Bhavini K. Desai's Blog
October 7, 2025
The Heaven Series 4.0: The Circle of Exile Theories
Hello!
The Heaven Series 4.0: The Circle of Exile is scheduled to release on 24th October 2025. If you haven't had a chance to check out the blurb and cover yet, here it is:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...
And if you have, you might want to join this discussion of crazy theories about the dreaded 'foe(s)' who is about to try to destabilise Atharva.
https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...
The Heaven Series 4.0: The Circle of Exile is scheduled to release on 24th October 2025. If you haven't had a chance to check out the blurb and cover yet, here it is:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...
And if you have, you might want to join this discussion of crazy theories about the dreaded 'foe(s)' who is about to try to destabilise Atharva.
https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...
July 12, 2022
The City of Pillars | EXCERPT
The City of Pillars
Bhavini K. Desai
Ch 10.
If you want to become a leader in this place…
“If you want to become a leader in this place, don’t build roads or dams or highways,” Atharva spoke into his earphones, thundering down the stairs, mobile in hand. “Just stop a road or dam or highway from being built. Gather some people and protest. That’s what being a leader has been reduced to in Kashmir. In the whole of India for that matter. It’s like a pre-independence hangover. Mahatma Gandhi did it then to stop the nation. He mastered the technology of stopping the nation, and that was the perfect solution for those times. But not today, not anymore.”
“And what about your party Kashmir Development Party? What is the technology you follow?” The interviewer asked.
“We are trying to master the technology of making the state go. In Jammu & Kashmir, we are trying to make this machinery work instead of stoning it down.”
“Well, it seems a promising model at this point. If there is one message you would like to give our readers here in America, what would it be?”
“Jammu-Kashmir is a far-flung land for you. And you may be right, what happens here will not directly affect you. But President Obama once said that the arc of history tends to bend towards progress. And history is not confined to only one nation or side of the earth. History of every land, every community, every civilisation is co-dependent. So after reading this, do read up a bit on Kashmir, what has happened here, and what is happening here. As for me, I am just a man trying to bend the arc of history towards progress in my land.”
“And I wish you all the best for that; and for the upcoming elections. Thank you Mr. Kaul, for sparing your precious hours early in the morning to converse with me. I am grateful on behalf of my publication The New Yorker.”
“My pleasure Mr. Lipovetsky.”
“You are off the record now — For your profile portraits, is it alright if I publish your most recent photos from Srinagar?”
“You can talk that through with Amaal Durrani.”
“Oh great, ok.”
Atharva checked his watch, disconnected the call and wound up his earphones. It was quarter to 8 in the morning, and he had a long day ahead. The kind of day that got him excited beyond measure. The kind of day that meant he was out of his office and Town Council chambers, the kind of day that promised Dal Lake and fresh air and people.
He picked up the flask of coffee that his cook-cum-caretaker had left on the long table outside the kitchen. “Thanks Shiva, did you order in groceries and supplies for the next month?”
“Given the list to Noora,” his sullen cook droned. He was always in a mood, his efficiency 110% with a 0% chance of a smile. He hated Noora with a passion, and for some reason, adored feeding the rest of the KDP army. That last part had made him an indispensable part of Atharva’s household.
Atharva gave a nod and left the still empty house. Then something struck him and his steps halted midway. It was 10 minutes to 8, and a Wednesday. Which meant Iram might go to her publisher’s office. He wasn’t sure if his apology had been accepted but it seemed like the decent thing to do.
That’s how he found himself in his car, blasting Elvis Presley, windows open to let in the morning sun, waiting for her. And she didn’t disappoint. At exactly 2 minutes past 8 she emerged from the house, wearing her famous velvet ice blue pheran and a dark blue coat. A chunky brown woollen scarf was knotted at her throat. She saw him but didn’t stop, taking the route through the estate walk.
His chest rattled, and Atharva put the car in motion.
“My car won’t burn more petrol if you are in it,” he shouted from his open window when he reached her. She stopped, stared ahead for a long moment, then walked around the hood to settle in. He didn’t show his victory, neither did she give another inch, and smoothly they drove out of the estate.
“Your publisher’s office?”
“No, can you drop me at SMC?”
“What work do you have at Municipal Office?”
She looked at him. His brows rose unapologetically.
“I had re-applied for residential proof, so I need to drop off some documents.”
“You could have asked anyone from the party to do it, they keep going to SMC on a daily basis.”
“Thanks, I wouldn’t be comfortable asking for help.”
“So, how’s the editing for your book going?”
“Not good.”
“Why?”
“Because I am fried.”
“Is it the work at KDP?”
“No, no… I just don’t know where to produce this magical scene where Zoon and Taj can reconcile! Not in this book at least.”
“So they are called Zoon and Taj.”
She shut up, realizing she had said more than she had intended to. Much more.
“What’s the plot?”
“It’s… about Kashmir.”
“That’s not plot, that’s setting.”
“You know so much about story writing!”
“Let’s put some masale tchot in you,” he laughed. “Maybe then you will answer straight.”
“No. You drop me right outside SMC.”
He, of course, took a detour despite her protest. They picked up the first of the piping hot masale tchot rolls from Polo View Road and ate while driving, with Elvis singing ‘You’re the devil in disguise’ in the background.
“I need you to come sit with me one of these days to start on the Manifesto launch speech,” Atharva stated.
“Whenever you are free.”
“That’s the thing… I am never in the ‘free’ frame of mind lately. There is something or the other needing my attention at the office.”
“We will figure something out.”
“Why don’t you come with me on this tour now?”
“What tour?”
“I’m touring the backwater villages of Dal today. We can talk in the car or on the steamer. You will also get a chance to clear your head and think about that ‘magical’ scene of yours.”
She chewed her lip, looking from the windshield to her window and back again. “Umm… can’t we work in the office later?”
“We can do that… I just thought you might want a change of scene, maybe that’s why your writing is not flowing.”
She shook her head, smiling slightly. “That’s not how my writing works. I don’t need good scenery for it to flow.”
“Ok”
He dropped her outside the SMC building at Lal Chowk, and with a nod, took a U-turn to zoom down towards Dalgate.
———————————
Atharva glanced down at the list of villages in his itinerary copy, then back at Fahad. The cold Dal wind felt quiet slapping on his skin, but it flapped the papers in his hand quite noisily. He crumpled the sheet of paper in a nice neat ball and grinned at Fahad.
“We go where the lake takes us,” Atharva breezed. “No itinerary.”
“I go where big brother goes,” Fahad hurrayed. The seven KDP members behind him hooted and laughed. One of them was the Party photographer, another an intern who took good phone videos. Atharva had deliberately planned his tour on the day when Qureshi had a big rally. So most resources were diverted there, leaving him with a small, intimate group to do as he pleased.
