Chapter 1 #2
“Would it make a difference?” Dr. Samar Dixit spoke.
She gaped at him. He had a voice that was rough.
She had heard Atharva Singh Kaul in his handful of speeches on YouTube.
Samar Dixit wasn’t as widely known. But they both were looking at her with identical expressions — impervious.
Was it a good cop-bad cop routine? They had been in the military; she would not put it past them.
Amaal did not let herself feel intimidated at the thought of their heavy track record.
If she wanted to work with them, she would have to take the mild sense of awe off the table at this very moment.
“Four years ago, a pack of wild Mountain Wolves were tearing into houses of a border village called Teetwal in Kupwara. Children were being lifted off. Three ex-military soldiers came to the village, and began working on barb fencing village assets. They got the village’s wealthiest man to supply funds in exchange for bringing free fencing services to his properties.
They designed the fencing themselves with military precision, pooled in their contacts for material.
They mobilised able-bodied men from every house for four hours every day and brought the womenfolk to serve free meals.
Within 9 days, they completed the building of barbed wire fencing.
They didn't stop there; they went ahead and started building a wall across the village’s entrance on the bank of Kishanganga.
When they were successful in fortifying the village, one of the younger boys who had worked with them told them, ‘If our panchayat had done half of this on time, 36 children would have been alive.’”
Amaal paused, letting her words linger.
“Panchayat elections were three months away in Teetwal. The three of them stayed back and raised five local candidates for the election, helped them contest, grouped them together to create a cohesive bond. And the village was so small and remote that before word could get out about what was happening, all five of their candidates had won. The party they defeated was Awaami Party. Those three men were Atharva Singh Kaul, Adil Hussain and Samar Dixit.” Amaal smiled at two out of three of those sitting in front of her.
The steady air of the room told her that she had them.
So she went on, adding her own takeaway from their first-ever election.
“The lack of media coverage and communication before and during that Panchayat election proved to be a blessing in disguise for them. But when they started fielding similar plans across neighbouring villages in North Kashmir, they couldn’t bury as strong a stake as they had in Teetwal.
They lost three Panchayat elections in a row before gaining their first victory again in Jammu’s municipality.
It’s been four years now, multiple Panchayat and Municipal elections across Jammu and Kashmir.
But their victories have been fragmented. ”
“And why do you think that is?” Atharva Singh Kaul asked.
“Because their names in newspapers are pronounced more as social workers than politicians. Word of mouth takes years, sometimes decades to get out. One successful term of a party in a Panchayat is not enough to prove its merit as a state party.”
“What is required?”Atharva Singh Kaul asked.
Amaal glanced from him to his silent partner, then back at him — “Communication.”
Atharva Singh Kaul smirked. “The four people before you have said as much. This role is for communications.”
“Communication. Singular,” Amaal stated. “Modes may be many, and that’s a mix of textbook knowledge and contemporary media. How you communicate is unique to the subject and the audience. The core message must be well-defined. That’s communication.”
“Define the core message.”
“Now?” She blinked.
“Why not?”
Amaal paused.
Then she sat forward and pulled her pen out of her bag. She opened the cap and set it down. She then began to twirl the body of the pen until the top came off. She separated the refill and the nib and set them down on the table, holding the remaining hollow metal of the body.
“Five parts,” she counted, then glanced up at the two men.
“For this pen to work flawlessly as a whole,” she picked up the refill.
“It needs to bring all five parts together.” She inserted it inside the body, assembling the nib and the caps again.
Slowly. “All five must be different, work differently, but serve together.” She assembled the pen and popped the cap, holding it.
“When it writes, though, you must think it’s one whole unit.
That’s core message. It is not the root from where all your messages come; it is the message that is the amalgamation of it all.
That echoes everything in a few words. In the case of your party, your core message will depend on your goal.
You have not publicised it yet, but I am using my discretionary power of deduction to presume that you want to dip your toes into Jammu Kashmir Legislative Assembly Election of 2014.
That is the reason you are on a hiring spree. ”
Atharva Singh Kaul sat back. “Tell us about yourself, Ms. Durrani.”
“About me?” She chuckled, capping the pen and pushing it back inside her bag lest she forget it. “My name is Amaal Durrani. I am a UK First Class Honours holder from the London School of Economics and Political Science…”
“We know about the degrees. Tell us something beyond what’s there on your resume.”
“I am a diehard skincare enthusiast?” She responded cheekily.
