Iram nodded.
“Remember this every time something goes wrong in the future. It might look like it won’t be ok. That time will be difficult to pass. But believe it will be ok, and you will pass it holding onto that belief. Hmm?”
Iram nodded.
“And on that note, it’s time for me to pack my bags.”
“No!” She panicked. “No! It’s not all ok yet. We need you… what if I can’t take care of him alone?”
“You will. You are.” She swallowed. “I don’t want to leave either. In fact, I have half a mind to ask Zor to buy property somewhere nearby and stay back.”
“Then stay. Stay here with us…”
Begumjaan’s smile turned indulgent, her hand coming to hold her jaw like she was patting a child — “You will become independent again. It’s time to take the splint off.”
She felt like crying now. “Begumja…”
She pushed her hair behind her ear and stood back — “Show me?”
Iram tipped her face up to show her the earrings, not realising she was frowning.
“Smile now. Soon you are going to have a toddler out to eat his weight in mangoes.”
Iram grinned. Suddenly, these tiny moments began to feel more precious to her. Begumjaan’s adoring smile became more meaningful. Ada and Amaal’s banter became more serene. Noora’s tuneless songs became adorable. Suddenly, life itself became more vibrant, popping with colours she had appreciated before, but now found meaning in.
As Iram changed in her bathroom, with the ladies outside growing in number as Sarah’s voice mingled too, she did not ask who she was. She tucked her saree around her waistband and draped the pallu over her shoulder, coming face to face with herself.
This too shall pass. This joy too shall pass. Iram smiled at herself, her eyes dark brown, her cheeks fuller now than they were last month, her lips soft and moisturised, full, kissed a little too full. Everything would pass, but she would remain. Because now she knew how to deal with both. Accept both, and let both go.
“Iram, quick!”
————————————————————
“Janab, yim zara heth traav[36],” the man tying his turban pushed the end into his hand. Atharva held it as he wound the fabric, one of his father’s, around his head.
“I would have tied it for you,” Zorji pushed his hands behind his back.
“Amaal,” Atharva managed to grunt as the fabric was tightened around his forehead in their traditional Pundit style. The last time he had tied this dastaar was on his wedding day. His son’s Annaparashan sanksar was just as big a day. Ideally, his Naamkaran sanskar should have been this grand an affair but he had foregone that. And questions hadn’t been raised because of the tragedy of them losing Hayat. Atharva looked around now. His hall was teeming with people — staff and a few of his friends and early guests. More security hidden in plain sight.
His gaze met Altaf’s. This ceremony was more than just a personal affair. It was his reassurance to the Pundits and the peace-loving people of the valley, as well as the rest of the country. The CM was sturdy, the state was steady, and Pundits were welcome home.
“Oh, this it?” A loud, booming voice fell on his ears, gruff but familiar.
“There he is, Tim,” Grandma’s soft and awed words followed.
“Janab, khatam kor.[37]”
“Shukriya,[38]” Atharva got to his feet and strode to the door just as his grandparents crossed the threshold, taking off their coats. “Grandma,” he opened his arms just as she opened hers and rushed into him.
“Ooh,” she patted his back, her small body feeling as sturdy as it had two years ago when they had parted. “You look so different,” she pulled back, gaping at his face. “The turban suits you just like it suited Mahi.”
He grinned, letting her leave him for Pops to shake his hand, then pull him into a back-slapping hug — “Congratulations, mate.”
“Thank you, Pops.”
His grandfather pulled away and looked him in the eye for an added second, his ancient eyes slightly dull even in the smile. Atharva pushed his smile wide — “Everything is smashing, Pops.”
“Where is Iram?” He asked, glancing at the big hall set up with chairs and the mandap.
