Chapter 4
Baap ki dua always worked, Amaal grinned, holding her ear muffs tight to her ears as the auto rickshaw zoomed up the hill towards her new office.
Three months’ probation, and then she was in.
Her father had been unfairly sad, borderline mad about the opportunity.
But the three-month probation had given him hope.
Amaal didn't mention how she wasn’t about to be thrown out of a job that was as close to a dream job as it would get at this point.
The rickshaw came to a stop outside the iron gates of the house and she pushed the leather covering off, getting out and staring at the surroundings.
Amaal pulled her ear muffs off and stuffed them inside her bag, looking around.
She hadn’t noticed how isolated this was.
There was another bungalow’s gate next to the wall of this one, but that looked rusted and locked.
The other habitable house was way down the street.
Amaal pushed her hand inside her bag to check for the spray bottle.
She had sanitised it, and kept it as a spare until the pepper spray she had ordered from Delhi arrived. How did Srinagar shops not stock them?
She pulled out the money, paid the rickshaw driver and walked up to the gate.
Amaal pushed it open. There was no security either, just like her last visit.
She looked at the curving stretch of road meandering through the forest towards the office.
Snow was cleared to both sides, making the path safe and inviting.
Amaal launched into a brisk walk, wondering how the estate would look in spring.
She had noticed thick Chinar and almond tree covers around the house.
Come spring, maybe there would be some bloom.
The house came into sight, and Amaal gasped.
It was so beautiful. She hadn’t appreciated the grandness of it enough last time, focused as she was on her interview.
Now, in the bright winter sunlight dappling over its ice-covered sloped roofs, it looked like a mega version of their old home that they had left behind.
It was still in the family, sold to a far-off uncle, but Amaal didn’t like going there anymore.
She didn’t like loving what was not hers.
I’m going to buy a house like this here and have it filled with apple trees and a hammock, she thought to herself before setting her foot on the first step of her office.
Her feet worked faster and faster as she climbed, the mild murmurs from inside spilling out through the half-open doors.
She stopped at the heavy wooden double doors.
The slit showed the backs of three men, all seated on wooden chairs that had been arranged for the interviewees.
Amaal raised her knuckles and knocked. The murmurs quietened.
Footsteps came closer, and the doors were pulled open.
Atharva Singh Kaul stood there himself, his scar shining under the sun, his grey eyes striking bright.
He was a head taller than her, and standing on the higher level of the house’s flooring.
And yet, he looked at her and smiled like he was at her level.
She found her answering grin bloom bright.
Amaal was discovering how charismatic his personality was, again and again.
This was a man bound to rule the world if he did it right.
“Welcome, Amaal.”
“Thank you, sir.” She stepped up and inside the house as he moved out of her way.
“What is this sir-sir? Do I look that old to you?” He led her to the circle of chairs.
One was occupied by a middle-aged gentleman in a pheran, the other two by relatively younger men.
She felt like a teenager between them. But Amaal had not spent her years slogging through communications school and then Reuters to look intimidated. She might feel it, but never look it.
“Hello,” she smiled at the group, pulling a chair out.
“Not that one,” Atharva stopped her. “The leg is wobbly. Take this.” He pushed the chair that he probably had been occupying. She settled on it, and saw in slow motion as he lowered himself on the broken one.
“Isn’t the leg wobbly?”
“I know which one is wobbly,” he grinned.
“Guys, this is Amaal Durrani, our Media Coordinator. She will be responsible for contacting media outlets, both print and AV, coordinating for any and all press material, and assisting in media buying. All the ad spaces, hoardings, TV spots will go through her. Creatively. The financials will remain with me. She will also be the POC for journalists, and once we appoint a spokesperson, he will also route through her. Amaal, this is our Writer, Asif.” He held a hand out to the middle-aged gentleman.
“This is Ehsaan, our PR Associate,” he pointed to the younger man. “And this is Fahad, our media intern.”