The crowd on Dalgate was scarce, only flower and vegetable sellers filling their shikaras on the bank. The vehicular traffic zoomed by on the road, but the lake seemed calm and mysterious. Their steamer arrived with a fluttering honk and docked on the gate. Atharva handed in the two female members, then stepped in.
“Hey, Iram!”
Fahad’s call made him turn. And there she was, rushing down the steps, her hair flying behind her, even as she tried to clamp it down with one hand. The other was busy keeping her satchel from falling, while her eyes were down on her steps. That sight — that pure, messy, instinctive gesture made something in his chest loosen.
“Hi,” Iram panted, all flushed face and big, dreamy eyes. Atharva didn’t notice that her eyes were turned to Fahad, as they exchanged words quietly. Then he walked her to the steamer and handed her in. Atharva held his hand out and she took it, turning her gaze from Fahad to the edge of the steamer and then to him.
They weren’t dreamy, her eyes, he noticed then when her beautiful sun-lit hazel gaze hit his. They were decisive.
“You came,” he frowned.
“I wanted to see you in your ‘free’ state.”
He scoffed, amused. Fahad jumped into the vessel, followed by four other members. And the steamer set off into the morning of Dal.
Through the channels of water cutting houses and shops, the small steamer steered. Iram stared out enraptured. She hadn’t been to this side of Dal Lake very often— the residential, village side. As tourist shops selling everything from textiles to woodwork, woollens to shawls, snacks to flowers passed by, they started to veer into the smaller mazes of houses and houseboats, wooden structures built atop the lake bed. The water was slowly freezing on the sides and they encountered many a white lotuses stemming from ice blocks, dark green weeds floating freely. The brown wooden houses that populated the village ahead were iced too, looking like someone had dusted icing sugar atop their roofs and windows.
“Variya kaal gov na myelnasi!” A loud voice came from one of the many house docks. Atharva smiled and waved. The young fisherman pulled up his catch and ran parallel to the steamer, jogging as their vessel trotted to dock.
“Tohy ch'ivaa vaarai Rafiq?”
“Waaray, waaray. Waliv!”
“Rafiq is the leader of fishermen this side,” Atharva told her as their steamer was docking. “He will help us break the ice.”
“Is this your first visit here?”
“No, but the last time I came, they were blindsided by Awaami Party’s radical brainwashing. Come,” he helped her out, followed by the other two women onboard.
“Waliv, waliv,” Rafiq welcomed. “Pakh.”
As everybody started moving towards the small shikaras anchored on the other side, Iram lurched and rushed to keep up.
“You don’t know even a bit of Kaeshir,” Atharva observed, face straight, lips twitching.
“It’s been too long since I heard it in such thick accent,” she grumbled. His amused gaze met hers only partly before they settled into the small shikaras suited to the narrow water canals that they had to traverse.
More lotuses from ice grew for them, more beauty from harshness splashed her face; feeling like a fresh morning’s basin water. Iram didn’t blink, scared she would miss something. Rafiq rowed their shikara himself, talking to Atharva in fast Kaeshir. She didn’t understand most of it, but caught random parts like how well his son had done in his exams and what peak of winter had been like in the interiors.
In her head, she had already reached her book, already started day dreaming about Zoon hanging clothes outside her small lake-house. Taj, farther away, rowing in search of her. At the sharp turn from a woodwork shop, Taj’s shikara hit ice, and lotuses came tumbling down — some uprooted from their leaves and others right into his lap. Taj cursed. Then the ice block itself broke into splinters of snow, showering like shards of fire on his exposed wounded hand. A litany of curses tore out of him as he shook his hand violently.
“Who is making that noise?” Zoon mumbled, walking from behind the big white bedsheet she had been hanging, and straight into the deep blue eyes of Taj. Her shocked eyes turned angry.
“Iram, Iram?”
She blinked. Atharva stood on the shikara floor, his hand outstretched. Everybody else had already disembarked. She quickly stepped out too.
The village was raw and rustic, and beyond beautiful. Shikara houses, mini lake-houses, small patches of water populated with baby vegetables like cucumbers and melons waiting for summer, floating gardens of water nuts and nadru all around. Apple-cheeked fairy-faced children played hopscotch on the side while fishermen packed their boats. Iram only observed — how Atharva and company started greeting, how they opened conversation, how they branched out to various families. Even though most talks went on in old Kaeshir, she enjoyed being there and hearing it all. Enjoyed seeing how wary fisher families slowly started to smile and talk more, enthuse more, how kids left their play and gathered behind the folds of their mothers’ pherans.
“Che kyothe bat?” Atharva asked the little kids, his eyes mischievous. Because he asked this in a slow, sing-song voice, Iram understood what he had said — ‘Did you have lunch?’ One or two enthusiastic kids yelled in negative, while most shook their heads shyly. Smiling conspiratorially, he reached into one of the many backpacks they carried and pulled out a bag of sweets. The kids yelled in glee, many even leaving the hiding of their mothers’ clothes.
Then it was a storm, as some children ran towards him and he dropped to one knee, handing out fist-fulls of mixed chocolates. The remaining followed suit too, seeing their friends dancing and hurraying with their hands full. Some teenagers, sighting a sweet snack, joined the throng. And Atharva kept on giving — laughing with them, ruffling their hair, teasing them about the scold they were going to get for their teeth. A few parents came and tried to say something to him. She surmised they were saying that they didn’t need the sweets. Because Atharva finished handing out to all the kids, then got to his feet and said something in a soft, humble tone.
“What did you say to them?” Iram asked as they were settling back into the shikara later.
“I told them that if I was visiting my nieces and nephews I would’ve taken them chocolates. Wouldn’t they?”
She looked down, trying and failing to hide the tenderness that spread across her face.
“That’s the thing with us Kashmiris,” he continued without looking at her. “Our khuddari… we don’t like taking handouts. We don’t like freebies.”
“Isn’t that the thing with all good humans?”
He faced her, the wind ruffling the top of his wavy hair. His eyes sparkled in the sun’s direct rays as only with that gaze he agreed with her.
Their shikaras crossed floating markets, shikara drivers selling fresh winter vegetables, fruits, dry fruits and even ice cream. Iram bent out of her shikara to read the list of flavours — akhrot, kesar, anjeer, pista, chocolate.
“Careful,” Atharva pulled her by the arm just as an oar from a passing shikara missed her back.
“You haven’t seen ice cream in winter or what?” Fahad laughed.
“Not really,” she chuckled, still getting her breathing underway.
“It’s fucking insane,” he exclaimed. “One-way ticket to brain freeze! Want a cone?”
Before she could say anything, he had announced to the shikaras behind them that they were all getting ice-creams. At 11 in the morning, on a cold winter day, when ice was still freezing the sides of small channels, and fog hadn’t lifted from Dal, KDP members shouted in unison for handmade ice cream in cones.
