[ when all is said and done, there are pieces outstanding. the recording of kaveh's will enacted upon sachin's inheritance. the processing of those who had meant to kidnap a dead man. the conclusion of a decades-long investigation into the lethality of a competition that should have only ever been about the progression of research. all that can come later, alhaitham knows. in the neat annals of alhaitham's life, the time allocated for matters of state and institution are carefully penned in between the regular working hours of nine to five. it is, in fact, all the time that alhaitham is willing to allocate to such matters. the after hours are his own.
tonight, four hours after the dramatic conclusion to the interdarshan competition, and a single hour after kaveh's dinner out, alhaitham meets kaveh in the front room of his house. he says, without need for explanation, ]
Sit.
[ in his hand, the first aid kit unfurls into its major components: gauze, tweezers, antiseptic, plasters of a variety of shapes and sizes, safety pins curled in balanced on the tension of spring and clasp. practised hands bring a basin of cool water. the towel is orange. it had been a part of a set debated for at the counter of a very bemused stallkeeper on treasure's street, the collateral damage, as it were, between alhaitham's general disinterest in colour and kaveh's need for all of them. it is handwoven and inexpensive; it had been chosen by alhaitham for the task because it is a towel, and because it is not one of the nicer ones in the household that kaveh would protest to using it for such a purpose. it is one less argument on the heels of a day that stretches, long, long, like lengthening shadows, as alhaitham sits behind kaveh on the divan and gestures for him to remove his shirt.
the wounds catalogued by a brisk flicker of alhaitham's eyes come hardly as a surprise. a day's laying in hot desert sand, the bruises and scrapes that come from being collateral damage between the general mahamatra and what is essentially a flying gremlin, the tussle and tumble from being sped across a racetrack propelled by nothing but mehrak's propensity to explode and a singular, stubborn ideal. all of it culminates in a story told through harsh, red lines across the pale of kaveh's skin, mottled purpling bruises the size of small dinner plates, and a bristling sunburn that pains to be perceived. alhaitham documents each with clinical detachment. he wets the towel. he wrings it until it is merely damp. he begins to clean.
it is, after all, not the first time has done so. it, too, will not be the last. ]
Lean forward. [ these are the words that break the silence. ] Do not slouch. Gravel has gotten in.
the wound is the place where light enters you; / post-interdarshan competition
tonight, four hours after the dramatic conclusion to the interdarshan competition, and a single hour after kaveh's dinner out, alhaitham meets kaveh in the front room of his house. he says, without need for explanation, ]
Sit.
[ in his hand, the first aid kit unfurls into its major components: gauze, tweezers, antiseptic, plasters of a variety of shapes and sizes, safety pins curled in balanced on the tension of spring and clasp. practised hands bring a basin of cool water. the towel is orange. it had been a part of a set debated for at the counter of a very bemused stallkeeper on treasure's street, the collateral damage, as it were, between alhaitham's general disinterest in colour and kaveh's need for all of them. it is handwoven and inexpensive; it had been chosen by alhaitham for the task because it is a towel, and because it is not one of the nicer ones in the household that kaveh would protest to using it for such a purpose. it is one less argument on the heels of a day that stretches, long, long, like lengthening shadows, as alhaitham sits behind kaveh on the divan and gestures for him to remove his shirt.
the wounds catalogued by a brisk flicker of alhaitham's eyes come hardly as a surprise. a day's laying in hot desert sand, the bruises and scrapes that come from being collateral damage between the general mahamatra and what is essentially a flying gremlin, the tussle and tumble from being sped across a racetrack propelled by nothing but mehrak's propensity to explode and a singular, stubborn ideal. all of it culminates in a story told through harsh, red lines across the pale of kaveh's skin, mottled purpling bruises the size of small dinner plates, and a bristling sunburn that pains to be perceived. alhaitham documents each with clinical detachment. he wets the towel. he wrings it until it is merely damp. he begins to clean.
it is, after all, not the first time has done so. it, too, will not be the last. ]
Lean forward. [ these are the words that break the silence. ] Do not slouch. Gravel has gotten in.