Chapter 4 #2
A white body of a BlackBerry came in front of her eyes.
She pounced on it. “Yes, it was just like this!” She turned it and it lit up her wallpaper.
Daisies on a yellow sky. “Oh thank fuck!” She straightened from her hunch, about to thank Fahad.
But what confronted her was the leather jacket.
She looked up and he was staring at her with ill-concealed disdain.
“You had it?” She sneered, still working to bring her hyperventilated breath under control.
“You forgot it on the rickshaw. He returned to deliver it.”
“Bless him!” Her eyes fell shut. “Is he outside? I’ll gift him some money…”
“Gone.”
Amaal stopped herself from reaching for her wallet. She gaped at Samar Dixit. She expected another cutting remark. But he just walked past her and down the alley towards Atharva’s office.
————————————————————
Her first month working at KDP was the fastest month ever.
The place that had felt isolated at first glance became a tight ball of solitude with a chosen few.
The office that had broken chairs and no coffee machine turned out to be the best place to amble around, raid Shiva’s kitchen to trouble him like children and get fresh food and beverages at any hour of any day.
The founding members who had looked larger than life on her first day became friends.
Almost friends, since they were also her bosses.
All three, except Samar Dixit. Amaal didn’t give it much thought.
He was nobody’s friend. If she were to rate them all on a scale of friendship, Atharva and Adil would feature at the hottest end, Qureshi somewhere in the middle, and Samar falling off the cold end of the scale.
But, she wasn’t here to make friends. She was here to establish herself. In this society, in this city and in this industry now.
“Amaal!” Ehsaan found her just outside the kitchen, pouring coffee from one mug to another because Shiva always got it scalding hot and she was a lukewarm drinker. Even in this biting cold.
“Did you get it?” She asked, not even looking up from her mindful pouring. By now, she was an expert like the roadside tea sellers.
“No. They rejected our barter. Event sponsorship for Kashmir Times’ Lit Fest won’t get us the interview. They have sent a separate quote for the interview.”
“Hmm.” She brought her mug to her lips and tipped it. Still hot. She began pouring again.
“Did you listen?” He asked.
“I did. They are taking a feel of how small we are.”
“Huh?”
“They are gauging us. If we give in, they will bully us again for the next quarter’s ads and op-eds.”
“If we don’t, we have wasted the money we shelled out for sponsorship. Our core target voter is not even going to come there.”
“Why not?”
“Srinagar’s literature fests attract two kinds of people — local pseudo liberals who are already coloured in a separatist ideology and professing it through their literature and poetry, or visitors from the rest of India, who don’t matter to us anyway.”
“They also have a separate section for under-15 readers.”
“So?”
“In three years, they will be eligible to vote.”
He went silent. Amaal tested her coffee. Tepid. Perfect. She turned, and Ehsaan was still silent.
“When KDP steps inside the election ring for the first time, the under 15 would be 18…” he murmured to himself.
“And we will find them again in their colleges and universities.” Amaal held her mug up in a salute. “Shift our sponsorship to the under-15 camps.”
“What about the interview space?”
“Leave it to me.”
————————————————————
Amaal had just turned 24. But she knew how to speak like she was 42. Or older.
She gathered her hair up. Twisted it, twisted it, twisted it.
She wrapped it tight and pinned it in place.
She filed her nails over each other, taking her eyes to the window.
The media room was empty now, and she let a minute pass, telling herself that she was the head of this entire system.
She was the Media Head. The woman who called the shots here.
She told herself that KDP was the party that was about to win the election.
And that she was sitting on four leaders’ profiles whose five minutes were worth lakhs.
“If not you,” she remarked to the thin, still air in front of her. “Ten others will line up.”
Amaal cracked her neck, picked up her mobile and punched CALL on the number Ehsaan had forwarded. Kashmir Times’ senior journalist, Sana Shaikh.
“Hello?”
“Sana Shaikh,” Amaal pronounced in her thickest British accent.
In her short stint here, she had discovered that accents worked like magic in intimidating people.
Indian English was the most easily understood English, and yet Indians were mesmerised by somebody speaking in an American or a British accent.
“Yes,” she went solemn. “Who is this?”
“Amaal Durrani, KDP.”
“I already spoke to your PR person. Can’t recall his name… we have revised a quote for the interview. It’s heavily discounted after your sponsorship request for the Lit Fest was processed. It should be in your mailbox.”
“We will not pay money.”
“Then we will not run an interview. The pages you inquired about are paid pages.”
“We did not inquire about any particular page.”