They didn’t just buy ice cream from him but chatted leisurely. The ice cream man recognised Atharva and went out of his way, telling him about his district, describing what good KDP had done there, how some things were still the same — like the dirt that clogged their river. Iram observed Atharva lean out, listen, respond and talk more; glorious in his alive, animated self. She had zoned out of his conversation, mindlessly swiping at her cone of pista ice cream that had little of the real nuts and more of the green food colour. Even so, it tasted like the best ice cream she had ever had.
———————————
As they were docking on the next village, she offered a twenty rupee note to Atharva. He frowned.
“For the ice cream.”
He ignored her and started to move.
“Please, take it. I… I can’t let you pay for my ice cream.”
“I paid for everybody’s ice cream.”
“Still,” she shrugged.
“You paid for my masale tchot that day.”
“You drove me around quite a few times.”
He stopped in his stride and sighed. “Listen, when we go out on tour there is no yours or mine. We all go like a team. Sometimes I pay, sometimes someone else pays. Ok?”
She blinked up, still hesitant, looking too uncomfortable for his liking. So he just took the note from her hand and pocketed it.
“There, happy now?”
She nodded.
They then toured three villages in a row — talked, listened, ate small meals that the locals offered. Atharva distributed more sweets. And at the fourth village, where they knew there was a dearth of warm clothes, the KDP members gifted blankets. Again the same tune was played by the people of the village — ‘We don’t want charity.' So here, for the first time on this tour, Atharva stood tall between close to fifty locals, and gave a sort of speech.
“This is not charity,” he said in Kaeshir. Iram kept Fahad close to get running translation. “This is for my people here who haven’t had the privilege to go to the main town and shop through the winter. I know how hard you work, I understand your time passes in seasons, not weeks or days. And if you think someone is going to come here every winter and bring gifts then here’s the thing — We are not Santa Claus.”
Laughs followed. Iram found the joke insensitive, but the way he said it made all the difference.
“My friends Shabana and Hasan Ali here will talk to you on how you can keep a part of your summer earnings in the bank, so that the interest on that can help you buy winter clothes. If you do that, next year you won’t need anyone to come with blankets. In fact, if you put in more than the minimum amount in bank FDs then who knows… maybe you will be gifting blankets next time I come here…”
With laughs and smart retorts he opened the stage for his peers, one of whom was standing from this constituency. Atharva melted into the background as the crowd gathered around Shabana and Hasan. The KDP photographer took some candid portraits of him as he turned to the back of the wooden houses, while the video maker hovered around him with his phone. And then he disappeared.
It was some time later, that Iram found him again, directly under the afternoon sun. Atharva was crouched on a pier beside two children, drawing the Indian flag with chalk on their slate. He was colouring the top with pink because there was no orange. He didn’t turn to notice her, but his next words made Iram realise how aware he was of his surroundings.
“She is much better at drawing than me,” he whispered to the little girl who had her arm on his shoulder as she stood leaning into him. Iram blinked down at the cherub that looked up shyly at her. She tried to smile. But she found herself a little out of depth. So she waited while he finished his masterpiece. As soon as he was done, the girl took a broken yellow chalk and drew a flower on the side.
They left the children to draw some more and walked to the end of the pier. Silent. Side by side.
“What?” He frowned.
“What?”
“You look like you have something to say to me”
She shook her head. “You don’t look like someone who would be so comfortable with children.” His brows rose, making her fumble, “I don’t mean to…”
“No offence taken,” he chuckled. And she kept staring at his face, just as he stared at hers, the small reluctant smile paused on his lips. The wind whipped their hair and a child hummed a soft idyllic song in Kaeshir somewhere. It was as if time stumbled in its track, tripping and trying to get its bearing. Iram’s throat worked a swallow, as the smile melted away from Atharva’s mouth. His gaze turned intense, something in his breathing shifting. Iram felt it change, felt it make something in her change, and tried to stop it. But her own heartbeat was tripping over itself, stumbling with both arms out too.
“Aliii!” A child’s shout reverberated. And time found its bearings again.
“About your manifesto launch speech…” she started quickly, her heart still trying to come back to normal. “I… think we should talk about it… we should make your manifesto speech… umm… about the speech pointers I mean,” she struggled. He gave a nod and took the few steps towards the end of the pier.
“I thought we could get some time to talk about it on this tour. Do you have anything?”
“Yes,” she nodded, having taken enough time to recover. “Umm…. I… I saw how you started talking so naturally to people back there. That’s your strength. You convince them of something while making them feel like it was their idea all along. It’s… very rare.”
He stopped at the end of the pier, arms crossed over his chest, looking out at the vista of water spreading far and wide. She couldn’t help but stare at his profile — hard, strong, skin dried and paled in cold, hair flopping in the wind. He swallowed, and the scar on his cheek stretched. She turned away.
“We have to convince the people that taking a chance on a first-timer is worth the risk,” Atharva enunciated. “Our manifesto is not a run of the mill status quo manifesto. You know it now. We are radicalising things in our own way. We are not offering a fairy-godmother solution to the whole ‘Kashmir issue,’ instead, we are targeting the development of Kashmir first and foremost. Water, electricity, literacy, employment, business opportunities — that’s what’s going to fill bellies. Not call-to-arms.”
She kept staring at him quietly, then blurted — “Why do you need a writer when you write so well?”
“I don’t write well”
“But the way you improvised that Kashmir University speech was…” she shrugged. "It didn’t even sound like a speech by the end.”
“I speak well, there’s a difference. Extempore is good, but not always. Some things, most things in political speeches, need to be pre-written. Otherwise my emotions may sway me away from what needs to be really said. In this case — our priorities. How do we convince people that our priorities as a state, as a society need to change?”
“By telling them that what has been done so far hasn’t worked,” she pointed. “You go about in such a way, that you end up convincing them that this, the ideals of KDP, are actually nothing but the need of the hour, the idea of the people, what they want… by asking them to put themselves before everything else, by asking them to put Kashmir’s interests above everything else,” Iram asserted. “Look, Khuddari, sacrifice etc is good, but if you really want to appeal to somebody’s heart then appeal to their khudgarzi, that hidden child-like part in all of us that wants something for itself.”
“Adolf Hitler did that you know, he appealed to the ‘id,’ the primitive, childish desires of his people.”
“No, not like that,” she disagreed. “You don’t touch the desires of people, you touch their needs. There is a difference. A person may desire a bungalow and a car, but what he needs is a roof over his head and some money for the bus. For now, that’s where Kashmir needs to start. The basics. And that’s pretty much KDP’s agenda. So make people realise that they need to become selfish for themselves and their children’s future first. And when it comes to their children, everyone becomes selfish.”
“You mean we should make Kashmir our selfishness, our priority?”
“Humaara Kashmir-humaari khudgarzi,” she shrugged.
He shook his head. “Humaari khudgarzi, humaara Kashmir.”
“Bhai!” Fahad’s call made them turn. “Time to move.”
