“Then how does he know it?”
“I was talking to somebody on the phone.”
Iram widened her eyes.
“I am sorry.”
She bit her lip, whooshing air through her nose. “Just don’t let your Atharva Bhai hear it. Anddo notuse that word in front of him. Or the others.”
“Is shit allowed?”
“Shit!” Yathaarth bellowed.
“You are not ready to learnIram,and these you pick up like the plague,” she grabbed her son and jostled him playfully. He chortled, showing her his gummy smile with three teeth now full and out.
“I am out, I will be late today, Bhabhi…”
“Eat and take your tiffin from Shiva.”
“I am not hungry.”
“You have to start with breakfast.”
He made a face. Iram had discovered in the last few weeks that Daniyal Qureshi did not eat breakfast. In fact, he did not eat anything until lunch, when he pounced on anything put in front of him with a single-minded vengeance. She had tried converting him but to no avail yet.
“Fine. But don’t forget your tiffin. Shiva was grumpy all day yesterday because you left your tiffin with him.”
“When is he not?” Daniyal swung his bag over his shoulder and grabbed his wind cheater. “Bye bye, Yati!”
“Dani-Dani!” Yathaarth waved at him with both hands.
“Hmm,” Iram caught her son’s attention as Daniyal left. “Breakfast here or in front of the window?”
He blinked his big, dark grey eyes at her. He didn’t like breakfast nowadays either and she was sure Daniyal’s habits were rubbing off on him.
“Meh! Time’s up. You don’t get a choice now,” she threw him up and caught him back. His shriek of delight was loud. Iram grabbed his bowl in her free hand and strode out of the bedroom.
This house was big but not huge; five bedrooms with all five occupied — Noora, Shiva and Daniyal downstairs and hers and Atharva’s master bed upstairs with the spare one used to store their things. Iram had the sorting of their homeware on her to-do list for a month but the time to unpack had never come. She knew that every time she thought of unpacking, a part of her would protest, thinking that if she unpacked and set things out of their boxes and into cupboards, she would be sealing the deal of this move being more than just temporary. It would mean accepting that they were here for the foreseeable future.
Iram pushed that thought away. She walked out of the alley and into the Victorian hall done in rich polished dark wood. Instead of going to the tall window where Yathaarth’s highchair was set, she changed directions and swept out of the hall, down another alley and up the winding staircase that led to the highlight of this Briarwood Bungalow. It had been built and owned by one Briar M., an architect and a passionate landscape designer of the Victorian era. And he had built this house with a glass observatory.
Yathaarth clung his hands around her neck as she navigated the spiral of steps, balancing him and his food. He remained steady, knowing what he was about to see in 3, 2, 1…
“Look at that rain!” She whispered into his ear as they stepped up and into the transparent observatory. The clear glass dome was pattering with rain, deodar needles swaying and kissing the curved glass walls. It was like being inside a floating pod in the middle of pines and deodars. She twirled with Yathaarth in her arms, eliciting happy squeals from his tiny mouth. She was glad she had made him adjust to this place. The beauty of Shimla was unrivalled, but the bitterness inside her and Atharva for leaving Srinagar had not been picked up by Yathaarth. He was truly in love with this new world.
Iram held his bowl of porridge steady and came to a halt, taking one turn anticlockwise just to keep both their heads steady. And when she stopped, her eyes fell on the silent figure.
Atharva.
Back to them, on an armchair, reading a newspaper. Silent.
Her chest constricted. It had been two months of silence. Not the literal kind, the figurative kind. He laughed, played, ate, talked. He did what she asked, climbed up ladders and cleaned glass lanterns, stuffed the top shelves with their extreme winter-wear, put Yathaarth to sleep when she was busy with writing, fed him if she was hassled in the kitchen. He did everything without complaining, except, being happy.
And she had given him the space to not be happy. It wasn't her place to keep pushing him to feel a certain way. Iram glanced at the gramophone sitting silently on the carved wooden table on one side of the room. She had set it up here last week after unsuccessfully keeping it inside their bedroom in hopes that he would play it.
He was prone to spending his free hours here, either reading the newspaper or scrolling through his iPad — both activities passive and not Atharva-like.
Iram went down the open space and set Yathaarth’s bowl on a small stool in front of Atharva’s chair. Then thrust their son into his lap. He took the weight without looking up, cuddling his son under one arm as he transferred the paper to his other, grey eyes behind his glasses focused on reading.