“Political coverage this month is all paid for between pages 4 and 7.”
“Surprising, because I am looking at Mohsin Sheikh’s op-ed on Page 6.”
The woman laughed — “That’s the CM, dear.”
“The op-ed is his take on the devaluing of the Indian rupee against the dollar. A union list subject that has nothing to do with his position as the CM.”
A pause. Then — “Listen, we will not be running any free press for you.”
“Now you came to the point.” Amaal sat back, crossing one leg over another. “For us.”
“Excuse me?”
“Kashmir Times has been running extensive promotions for Awaami Party even in the non-election season. The only two smaller parties in the state get minor to zero coverage. Doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”
“I am busy. If you don’t wish to pay, this conversation is pointless.”
“I will pay,” Amaal countered. “But not in cash.”
“Ok, I am repeating — your sponsorship of the Lit Fest is not payment enough.”
“But an exclusive on something big next week is.”
Silence.
“Come again?”
“Think about it, Sana. Let me know by,” she glanced at her wrist watch. 11.25 am. “11.45. Kashmir Times may be one of the three premium newspapers of the valley, but there are many more journalists of your calibre for the exclusive.”
“What exclusive…”
Amaal ended the call.
She took a deep breath, then let it out.
Only after putting her mobile down did she open her laptop and google Sana Shaikh.
Her eyes bugged. 53 years old, Ramnath Goenka Award winner, Editors Guild’s favourite Human Rights baby.
Fuck, Amaal huffed out an incredulous breath.
Had she known, half her hubris would have died in the first five seconds of the call.
————————————————————
At 11.42, when she was three minutes away from her deadline and in complete jitters, instead of her mobile’s ring, she flinched at the blast of the media room’s door crashing open. Amaal gaped at a fuming Samar.
“Are you unhinged?” He was breathing rapidly, his dark eyes wide. She had never seen him like this.
“Wha… what happened?” She scrambled to her feet.
“What have you told the Kashmir Times people?”
“Why?”
“Have you promised them some exclusive news in return for an interview?”
“How do you know that?”
“Have you or have you not?”
“I…” Amaal glanced at her watch. 11.43. If the call didn’t come within the next minute, then it was not coming. She began to nod her head when her BlackBerry let out its shrill ringtone. She looked at the screen and did a double-take. She picked it up in her hand.
“We are not done talking.”
“It’s Kashmir Times,” she showed him the screen. He stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him — “Do not commit to anything without asking me.”
“Atharva had agreed…”
“No.”
She ground her teeth and clicked the answer button. “Yes?”
“Sana Shaikh here. I will need to speak to my Editor regarding…”
Amaal turned her head to the window, tightening her mouth — “11.45, Sana. I have the next call waiting.”
“This is not a commitment I can make without…”
“It was a pleasure talking to you.”
“Yes,” she agreed. Amaal was not about to disconnect the call but she remained silent for a second.
“Hello? Are you there?”
“Atharva Singh Kaul’s 500-word interview, vetted by KDP, in Sunday edition.” Amaal raised her ask. “The exclusive about him will be delivered to you by Monday afternoon.”
“What is it about?”
“You will know when you get it.”
“And if it’s not worth my while?”
“We are both here. If my word is not worth gold, I don’t stand a chance in this industry, do I?”
“Make it worth my while.”
Amaal did not believe in having the last word. The last ask was hers. She smirked, ending the call. When she turned, the leather jacket was still there, less intense than five minutes ago.
“We got it.”
“I heard that. What exclusive about Atharva do you have?”
“Atharva has it. He is willing to share photographs from his SFF days.”
“You are naive if you think Sana Shaikh will take them live with the respect they are due. These pseudo-liberal human rights journalists call the Indian military butcherers.”
“And what will I be doing when she is butchering the narrative on those photos?”
His frown melted, his eyes turning sharp with questions.
“An exclusive means she gets first dibs on it, not that it cannot be released elsewhere after the initial head start. If she wants to win the fastest fingers first race, she will have to publish them at the earliest, which is a Tuesday — the lowest readership for a week. If she doesn’t, five more news outlets, small and big, would have already published it — with my narrative.
Whatever claim she makes, will either live for 24 hours in a small readership, or not see the light of day at all. ”
A beat of silence passed. The unimpressed man didn’t flinch or blink. But his feet began to recede. “I hope this interview is worth the hustle.”
Samar Dixit turned on his heels and pulled open the door.
“How did you know so quickly about my offer?” Amaal asked.
He didn't even turn to acknowledge her question before he left the room.