———————————
On their ride to the next village, Atharva didn’t sit near her. Instead, he sat with Rafiq on the rowing plank and they talked in hushed tones. As they turned from the main water into a channel of small lake houses screened by drying chinars, Atharva turned back to signal the shikara behind them.
“What happened?” Iram frowned.
“For this village, all the women stay on one shikara. You and Shabana jump to Tani’s boat and the driver will row you out of the channel.”
“Why?”
“Because it may not be safe.”
“Why wouldn’t it be safe?”
“Do as you are told Iram. Shabana, leave your backpack please.”
Iram didn’t understand, but did as she was told. The shikaras slowed and came close together. She followed Shabana into the other boat, as the three men from that one came to Atharva’s. But before they could row away, someone shouted — “Ghas! Ghas! Hindustani army ghas!”
Rafiq yelled something back that sounded more enraging, and then more shouts came from the main pier of the village. People emerged one by one, until there was a crowd of about two dozen men and women. Some children too.
“What are they saying? Why are they asking us to go?” Iram asked aloud. Their shikara was still frozen beside Atharva’s.
“I think this is the village Rafiq Bhai was talking about…” Shabana intoned. “The one where Sufiyaan Sheikh’s right-hand man’s family lives. He has brainwashed the people that KDP is anti-Kashmiri, pro-Indian army.”
“But that’s not true…”
“Welcome to politics.”
Atharva stood up in his shikara, hands up in a gesture of surrender — “Myany padayshi jaay chi kashir…” he asserted, telling them that his birth-land was first Kashmir. When there was no response to that, he signalled conspicuously. Their shikara moved forward.
Something white and brown landed near Iram’s feet. She didn’t realise what had happened until balls of dirt and snow started hitting them. In front of them, Atharva’s shikara had stopped and they were all crouched with their heads down.
“Down,” Atharva shouted for their benefit but she was already pulled down by Shabana.
The people — enraged, victorious, started throwing bigger, murkier balls of rocks and ice, shouting abuses. Little children too picked up snow and dirt and pebbles and wood chunks. She heard Fahad curse.
“Motherfucke… fuck fuck fuck… Bhai, there are only three or four troublemakers encouraging them all… let’s move forward!”
“No they have the kids lined up front. If there’s a scuffle and something happens to them then we will be held responsible.”
“We can’t just retreat.”
“Sure we can. Rafiq, let’s go.”
As their shikaras were turning around, one of the piers nearby creaked with more mobsters. They were not on the edge of the pier, but a distance away, their aims not quite fatal but disrupting all the same.
“Indian army go back! Indian army go back!” They shot out, throwing without aiming. Iram kept her head and eyes down. Then something hard hit her head, her eyes felt dizzy before her head felt cold. The snow was melting down the side of her face. She peeped up to find a group of children running to the edge of the pier, raining balls of snow at them. Unlike the adults, they were aiming and hurling, as if it was a game. Some even danced while shouting “Goback goback goback.”
Her shikara was closest to the pier, the boatman trying with all his strength to turn it around and row away. More rocks and balls of snow hit them. Then a splash jostled the boat on her side and her head jumped up. Icy water hit her skin but what paralysed her was a tiny child flailing in the water. The children on the edge erupted in screams, people started shouting, chaos exploded. She heard it all from a faraway tunnel, as her ears closed to everything and her body threw itself out. Her feet didn’t leave the boat but she was hanging out upside down, her arms trying to extend to full capacity as they gripped onto the child.
She held onto him with both hands and pulled. The weight of the child and water pulled her down instead and she went face-first into the ice-cold barrage. But somebody held her torso and legs on the boat, preventing her from falling fully. Iram felt shock course through her body. She broke surface and cold wind hit her, numbing her whole face. But the child’s arm was still in hers and she pulled again.
“Haan, haan… bas, thoda aur… aajao, aajao,” she rattled, letting the toddler buoy his body loose on the water. When he was nearer, Tani reached out to lift him in. The child landed inside the shikara with a plonk. Iram turned, just as Shabana let her torso go and took in the blue child. Iram tore her half-wet scarf from her throat and reached for him. But her own hands were shaking, not even able to hold the scarf steady. The boy cried as Tani took the scarf and rubbed his face, then his hair, eyes, nose and ears. He was wailing loudly now, some colour returning to his face even as he racked with shivers. Iram engulfed his tiny body into her own, rubbing his back as the other two women tended to his hair and palms, rubbing warmth in.
“Dilbaro, dilbaro,” someone wept. “Myaan dilbaro!”
Their shikara rocked yet again, and Iram turned in time to see a woman cross into their boat from Atharva’s. She snatched the child from Iram’s arms. Thrown back by the momentum Iram landed on something hard. It was Atharva’s chest.
A thick carpet-like fabric landed on her head followed by Atharva’s warm arms as they tightened it around her. His hand cupped her head and rubbed, so she took over, realising her hair was nearly frozen. As she did so, the scene in front of her made her angry as well as sad.
The hysterical woman was hurling abuses at them and at the same time thanking them, her child pressed tightly into her chest. She was raving, crying, cursing, rubbing her child’s back as if to reassure herself. And then she opened her eyes to Iram, Shabana and Tani. Her hysteria calmed. She reached out with one hand to them, saying a hundred grateful things all together in Kaeshir. Her face crumpled, and she held her squirming child tighter as Tani consoled her. But she took hold of a shocked Iram’s hand.
“Shukriya… shukriya hetim baar shukriya.”
Iram nodded, as much as she could of her frozen face. Her teeth were chattering now, shoulders feeling like they would never stop vibrating.
Their boat was manoeuvred to the pier and Atharva climbed out with Hasan to help the mother and son out. They held their hands up to signal peace as the woman turned to them and bowed her head, muttering words that nobody could hear. They kept their hands up, eyeing the mob that had gathered around. It wasn’t hostile anymore, but there were elements that couldn’t be trusted in such a mob. In any mob for that matter.
Once the woman was safely away from the pier, they jumped back in.
As their shikaras were rowed out of the channel, Atharva came behind her again. This time she felt his coat settle over her shoulders. “Hold on five minutes. There is a kahwa seller I saw on our way here,” he told her. She nodded, pulling his coat tighter around herself. Her teeth were chattering harder now. Her hair was damp, feeling colder with every whip of the wind. And the setting sun was doing nothing to help.
“Are we… gggoing back tttto Srinagar?”
“This shikara is going back. I still have two other villages to visit.”
“Even after what happppennn…ed here?”
“If I give up after every stone-pelting then there will be no KDP,” he answered. She didn’t know what to say to that. So she sat quietly. And when they waved over a shikarawala selling hot anjeer milk, Iram accepted a paper cup gratefully. Atharva waited until all three of them had drunk enough hot liquid to keep them warm through the rest of the journey. Then he gestured to Shabana, who low-fived Iram and crossed into the next boat.
