Chapter 3
His back was hit, and a football bounced off to his feet. Samar grunted, feeling the sore spot from yesterday throb. He caught the ball under his foot, manoeuvring it.
“What’s wrong with you again?” He stared at Adil at the far end of the estate, in full winter gear, on top of three inches of snow.
“Zorji hasn’t come yet.” Adil hollered back, gesturing for the ball. Samar knocked it over his shoe, dribbling it on his toe. The morning was mild, the snow thick. It had stopped snowing but the cold was withering. He turned the key in his car, and it made a dragging beep.
“You need to repair that thing.” Adil came jogging down towards the porch.
“And you need to stop playing during work hours.”
“Atharva…”
“Will not say anything but we need to get serious. This is a political party now, not time pass.”
Adil puffed his cheeks, red, his glasses skewed as he grinned — “Atharva just went in after a game.”
Samar stalled.
“Huh, nothing to say about Captain Kaul now?” Adil tried to kick under his toe to get the ball. Samar turned, holding the dribble steady, and jumped away. Adil wasn’t far behind, inserting his big foot between his legs. Samar jumped again, catching the ball back on his toe, steady.
“Begumjaan!” Adil called out. Samar turned. And his ball was gone.
“Ho, ho ho, Daaxsaab…” he went out running into the snow with the ball.
Samar sprinted, feeling powdered snow flying in all directions around his shoes.
Adil tried to kick the ball away from his side but he slid down and took it from under him, coming back up to his feet and kicking it up until it was head-level.
Before the joker knew what hit him, Samar head-butted the ball right to the side of his head. Not enough time to duck.
“Fuck! Die, asshole.” He pressed his hand to the side of his face.
“Come to me and I’ll treat it.”
“Is something written here?” Adil pointed to his reddening forehead.
“Chut…” his word was cut off at the loud honk that tore through the silent air.
“Pack drill, go,” Adil ordered him. There was no watchman at the gate, so it was one of them or their handful of members who went out whenever somebody honked. It was a good five-minute sprint down the estate road and an imposition waiting to happen.
Samar spared him a look before turning his head to the road. Zorji’s blue Santro was hurtling down to the porch.
“You made our respected Zorji get out of the car and open the gate, Samar?!” Adil gasped, running to the porch in time to open Zorji’s door. Samar dusted off the snow from his knees and back, pushing his hands inside his jacket pockets to warm them. He had left the gate open behind him.
“Welcome to the newest party offices, Zorji!” Adil declared, assisting him with the portfolios he had in his arm. Zorji patted his back, his eyes coming to Samar.
“You boys don’t know the difference between weekdays and weekends?”
‘Samar.” Adil deadpanned. Samar let out a scoff, nodding at the old man — “Welcome, Zorji.”
Zoravar Rasool was old but not frail. Samar had a lot he owed to him, including his quiet dismissal from the SFF, with nothing more than an unfit note. If left to his commander and Aamir Haider, he would have been locked up in a military jail.
Zorji, in his prestigious capacity as army counsel, had not only brought out the merit of his case but also leveraged his goodwill, both of which had led to this second life that he was living today.
“Last I saw this place in October, it was bare,” Zorji held his head up, staring at the three-storey mansion. “At least now it looks a little full.”
“You haven’t seen the inside yet, come, come,” Adil shut his door for him and led him up the steps to the verandah.
Samar followed at a slower pace, absorbing the sights of the estate.
Now that he saw it with fresh eyes, he realised how much they had accomplished in such a short time.
The four of them, with members coming and going, had not only gotten this mansion up and running as their party office but also populated it with a full-time cook, two cleaners, peons and an office boy who would also double up for admin and bank work — all things an up-and-coming political party must not worry about.
They did worry about it all, because their funding was coming from their own pockets.
Mostly Atharva and Qureshi’s pockets. Samar didn't have much to his name here except his beat-up black Indica that was in need of serious repairs.
He climbed up the steps to the main house and walked across the wide verandah, noticing that the snow had been cleared. He stepped inside and the warmth of the fire burning in the hearth tangled its fingers around him. Shiva, their cook, was busy arranging a tray of kahwa outside the kitchen.
“None for me,” Samar called out to him. He didn't even look up.
Just took one cup off the tray. Samar liked such staff.
They made concentration on work better. He turned and walked through the hall, seeing the chairs from their rounds of interviews still lying haphazardly.
Their office boy, Karim, was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s not a holiday,” Samar called out to Shiva.
“Don’t tell me. Tell the one who has taken it.”
Samar also disliked such staff, who talked sense even in hierarchy. He ignored the jibe, striding through the alley. The open door of the main office was ringing with laughter.
“…but you shouldn’t have dropped Begumjaan off.
” Samar heard Atharva just before he entered the office.
Three of them were settled around the desk.
Zorji and Adil occupied the double visitors’ chairs, the only two they had.
And Qureshi, their fourth partner, was sitting on one of the two chairs behind the desk.
Atharva, though, was nowhere to be found.
“She has threatened murder when I get back home but if she were here, none of you would be working.” Zorji sat back.
“I disagree.” Atharva’s voice sounded from under his desk. “She would have been an asset,” he rose out from under it, papers in hand.
“Are those resumes?” Qureshi asked. He set the thick bundle on the desk with a thud — “Five positions in media and eighty-one resumes. We’ve shortlisted two for each except Media Coordinator. But that’s a topic for later; let’s start with updates. Qureshi?”
“I met the Anantnag Trader’s Association. They are part-time merchants and full-time tour guides. We figured a way to penetrate deeper there. It’s the best time, because tourist season and trade, both are down. Until February, they are all at home. Ready listeners.”
Atharva leaned back on the glass window — “Who did you leave there?”