And made Atharva Singh Kaul laugh. His partner, though, remained stoic.
Did he not understand humour? Amaal ignored him and went on — “I come from a Kashmiri family. We migrated out of here when I was in 3rd standard. The plight of Kashmir that my parents understood then, probably I didn’t.
I only saw loss of home, not the escape that my parents provided with great difficulty for us.
Like so many Kashmiris escaping here, London became our haven, but not home as such.
My Masters was in South Asian Politics. And as you can guess, the memory of home always pulled me into every debate and research paper that had Kashmir’s name on it.
When I completed my studies and the mandatory six months at Reuters to show on my resume, I came to Mumbai in search of something more concrete in Kashmir media.
I was appalled to find that there is nothing.
Kashmir doesn’t even have a dedicated beat or journalist in most major news agencies.
And where it is, there’s nothing but op-eds glazing over our lived history. That’s when I saw your opening.”
“You do know that the Kashmir of today is just as torn as that of your school era, right? On the surface it is still, but there’s lava bubbling just underneath.” Atharva Singh Kaul said quietly. “Militancy is not a great backdrop for a cushy job.”
“I don’t think you know what a media coordinator’s job is.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s far from cushy,” she enlightened. “And as for the militancy, lakhs of Kashmiris are living in this state right now. I will live like them, too.”
The brows of Atharva Singh Kaul’s face relaxed. His eyes, grey and bright, softened, amused maybe at a 23-year-old’s tall claims. Amaal knew they weren’t tall claims.
“For somebody who has lived in London through their formative years, you don’t have an accent.”
“My parents speak plain English mostly. And my accent switches with people’s accents.”
“Are you here for the long haul or is this a stepping stone to something else? Your answer will not affect your candidacy for this job.”
“I am here for the long haul.”
Atharva Singh Kaul nodded, pushing up to his feet. “Thank you for coming in, Ms. Durrani. This was a very interesting conversation.” He held his hand out. She got to her feet, taking it. He gave it a firm pump, his eyes smiling. “I am happy to have met you.”
Not a standard ‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’ Amaal could see why his speeches worked so well on YouTube.
Amaal could also glean why he looked so handsome now.
Imperfect because of the slash on his cheek but commanding with his eyes.
A young man from the military, out to wade into the cesspool of politics.
She had felt an aura in the room when she had entered. She now knew why.
There was earnestness.
Either it was a brilliantly built facade, or it was true and rare as the rarest black lotus. If she worked with him, she would know which one for sure.
The movement to his side caught her attention. Dr. Samar Dixit got to his feet, pushing his hands into his pockets. He was so tall that she had to crane her neck to look at him.
“You got three things wrong,” he pronounced.
Amaal held his eyes.
“One — we did not go for fencing to hold back wolves. If you had done your research competently, you would have discovered that the wolves were attacking the village due to a mass Pakistani infiltration bid from the forests across Kishanganga. ISI-trained terrorists, setting camp in the wolves’ homes, pushing them across the river. We did it all to stop that.”
Amaal kept staring at him.
“Two — we did not lose elections after that due to lack of communication. We lost because we fielded the wrong candidates.”
Amaal didn't even flinch.
“Three — We are not in a bid to dip our toes into this election.” He glanced at Atharva Singh Kaul. He got a nod, as if he was allowed to say it out loud. “We are going into Jammu Kashmir Legislative Assembly Elections 2014 to form a government.”
Amaal glanced at his partner. Atharva Singh Kaul blinked with a nod to diffuse the tensed air — “Thank you for coming in, Ms. Durrani. We will be in touch. Are you in Srinagar for the foreseeable future?”
“Yes,” Amaal nodded. “Until the 5th.”
“Then we will make sure to give you an answer before that.”
“One way or another, you will make at least one Durrani happy,” she chuckled.
“What does that mean?”
“I would be happy to work with you, my father would be happy if I am not working in Kashmir. It’s a win-win. So, take your time.”
Atharva Singh Kaul burst into a low laugh. “Now that has taken the load off.”
She grinned at him, then transferred it over to the other man, who did not reciprocate either — neither the grin, nor her chin nod.
Now that she looked at both men side by side, she realised Dr. Samar Dixit was only an inch or two taller than Atharva Singh Kaul.
But he did not have Atharva Singh Kaul’s quality of making that height disappear.
A public image impediment waiting to be righted. Amaal turned around and walked away.
A long way to go for Dr. Samar Dixit.