“Go straight back to the house and get warm,” Atharva ordered. “There will be a party car waiting at Dalgate.” Then he had picked up his backpack and stepped fluidly into the waiting shikara. He didn’t turn to look at her, and Iram kept staring at his back as his shikara rowed into the setting sun.
———————————
Excerpt from The City of Pillars, published 5th July 2022
Copyright © 2022 by Bhavini Desai
Read the full Book on Amazon:
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https://www.amazon.in/dp/9356366284/r...
Bhavini K. Desai
Ch 10.
If you want to become a leader in this place…
“If you want to become a leader in this place, don’t build roads or dams or highways,” Atharva spoke into his earphones, thundering down the stairs, mobile in hand. “Just stop a road or dam or highway from being built. Gather some people and protest. That’s what being a leader has been reduced to in Kashmir. In the whole of India for that matter. It’s like a pre-independence hangover. Mahatma Gandhi did it then to stop the nation. He mastered the technology of stopping the nation, and that was the perfect solution for those times. But not today, not anymore.”
“And what about your party Kashmir Development Party? What is the technology you follow?” The interviewer asked.
“We are trying to master the technology of making the state go. In Jammu & Kashmir, we are trying to make this machinery work instead of stoning it down.”
“Well, it seems a promising model at this point. If there is one message you would like to give our readers here in America, what would it be?”
“Jammu-Kashmir is a far-flung land for you. And you may be right, what happens here will not directly affect you. But President Obama once said that the arc of history tends to bend towards progress. And history is not confined to only one nation or side of the earth. History of every land, every community, every civilisation is co-dependent. So after reading this, do read up a bit on Kashmir, what has happened here, and what is happening here. As for me, I am just a man trying to bend the arc of history towards progress in my land.”
“And I wish you all the best for that; and for the upcoming elections. Thank you Mr. Kaul, for sparing your precious hours early in the morning to converse with me. I am grateful on behalf of my publication The New Yorker.”
“My pleasure Mr. Lipovetsky.”
“You are off the record now — For your profile portraits, is it alright if I publish your most recent photos from Srinagar?”
“You can talk that through with Amaal Durrani.”
“Oh great, ok.”
Atharva checked his watch, disconnected the call and wound up his earphones. It was quarter to 8 in the morning, and he had a long day ahead. The kind of day that got him excited beyond measure. The kind of day that meant he was out of his office and Town Council chambers, the kind of day that promised Dal Lake and fresh air and people.
He picked up the flask of coffee that his cook-cum-caretaker had left on the long table outside the kitchen. “Thanks Shiva, did you order in groceries and supplies for the next month?”
“Given the list to Noora,” his sullen cook droned. He was always in a mood, his efficiency 110% with a 0% chance of a smile. He hated Noora with a passion, and for some reason, adored feeding the rest of the KDP army. That last part had made him an indispensable part of Atharva’s household.
Atharva gave a nod and left the still empty house. Then something struck him and his steps halted midway. It was 10 minutes to 8, and a Wednesday. Which meant Iram might go to her publisher’s office. He wasn’t sure if his apology had been accepted but it seemed like the decent thing to do.
That’s how he found himself in his car, blasting Elvis Presley, windows open to let in the morning sun, waiting for her. And she didn’t disappoint. At exactly 2 minutes past 8 she emerged from the house, wearing her famous velvet ice blue pheran and a dark blue coat. A chunky brown woollen scarf was knotted at her throat. She saw him but didn’t stop, taking the route through the estate walk.
His chest rattled, and Atharva put the car in motion.
“My car won’t burn more petrol if you are in it,” he shouted from his open window when he reached her. She stopped, stared ahead for a long moment, then walked around the hood to settle in. He didn’t show his victory, neither did she give another inch, and smoothly they drove out of the estate.
“Your publisher’s office?”
“No, can you drop me at SMC?”
“What work do you have at Municipal Office?”
She looked at him. His brows rose unapologetically.
“I had re-applied for residential proof, so I need to drop off some documents.”
“You could have asked anyone from the party to do it, they keep going to SMC on a daily basis.”
“Thanks, I wouldn’t be comfortable asking for help.”
“So, how’s the editing for your book going?”
“Not good.”
“Why?”
“Because I am fried.”
“Is it the work at KDP?”
“No, no… I just don’t know where to produce this magical scene where Zoon and Taj can reconcile! Not in this book at least.”
“So they are called Zoon and Taj.”
She shut up, realizing she had said more than she had intended to. Much more.
“What’s the plot?”
“It’s… about Kashmir.”
“That’s not plot, that’s setting.”
“You know so much about story writing!”
“Let’s put some masale tchot in you,” he laughed. “Maybe then you will answer straight.”
“No. You drop me right outside SMC.”
He, of course, took a detour despite her protest. They picked up the first of the piping hot masale tchot rolls from Polo View Road and ate while driving, with Elvis singing ‘You’re the devil in disguise’ in the background.
“I need you to come sit with me one of these days to start on the Manifesto launch speech,” Atharva stated.
“Whenever you are free.”
“That’s the thing… I am never in the ‘free’ frame of mind lately. There is something or the other needing my attention at the office.”
“We will figure something out.”
“Why don’t you come with me on this tour now?”
“What tour?”
“I’m touring the backwater villages of Dal today. We can talk in the car or on the steamer. You will also get a chance to clear your head and think about that ‘magical’ scene of yours.”
She chewed her lip, looking from the windshield to her window and back again. “Umm… can’t we work in the office later?”
“We can do that… I just thought you might want a change of scene, maybe that’s why your writing is not flowing.”
She shook her head, smiling slightly. “That’s not how my writing works. I don’t need good scenery for it to flow.”
“Ok”
He dropped her outside the SMC building at Lal Chowk, and with a nod, took a U-turn to zoom down towards Dalgate.
———————————
Atharva glanced down at the list of villages in his itinerary copy, then back at Fahad. The cold Dal wind felt quiet slapping on his skin, but it flapped the papers in his hand quite noisily. He crumpled the sheet of paper in a nice neat ball and grinned at Fahad.
“We go where the lake takes us,” Atharva breezed. “No itinerary.”
“I go where big brother goes,” Fahad hurrayed. The seven KDP members behind him hooted and laughed. One of them was the Party photographer, another an intern who took good phone videos. Atharva had deliberately planned his tour on the day when Qureshi had a big rally. So most resources were diverted there, leaving him with a small, intimate group to do as he pleased.
The crowd on Dalgate was scarce, only flower and vegetable sellers filling their shikaras on the bank. The vehicular traffic zoomed by on the road, but the lake seemed calm and mysterious. Their steamer arrived with a fluttering honk and docked on the gate. Atharva handed in the two female members, then stepped in.
“Hey, Iram!”
Fahad’s call made him turn. And there she was, rushing down the steps, her hair flying behind her, even as she tried to clamp it down with one hand. The other was busy keeping her satchel from falling, while her eyes were down on her steps. That sight — that pure, messy, instinctive gesture made something in his chest loosen.