“Shabad. I will go again on the weekend.”
“Set up a Booth, Qureshi. Set up a Booth. Ask Shabad to enrol five local members and start at district level, at least.”
“That’s the next step.”
“Adil?”
“I won against Samar."
“Congratulations.” Atharva deadpanned. “What happened to the server you were building?”
“Built and ready. Why do you think I was playing football outside?”
“Is it working?”
“Go check. Laptop is in the adjacent room.”
“Then start on the website.”
“Designer hasn’t gotten back yet.”
“Follow up…”
“Already did.” He droned, solving a Rubik’s Cube in his hands. “Wireframe is coming by 2 pm.”
Atharva folded his hands to Adil. Samar had half a mind to do that, too. The nerd could frustrate the hell out of you and you’d be ready to murder him before he coughed up his redemption.
“Samar?” Atharva’s eyes turned to him. He did not spell out the question.
“Done.”
“What done? Where have you been since Monday?” Qureshi turned in his seat.
“Here and there.” Samar stepped inside the room. A knock sounded and Shiva walked in, tray in hand. Cups of kahwa were distributed and he retreated. Samar closed the door behind him. They had run background on each of their employees but you could never be too sure.
“Hmm?” Qureshi frowned, sipping from his cup.
“Cleaning up.” He stopped in the middle of the room with his feet apart, hands behind his back. Qureshi’s cup halted midway. His dark beard twitched, and his brows rose — “That cleanup?”
“Hari Singh High Street and Rajbagh are now open to us for campaigning for SMC.”
“But how…” Qureshi set his cup down. Samar glanced at Atharva, his look blank, then back at Qureshi — “Awaami’s web is extensive but not strong enough. A few coercive
drills and they…”
Zorji coughed, making him pause. “Need-to-know basis,” he repeated what he always repeated when this topic came up.
“Cleaned up,” Samar reported, ending the update.
“Good then,” Atharva took over. “Srinagar Municipal Corporation election is two years away but we have the edge, because Awaami thinks it is indomitable. They will be starting their campaigning only six months before the election. We have the balance eighteen months to penetrate Srinagar. Before we breach their state, their city will be ours.”
“Jammu is earlier, Atharva,” Zorji reminded.
“All his.” Atharva nodded, his eyes whirling to Samar.
“You are taking Jammu Municipal Corporation?” Zorji turned to him. Samar nodded.
“I will be moving to Jammu by May. I’ll come back with JMC ours.”
“Je baat!” Adil slapped the desk in front of him in his best Jammu Jatt accent. “Daaxsaab ka ilaka hai.[25]”
“A compounding of city, district and panchayat victories should be good to establish our grassroots,” Qureshi remarked.
“But we need the showmanship. The entire media circus with press conferences, press releases and all those things regularly. We also need to appoint our spokesperson and start fielding him on debates and shows.”
“Nobody would entertain him, though,” Adil sputtered.
“That is why major budget allocation to building the media team this year,” Atharva pointed. “It will be our most expensive investment to date, but if we get it up and running within the next year, we establish ourselves as a major J&K political party.”
“Where are we with these new hires?”
“Media Head’s position does not look like it is filling any time soon, so I will keep that position with me for now. The rest, we have invited the final two for each position. Except Media Coordinator. She seemed competent and, frankly, had a spark. Nobody came close.”
“I think,” Samar intervened, “we should reconsider.”
“You agreed that she is the most suitable.” Atharva shuffled the resumes and came up with a stapled bunch.
“Amaal Durrani. London School of Economics. Impressive degree and equally impressive communication skills. She spent more time in our office than all others put together that day. That’s the kind of engagement we need for this role. ”
“She also pulled a pain relief spray on a man carrying a Glock last night.”
Adil whirled in his seat — “This, I have to listen.”
“She was there, behind Lal Chowk after sunset. One of those Haq Force militants was following her, Glock in his pocket. She was chatting loudly with her aunty in the hopes that shouting out loud that somebody was watching from a balcony would deter the man.” Samar recounted.
“The fool didn't even realise when I neutralised him and instead sprayed me with a pain relief spray.”
Adil burst out laughing. Samar glared — “Then she was wondering why I wasn't blinded yet.”
“Throw acid into his eyes and he will still come back glaring like that,” Qureshi laughed, rubbing at his beard.
Samar pursed his lips. Pepper spray, acid gas, tear gas…
nothing blinded them. They had spent training hours inside closed chambers filled with those gases. So had many of these militants.
“Her being attacked does not discredit her from the position,” Zorji interjected.
“No,” Samar agreed. “But she is a walking-talking liability. She mentioned during the interview that her father does not want her to work in Kashmir. I presume she is living on her own here. That’s not our problem until she becomes an employee.
We all know how cross-party targeting happens here.
Add militancy and threats to us, and she will be a sitting duck once this party takes off.
She is London-return. India is not for her, forget Kashmir. ”
Everybody looked to Atharva, waiting for his take. He was quiet, staring into space. Samar knew he made sense. And that is why Atharva was conflicted.
“This is a solvable problem.” Atharva finally said, surprising him. “If we have consensus on hiring her, I can speak to her. We can make sure she is living in a safe area and understands the dangers of life in Srinagar.”
Silence.
“If you are so sure about her, go for it.” Qureshi held his hand up.
“I want to meet this girl who sprayed pain relief spray in Samar’s eyes.” Adil held his hand up.
All eyes turned to Zorji, even though by default, Atharva had already won.
“Do you have another applicant who can compete with her?” The old man asked the only pertinent question. Samar thought about it, and had to agree that they didn't.
“Not yet.”
“Are more applications coming in?”
“No.”
“Then bring her in.”