“All-rounder intern, Bhai.” The youngest, Fahad, grinned cheekily. Amaal instantly liked him. He looked her age.
“You all have joined today, and this is the beginning of this media team. I am being honest with you guys — we don’t have the kind of backing that a political party with our aspirations should have.
The fund is all our own at this point. But the good news is, we don’t bow to anybody then.
We are independent. Our media contacts are independent of ideologies.
For the next year, our aim is to build a profile for Kashmir Development Party across the state.
Our name, our emblem, our colours should be out there.
Recall must happen. Now you guys sit amongst yourselves and figure out how that will happen.
Come to me for any resource you need. I may not have it available immediately but we will work it out. All good?”
Amaal nodded with the rest of them, seeing the military reflected in his words.
“We have readied one big room down this alley for Media. Adil is putting together your computers and LAN and things like that. He is also in the process of putting up a server that will host all our internal material for security encryption. You all have signed NDAs, so it’s moot to discuss confidentiality.
Right now, you might not be pressured, but a time will come when you will become so important as media associates of KDP that you will be pressured through all means — saam, daam, dand, bhed.
Come to me at that time if you can’t handle the pressure. ”
Amaal had to stop herself from admiring this man. This was going dangerously into hero-worship territory. And she knew, no man was a hero.
“To start with, we have prepared dockets for each of you about roles, responsibilities and all the contacts that you will inherit. Asif, you will have to work closely with me to build out literature from our objectives and speeches. Your first project is to populate the website. Ehsaan, get a list ready for events coming up in summer that we can either attend, sponsor or be a part of. Qureshi is your go-to person for insights into smaller festivals in Kashmir, Samar for Jammu.”
“Noted.”
“Amaal, I will transfer my private press contacts to you, and we will arrange meetings so that I can introduce you. They are mostly local Kashmiri or Jammu journalists but we must cultivate a network across Delhi and Mumbai too.”
“Got it.”
He passed around their dockets and rose to his feet. “Any questions?”
“Not yet.” Amaal smiled.
“Come to my office if you have any. I am here all day today.”
Amaal saw him take an about turn and march down the alley to his office. The air in the hall settled, cooling, even in the sunlight. Everybody got busy reading their dockets.
“Can you please pull me in your team?” A whisper sounded to her right.
She glanced at Fahad. He looked younger, now that she saw him closely.
Probably an actual teenager. With thick, wavy hair that was seriously in need of taming, and lips that went too wide when he smiled, he was the definition of a Kashmiri boy. All red apple cheeks and hazel eyes.
“Please,” he pleaded in a murmur. “I don’t want to do writing.”
Amaal smirked, opening her mouth to deny him and lengthen his agony when her name sounded loud and cracking over her head. She startled, snapping her head up.
“Samar.” She stood to her feet, taking in the giant of a man in his black leather jacket over a grey salwar-kurta.
He was staring at her just as imperviously today as he had that night near Lal Chowk.
Right now, even more coldly. Didn't he want her to call him Samar? But if she called Atharva by his name, why not Samar? And he wasn’t much older than her.
Just 10 years. Where she came from, people called their parents by their names.
“Did you sign your Employment Agreement?” He asked.
“Yes.”
“The Employee Equipment Agreement.”
“No. I just got the Employee Agreement and NDA in the mail.”
“I have emailed the Employee Equipment Agreement. Sign it.”
“I’ll do it right away.” She turned and began to push her hand inside her bag for her mobile. Then froze. She never kept her mobile inside her bag. It was always in her hand or in her pocket. Her hand went to her back pocket but she knew it even before she reached there that it wasn't there.
“Fuck!” She gasped. “My cell!” She looked at Samar.
“My cell! That rickshaw. I left it in the rickshaw…” Amaal panicked, patting at her bag, her jeans pockets, fluttering her shawl in hopes it would drop, hoping against hope it was here.
“Did you see it?” She asked Fahad. “Did you see me carrying it when I came in? Shit, fuck, fuck! It had my net banking and didn’t even have a password… ”