“Hi,” Iram panted, all flushed face and big, dreamy eyes. Atharva didn’t notice that her eyes were turned to Fahad, as they exchanged words quietly. Then he walked her to the steamer and handed her in. Atharva held his hand out and she took it, turning her gaze from Fahad to the edge of the steamer and then to him.
They weren’t dreamy, her eyes, he noticed then when her beautiful sun-lit hazel gaze hit his. They were decisive.
“You came,” he frowned.
“I wanted to see you in your ‘free’ state.”
He scoffed, amused. Fahad jumped into the vessel, followed by four other members. And the steamer set off into the morning of Dal.
Through the channels of water cutting houses and shops, the small steamer steered. Iram stared out enraptured. She hadn’t been to this side of Dal Lake very often— the residential, village side. As tourist shops selling everything from textiles to woodwork, woollens to shawls, snacks to flowers passed by, they started to veer into the smaller mazes of houses and houseboats, wooden structures built atop the lake bed. The water was slowly freezing on the sides and they encountered many a white lotuses stemming from ice blocks, dark green weeds floating freely. The brown wooden houses that populated the village ahead were iced too, looking like someone had dusted icing sugar atop their roofs and windows.
“Variya kaal gov na myelnasi!” A loud voice came from one of the many house docks. Atharva smiled and waved. The young fisherman pulled up his catch and ran parallel to the steamer, jogging as their vessel trotted to dock.
“Tohy ch'ivaa vaarai Rafiq?”
“Waaray, waaray. Waliv!”
“Rafiq is the leader of fishermen this side,” Atharva told her as their steamer was docking. “He will help us break the ice.”
“Is this your first visit here?”
“No, but the last time I came, they were blindsided by Awaami Party’s radical brainwashing. Come,” he helped her out, followed by the other two women onboard.
“Waliv, waliv,” Rafiq welcomed. “Pakh.”
As everybody started moving towards the small shikaras anchored on the other side, Iram lurched and rushed to keep up.
“You don’t know even a bit of Kaeshir,” Atharva observed, face straight, lips twitching.
“It’s been too long since I heard it in such thick accent,” she grumbled. His amused gaze met hers only partly before they settled into the small shikaras suited to the narrow water canals that they had to traverse.
More lotuses from ice grew for them, more beauty from harshness splashed her face; feeling like a fresh morning’s basin water. Iram didn’t blink, scared she would miss something. Rafiq rowed their shikara himself, talking to Atharva in fast Kaeshir. She didn’t understand most of it, but caught random parts like how well his son had done in his exams and what peak of winter had been like in the interiors.
In her head, she had already reached her book, already started day dreaming about Zoon hanging clothes outside her small lake-house. Taj, farther away, rowing in search of her. At the sharp turn from a woodwork shop, Taj’s shikara hit ice, and lotuses came tumbling down — some uprooted from their leaves and others right into his lap. Taj cursed. Then the ice block itself broke into splinters of snow, showering like shards of fire on his exposed wounded hand. A litany of curses tore out of him as he shook his hand violently.
“Who is making that noise?” Zoon mumbled, walking from behind the big white bedsheet she had been hanging, and straight into the deep blue eyes of Taj. Her shocked eyes turned angry.
“Iram, Iram?”
She blinked. Atharva stood on the shikara floor, his hand outstretched. Everybody else had already disembarked. She quickly stepped out too.
The village was raw and rustic, and beyond beautiful. Shikara houses, mini lake-houses, small patches of water populated with baby vegetables like cucumbers and melons waiting for summer, floating gardens of water nuts and nadru all around. Apple-cheeked fairy-faced children played hopscotch on the side while fishermen packed their boats. Iram only observed — how Atharva and company started greeting, how they opened conversation, how they branched out to various families. Even though most talks went on in old Kaeshir, she enjoyed being there and hearing it all. Enjoyed seeing how wary fisher families slowly started to smile and talk more, enthuse more, how kids left their play and gathered behind the folds of their mothers’ pherans.
“Che kyothe bat?” Atharva asked the little kids, his eyes mischievous. Because he asked this in a slow, sing-song voice, Iram understood what he had said — ‘Did you have lunch?’ One or two enthusiastic kids yelled in negative, while most shook their heads shyly. Smiling conspiratorially, he reached into one of the many backpacks they carried and pulled out a bag of sweets. The kids yelled in glee, many even leaving the hiding of their mothers’ clothes.
Then it was a storm, as some children ran towards him and he dropped to one knee, handing out fist-fulls of mixed chocolates. The remaining followed suit too, seeing their friends dancing and hurraying with their hands full. Some teenagers, sighting a sweet snack, joined the throng. And Atharva kept on giving — laughing with them, ruffling their hair, teasing them about the scold they were going to get for their teeth. A few parents came and tried to say something to him. She surmised they were saying that they didn’t need the sweets. Because Atharva finished handing out to all the kids, then got to his feet and said something in a soft, humble tone.
“What did you say to them?” Iram asked as they were settling back into the shikara later.
“I told them that if I was visiting my nieces and nephews I would’ve taken them chocolates. Wouldn’t they?”
She looked down, trying and failing to hide the tenderness that spread across her face.
“That’s the thing with us Kashmiris,” he continued without looking at her. “Our khuddari… we don’t like taking handouts. We don’t like freebies.”
“Isn’t that the thing with all good humans?”
He faced her, the wind ruffling the top of his wavy hair. His eyes sparkled in the sun’s direct rays as only with that gaze he agreed with her.
Their shikaras crossed floating markets, shikara drivers selling fresh winter vegetables, fruits, dry fruits and even ice cream. Iram bent out of her shikara to read the list of flavours — akhrot, kesar, anjeer, pista, chocolate.
“Careful,” Atharva pulled her by the arm just as an oar from a passing shikara missed her back.
“You haven’t seen ice cream in winter or what?” Fahad laughed.
“Not really,” she chuckled, still getting her breathing underway.
“It’s fucking insane,” he exclaimed. “One-way ticket to brain freeze! Want a cone?”
Before she could say anything, he had announced to the shikaras behind them that they were all getting ice-creams. At 11 in the morning, on a cold winter day, when ice was still freezing the sides of small channels, and fog hadn’t lifted from Dal, KDP members shouted in unison for handmade ice cream in cones.
They didn’t just buy ice cream from him but chatted leisurely. The ice cream man recognised Atharva and went out of his way, telling him about his district, describing what good KDP had done there, how some things were still the same — like the dirt that clogged their river. Iram observed Atharva lean out, listen, respond and talk more; glorious in his alive, animated self. She had zoned out of his conversation, mindlessly swiping at her cone of pista ice cream that had little of the real nuts and more of the green food colour. Even so, it tasted like the best ice cream she had ever had.
