Now, when he peered into the pool of water in his basin that looked endless and was nowhere close to draining, Atharva wondered — would Elena’s son still jump?
“What is the baby doing alone here? Where is the father?” Amaal’s loud holler made him startle. Atharva tore out of the bathroom, clawing his hand through his damp hair — “Don’t wake him up…!”
He stopped short. His son was happily nuzzling under Amaal’s neck, held unevenly in the cradle of her arms. Atharva quickly strode to her and adjusted Yathaarth into a sleeping position.
“Learn to hold him or don’t touch him,” he warned, no bite in his rebuke.
She just pushed her nose down to Yathaarth’s and popped a kiss in the air. “He is happy.”
“Because he doesn’t know his neck might give away if not held right.”
Amaal’s playful gaze snapped up to his. Glared.
“Tone it down,” he warned.
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
She sighed. “Fine, I am sorry. I know you are paranoid…”
“I am not paranoid.”
Yathaarth whimpered and Atharva reached for him — “Did Amaal hit you?” He cooed to his son. “She’s a bad girl.”
“I’m about to show you bad,” she strode to his visitor’s chair and lowered herself on the seat, crossing one leg over the other and getting comfortable. Her eyes went to the house of cards he had in the making, now half down thanks to the wind she had brought with her. She reached for a playing card and scratched the edge — “What’s this new interest? King of spades…” she eyed the card.
“I don’t remember inviting you to my home office,” Atharva bounced Yathaarth in his arms, glancing at the clock. It was still early. He had woken up at the crack of dawn because little Janab had not felt like sleeping. Their milk-poop-pee party had lasted till six. And then Atharva had just showered, gotten ready, and come down to his office to work. Or build a house of cards — whichever made him pass the rest of the hours. He had instead fallen asleep sitting and only just woken up.
The clock struck 9.
“I wanted to speak to you outside of the Secretariat.”
“Amaal, my decision will not change.”
“Sit. Let’s talk.”
Atharva rounded his desk, the three walls of windows bright and watery with the weird weather outside. He gave it one cursory glance but Yathaarth’s eyes fixated there. So he sat down and half turned his chair, keeping his son lying in the cradle of his arms so that he could observe all the pretty nature. Trees swinging, wind changing the sleet of the rain from one side to the other, the sun smiling.
“Like it, Dilbaro?” He murmured into the top of his son’s head. His sweet baby shampoo and formula milk scent assailed his senses and his exhausted insides bloomed to life. Atharva smiled into the wispy, smooth hair.
“Atharva…”
“How is Samar?”
Amaal huffed, her eyes going soft even as her mouth opened — “Barking orders.”
“Which means, on the mend.”
He knew the exact condition of Samar Dixit as of early this morning. Second degree burns — healed but ‘itching like a bitch.’ Third degree burns with grafts and surgical procedures, still on the mend and looking nasty but ‘nothing we aren’t used to.’ And neuropathic pain ‘killing me every time I try to bring a cigarette to my mouth.’ In short, Samar was in excruciating frustration sitting at home, wearing compression garments, doing out-patient rehab, physiotherapy and being a patient instead of a doctor.
“He fought with me for throwing a sunscreen at him,” Amaal’s words brought him back. He had developed this nasty habit of snapping off and wandering in his head. Atharva hoped it wouldn’t happen in professional conversations.
“You threw a sunscreen at him?”
“The man has hyperpigmentation on half his body. Sun exposure can make the colourandthe burning worse!”
“Soldiers never cared for looks.”
