro.” She whisper-warned.
“I thought I heard him run inside the kitchen…” Atharva began to leave the kitchen. “Maybe he went to the hall.”
“Hmmm…”
He stepped back from the kitchen and hid behind the door.
“Gaye, gaye,[65]” Shiva-the-newest-traitor murmured.
“Arth, if you cheat, then there is no hiding behind me.”
“I no cheat, Mama.”
“You ran only three runs?”
“I count to ten… see, Mama see! One, two, five, six, seven…”
Atharva lunged inside the kitchen and swooped him up.
“Aaaaah!!!! Baba cheater!” Yathaarth’s loud shrieks were inaudible between his laughter.
Atharva hauled him over his shoulder and tickled his side, holding him tight.
“Arth cheater,” he blew a raspberry into his neck, making his giggly shrieks deafening.
He glared at Iram over their writhing toddler.
She rolled her eyes, sitting back down and going back to her work.
Atharva couldn't fault her. She had a book to finish.
Her fourth and final one in this series.
“Now come out and finish the over…”
His ringing phone cut off his words. Atharva kept Yathaarth steady upside-down over his shoulder and reached for his pocket. He glanced at the wall clock.
“Hello?”
“How did you do it?!”
“What’s the result?”
“Aren’t you watching?”
Giggles and two tiny hands pumping his back.
“No, tell me. Are the trends settling?”
“40 out of 68 have been declared. The rest are close. Himachal Jan Sangathan will close at 22-23. Janta Party is at 20, might go to 24. HDP is ahead on 5, 7 have been called.”
“What is the status on independents?”
“Ours or others’?”
“Ours.”
“Jagtap Thakur is ahead on Hamirpur. The rest are cutting votes.”
“Are you in Shimla?”
“Yes, at HDP office. They are already celebrating. Samarji has called a meeting at 11.30.”
Atharva pulled his phone down his ear and scrolled to his chats.
SAMAR
HDP Meeting at 11.30, we hold the winning seats
Atharva quickly typed.
ATHARVA
Did HSJ or Janta get in touch?
“I will come to the office at 11.30,” he plastered the phone back to his ear. “Well done, Vikram.”
“Atharva Bhaiya.”
“Yes?”
“There are talks that HDP might go with HJS.”
“It will not.”
“Ok.”
Atharva ended the call and set Yathaarth down on his feet. The moment he did, his son broke into a run and was out of the kitchen in a blink.
“What happened? The results have been declared?”
“You weren’t checking online?” He pushed his phone back into his pocket.
“I was tempted to check, but I wanted you to tell me,” she turned over her shoulder, her eyes hopeful.
“Myani zuv,” he warned. “This is just a stepping stone.”
“I know,” she smiled. Her full-white-teeth smile. “But you have been working very hard for two years and nobody will even acknowledge that today. I am here to appreciate it. Well done, Janab.”
He felt his facial muscles stretch.
“Dhaniwal kitna?[66]” Shiva droned.
“Dhaniwal hai, kitna bhi dalo[67],” Iram retorted.
Atharva bit back a smirk. Ever since she had been crowned the queen of their kitchen, Shiva had constantly tested her limits. It was a love-hate relationship that Atharva liked to stay away from.
“I am leaving for the HDP office, Iram. I don’t think I’ll be back for lunch. You will take Arth to phonics?”
“You are taking the car.”
“I am taking the Land Rover, the Hyundai is still here.”
She made a face.
“You have stolen my car over and over, doesn’t mean I present you the keys with my own hands.”
“If only you knew how many hands have touched those keys…” she muttered under her breath.
“Oh I know it.”
Her eyes widened.
“Speaking of, where is Daniyal?”
“Gone to meet friends.”
“Is final year of nothing but meeting friends and going for 9 am shows?”
She shrugged — “We wouldn’t know because you were sweating it out in NDA and I was a full-attendance student during those years.”
He snorted. Daniyal had been a good boy.
He wouldn’t score extraordinarily, but he had not brought a single complaint home.
The college had his number on file as guardian, and in the last three years, Daniyal had given them no chance to complain.
His attendance was just over the required amount, his tests just over passing marks, his finals decent enough to move to the next year.
Atharva had sat him down a few times to ask him what was next, but he was as ambiguous in words as he seemed in thought.
Atharva knew that conversation wouldn’t happen with his father for now.
Sarah came regularly to see him. Qureshi had come once, last year, and that hadn’t gone well.
The day had been awkward, lunch as well as dinner.
Iram had been hard-pressed to play the generous, courteous hostess but she wasn’t as good an actor as she thought she could be.
Had Daniyal picked up on her discomfort or was it his own reticence with his father talking, Atharva couldn’t say.
But he had not spoken at all that day, just nodding and grunting and checking his phone.
The only time he had smiled was when Maha had talked his ear off.
Qureshi hadn’t come back again, trying to send gifts and covers of money through Sarah. Not for Daniyal but for Yathaarth. Atharva had sent them all back with greetings.
His relationship with Qureshi was a two-edged sword.
The man was one of the two gatekeepers of his return home.
His chair there was secured by Atharva’s exile.
But, his son was against him, sheltered in Atharva’s home.
It was a terrific mix of mutual interests and clash of interests, which made it doubly important that Atharva nudge the second gatekeeper to open the doors. And nudge him hard.
————————————————————
The HDP headquarters in Chhota Shimla was deafened by the booms of crackers.
The party members were celebrating as if they had won the election.
Atharva walked into the President’s office, a massive space with its own round conference table that was already populated. Samar was the only one missing.
All eyes turned to him, the volume of phones and iPads running news going down. Most of them were local HDP leaders. Two of them were from Jammu, having followed Samar here. They all nodded, smiles and grins. Atharva returned their smiles.
“Samar bhai ne kar ke dikha diya[68],” Hariraj Singh from Udhampur drawled.
“Bilkul[69],” Atharva strode into the room and took the only vacant seat — beside the President’s.
“I have been getting calls from Janta Party all morning,” Hariraj shared. “What about you, Balwinder bhaiya? HJS people calling you yet?”
Balwinder Joshi from Shimla grinned, holding his phone up. A long list of missed calls.
“Sorry, sorry,” Samar walked into the room, his demeanour light as air, as if he would float away into thin air. Atharva’s gaze met his and the joy there was palpable. A rare sight. Atharva smiled, nodded.
Samar grinned, pushed his glasses up his nose and took the chair at the head.
“Congratulations, first of all. We have pierced HJS’s armour. Here are the final numbers,” Samar set his papers down, reciting — “All seats have been called. HJS closed at 22, Janta Party at 21. We hold the power to form government with either party at 14.”
“How many independents?” Atharva asked.