———————————
As they were docking on the next village, she offered a twenty rupee note to Atharva. He frowned.
“For the ice cream.”
He ignored her and started to move.
“Please, take it. I… I can’t let you pay for my ice cream.”
“I paid for everybody’s ice cream.”
“Still,” she shrugged.
“You paid for my masale tchot that day.”
“You drove me around quite a few times.”
He stopped in his stride and sighed. “Listen, when we go out on tour there is no yours or mine. We all go like a team. Sometimes I pay, sometimes someone else pays. Ok?”
She blinked up, still hesitant, looking too uncomfortable for his liking. So he just took the note from her hand and pocketed it.
“There, happy now?”
She nodded.
They then toured three villages in a row — talked, listened, ate small meals that the locals offered. Atharva distributed more sweets. And at the fourth village, where they knew there was a dearth of warm clothes, the KDP members gifted blankets. Again the same tune was played by the people of the village — ‘We don’t want charity.' So here, for the first time on this tour, Atharva stood tall between close to fifty locals, and gave a sort of speech.
“This is not charity,” he said in Kaeshir. Iram kept Fahad close to get running translation. “This is for my people here who haven’t had the privilege to go to the main town and shop through the winter. I know how hard you work, I understand your time passes in seasons, not weeks or days. And if you think someone is going to come here every winter and bring gifts then here’s the thing — We are not Santa Claus.”
Laughs followed. Iram found the joke insensitive, but the way he said it made all the difference.
“My friends Shabana and Hasan Ali here will talk to you on how you can keep a part of your summer earnings in the bank, so that the interest on that can help you buy winter clothes. If you do that, next year you won’t need anyone to come with blankets. In fact, if you put in more than the minimum amount in bank FDs then who knows… maybe you will be gifting blankets next time I come here…”
With laughs and smart retorts he opened the stage for his peers, one of whom was standing from this constituency. Atharva melted into the background as the crowd gathered around Shabana and Hasan. The KDP photographer took some candid portraits of him as he turned to the back of the wooden houses, while the video maker hovered around him with his phone. And then he disappeared.
It was some time later, that Iram found him again, directly under the afternoon sun. Atharva was crouched on a pier beside two children, drawing the Indian flag with chalk on their slate. He was colouring the top with pink because there was no orange. He didn’t turn to notice her, but his next words made Iram realise how aware he was of his surroundings.
“She is much better at drawing than me,” he whispered to the little girl who had her arm on his shoulder as she stood leaning into him. Iram blinked down at the cherub that looked up shyly at her. She tried to smile. But she found herself a little out of depth. So she waited while he finished his masterpiece. As soon as he was done, the girl took a broken yellow chalk and drew a flower on the side.
They left the children to draw some more and walked to the end of the pier. Silent. Side by side.
“What?” He frowned.
“What?”
“You look like you have something to say to me”
She shook her head. “You don’t look like someone who would be so comfortable with children.” His brows rose, making her fumble, “I don’t mean to…”
“No offence taken,” he chuckled. And she kept staring at his face, just as he stared at hers, the small reluctant smile paused on his lips. The wind whipped their hair and a child hummed a soft idyllic song in Kaeshir somewhere. It was as if time stumbled in its track, tripping and trying to get its bearing. Iram’s throat worked a swallow, as the smile melted away from Atharva’s mouth. His gaze turned intense, something in his breathing shifting. Iram felt it change, felt it make something in her change, and tried to stop it. But her own heartbeat was tripping over itself, stumbling with both arms out too.
“Aliii!” A child’s shout reverberated. And time found its bearings again.
“About your manifesto launch speech…” she started quickly, her heart still trying to come back to normal. “I… think we should talk about it… we should make your manifesto speech… umm… about the speech pointers I mean,” she struggled. He gave a nod and took the few steps towards the end of the pier.
“I thought we could get some time to talk about it on this tour. Do you have anything?”
“Yes,” she nodded, having taken enough time to recover. “Umm…. I… I saw how you started talking so naturally to people back there. That’s your strength. You convince them of something while making them feel like it was their idea all along. It’s… very rare.”
He stopped at the end of the pier, arms crossed over his chest, looking out at the vista of water spreading far and wide. She couldn’t help but stare at his profile — hard, strong, skin dried and paled in cold, hair flopping in the wind. He swallowed, and the scar on his cheek stretched. She turned away.
“We have to convince the people that taking a chance on a first-timer is worth the risk,” Atharva enunciated. “Our manifesto is not a run of the mill status quo manifesto. You know it now. We are radicalising things in our own way. We are not offering a fairy-godmother solution to the whole ‘Kashmir issue,’ instead, we are targeting the development of Kashmir first and foremost. Water, electricity, literacy, employment, business opportunities — that’s what’s going to fill bellies. Not call-to-arms.”
She kept staring at him quietly, then blurted — “Why do you need a writer when you write so well?”
“I don’t write well”
“But the way you improvised that Kashmir University speech was…” she shrugged. "It didn’t even sound like a speech by the end.”
“I speak well, there’s a difference. Extempore is good, but not always. Some things, most things in political speeches, need to be pre-written. Otherwise my emotions may sway me away from what needs to be really said. In this case — our priorities. How do we convince people that our priorities as a state, as a society need to change?”
“By telling them that what has been done so far hasn’t worked,” she pointed. “You go about in such a way, that you end up convincing them that this, the ideals of KDP, are actually nothing but the need of the hour, the idea of the people, what they want… by asking them to put themselves before everything else, by asking them to put Kashmir’s interests above everything else,” Iram asserted. “Look, Khuddari, sacrifice etc is good, but if you really want to appeal to somebody’s heart then appeal to their khudgarzi, that hidden child-like part in all of us that wants something for itself.”
“Adolf Hitler did that you know, he appealed to the ‘id,’ the primitive, childish desires of his people.”
“No, not like that,” she disagreed. “You don’t touch the desires of people, you touch their needs. There is a difference. A person may desire a bungalow and a car, but what he needs is a roof over his head and some money for the bus. For now, that’s where Kashmir needs to start. The basics. And that’s pretty much KDP’s agenda. So make people realise that they need to become selfish for themselves and their children’s future first. And when it comes to their children, everyone becomes selfish.”
“You mean we should make Kashmir our selfishness, our priority?”
“Humaara Kashmir-humaari khudgarzi,” she shrugged.
He shook his head. “Humaari khudgarzi, humaara Kashmir.”
“Bhai!” Fahad’s call made them turn. “Time to move.”
———————————
On their ride to the next village, Atharva didn’t sit near her. Instead, he sat with Rafiq on the rowing plank and they talked in hushed tones. As they turned from the main water into a channel of small lake houses screened by drying chinars, Atharva turned back to signal the shikara behind them.
“What happened?” Iram frowned.
“For this village, all the women stay on one shikara. You and Shabana jump to Tani’s boat and the driver will row you out of the channel.”
“Why?”
“Because it may not be safe.”
“Why wouldn’t it be safe?”
“Do as you are told Iram. Shabana, leave your backpack please.”
Iram didn’t understand, but did as she was told. The shikaras slowed and came close together. She followed Shabana into the other boat, as the three men from that one came to Atharva’s. But before they could row away, someone shouted — “Ghas! Ghas! Hindustani army ghas!”
Rafiq yelled something back that sounded more enraging, and then more shouts came from the main pier of the village. People emerged one by one, until there was a crowd of about two dozen men and women. Some children too.
“What are they saying? Why are they asking us to go?” Iram asked aloud. Their shikara was still frozen beside Atharva’s.
“I think this is the village Rafiq Bhai was talking about…” Shabana intoned. “The one where Sufiyaan Sheikh’s right-hand man’s family lives. He has brainwashed the people that KDP is anti-Kashmiri, pro-Indian army.”
“But that’s not true…”
“Welcome to politics.”
Atharva stood up in his shikara, hands up in a gesture of surrender — “Myany padayshi jaay chi kashir…” he asserted, telling them that his birth-land was first Kashmir. When there was no response to that, he signalled conspicuously. Their shikara moved forward.
Something white and brown landed near Iram’s feet. She didn’t realise what had happened until balls of dirt and snow started hitting them. In front of them, Atharva’s shikara had stopped and they were all crouched with their heads down.
“Down,” Atharva shouted for their benefit but she was already pulled down by Shabana.
The people — enraged, victorious, started throwing bigger, murkier balls of rocks and ice, shouting abuses. Little children too picked up snow and dirt and pebbles and wood chunks. She heard Fahad curse.
“Motherfucke… fuck fuck fuck… Bhai, there are only three or four troublemakers encouraging them all… let’s move forward!”
“No they have the kids lined up front. If there’s a scuffle and something happens to them then we will be held responsible.”
“We can’t just retreat.”
“Sure we can. Rafiq, let’s go.”
As their shikaras were turning around, one of the piers nearby creaked with more mobsters. They were not on the edge of the pier, but a distance away, their aims not quite fatal but disrupting all the same.
“Indian army go back! Indian army go back!” They shot out, throwing without aiming. Iram kept her head and eyes down. Then something hard hit her head, her eyes felt dizzy before her head felt cold. The snow was melting down the side of her face. She peeped up to find a group of children running to the edge of the pier, raining balls of snow at them. Unlike the adults, they were aiming and hurling, as if it was a game. Some even danced while shouting “Goback goback goback.”
Her shikara was closest to the pier, the boatman trying with all his strength to turn it around and row away. More rocks and balls of snow hit them. Then a splash jostled the boat on her side and her head jumped up. Icy water hit her skin but what paralysed her was a tiny child flailing in the water. The children on the edge erupted in screams, people started shouting, chaos exploded. She heard it all from a faraway tunnel, as her ears closed to everything and her body threw itself out. Her feet didn’t leave the boat but she was hanging out upside down, her arms trying to extend to full capacity as they gripped onto the child.
She held onto him with both hands and pulled. The weight of the child and water pulled her down instead and she went face-first into the ice-cold barrage. But somebody held her torso and legs on the boat, preventing her from falling fully. Iram felt shock course through her body. She broke surface and cold wind hit her, numbing her whole face. But the child’s arm was still in hers and she pulled again.
“Haan, haan… bas, thoda aur… aajao, aajao,” she rattled, letting the toddler buoy his body loose on the water. When he was nearer, Tani reached out to lift him in. The child landed inside the shikara with a plonk. Iram turned, just as Shabana let her torso go and took in the blue child. Iram tore her half-wet scarf from her throat and reached for him. But her own hands were shaking, not even able to hold the scarf steady. The boy cried as Tani took the scarf and rubbed his face, then his hair, eyes, nose and ears. He was wailing loudly now, some colour returning to his face even as he racked with shivers. Iram engulfed his tiny body into her own, rubbing his back as the other two women tended to his hair and palms, rubbing warmth in.
“Dilbaro, dilbaro,” someone wept. “Myaan dilbaro!”
Their shikara rocked yet again, and Iram turned in time to see a woman cross into their boat from Atharva’s. She snatched the child from Iram’s arms. Thrown back by the momentum Iram landed on something hard. It was Atharva’s chest.
A thick carpet-like fabric landed on her head followed by Atharva’s warm arms as they tightened it around her. His hand cupped her head and rubbed, so she took over, realising her hair was nearly frozen. As she did so, the scene in front of her made her angry as well as sad.
The hysterical woman was hurling abuses at them and at the same time thanking them, her child pressed tightly into her chest. She was raving, crying, cursing, rubbing her child’s back as if to reassure herself. And then she opened her eyes to Iram, Shabana and Tani. Her hysteria calmed. She reached out with one hand to them, saying a hundred grateful things all together in Kaeshir. Her face crumpled, and she held her squirming child tighter as Tani consoled her. But she took hold of a shocked Iram’s hand.
“Shukriya… shukriya hetim baar shukriya.”
Iram nodded, as much as she could of her frozen face. Her teeth were chattering now, shoulders feeling like they would never stop vibrating.
Their boat was manoeuvred to the pier and Atharva climbed out with Hasan to help the mother and son out. They held their hands up to signal peace as the woman turned to them and bowed her head, muttering words that nobody could hear. They kept their hands up, eyeing the mob that had gathered around. It wasn’t hostile anymore, but there were elements that couldn’t be trusted in such a mob. In any mob for that matter.
Once the woman was safely away from the pier, they jumped back in.
As their shikaras were rowed out of the channel, Atharva came behind her again. This time she felt his coat settle over her shoulders. “Hold on five minutes. There is a kahwa seller I saw on our way here,” he told her. She nodded, pulling his coat tighter around herself. Her teeth were chattering harder now. Her hair was damp, feeling colder with every whip of the wind. And the setting sun was doing nothing to help.
“Are we… gggoing back tttto Srinagar?”
“This shikara is going back. I still have two other villages to visit.”
“Even after what happppennn…ed here?”
“If I give up after every stone-pelting then there will be no KDP,” he answered. She didn’t know what to say to that. So she sat quietly. And when they waved over a shikarawala selling hot anjeer milk, Iram accepted a paper cup gratefully. Atharva waited until all three of them had drunk enough hot liquid to keep them warm through the rest of the journey. Then he gestured to Shabana, who low-fived Iram and crossed into the next boat.
“Go straight back to the house and get warm,” Atharva ordered. “There will be a party car waiting at Dalgate.” Then he had picked up his backpack and stepped fluidly into the waiting shikara. He didn’t turn to look at her, and Iram kept staring at his back as his shikara rowed into the setting sun.
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Excerpt from The City of Pillars, published 5th July 2022
Copyright © 2022 by Bhavini Desai
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