Chapter 12
MOM
Landed
AMAAL
I am parked right outside
DAD
You don’t have a car
AMAAL
My boss does
Amaal stared out of the closed window at the Srinagar Airport in the distance.
Sun was out but hidden, the sky gloomy, wintry, but not snowy yet.
December in Kashmir was not usually snowy, as her friends and colleagues had graciously supplied.
After a month transitioning back into Kashmir’s autumn/winter, she suddenly missed the heat of Jammu.
No worrying about keeping the car heated and idling.
She ran a hand down the leather steering wheel of the worn Indica that she had coaxed out of Atharva. It was Samar’s car, but he wouldn’t give it to her. She had, in true teacher’s pet fashion, gone to Atharva.
“Please, for a day, just to pick up my parents!”
“You know how to drive on icy roads?”
“I have driven in the UK.”
“Fine.”
She had then taken Atharva’s ‘fine’ and slapped it on Samar’s smug face. Not literally. She had still said it nicely, and begged a little until he had said ok. Not with his mouth but with his curt chin.
Her mobile rang.
“Yes, Fahad?”
“Are you coming to the office today? Atharva Bhai said your parents have come.”
“Of course I am coming. I’ll drop them off at home and come after lunch. What’s going on?”
“Ehsaan has brought 2011 Q1 calendar for events.”
“Is he at the office all day?”
“He has to go with Qureshi Bhai for that ribbon-cutting.”
“Right. Can you ask him if we can pick this up tomorrow?”
“Cool.”
Amaal ended the call just as she saw her parents walking out of the airport, trolley in her father’s hands, finishing the final check on the military post outside. Joy burst out of her. She got out of the car and ran towards them, throwing herself into her mother’s arms.
“Hello!” She pressed her face into the soft, salt and pepper hair that she used to clutch to sleep as a child. Her mother’s arms went tight around her, her mouth pressing into her skin. This was the longest they had gone without seeing each other.
“Move, we are blocking the line,” her father grumbled. Amaal peeked at him from her mother’s shoulder — “You are just jealous.”
Her father grinned, scratching his bald head.
He had lost all of his hair to male pattern baldness but never stopped accusing her mother of being the reason.
With his blue eyes and still dark moustache, he cut a debonair figure for a gentle dental surgeon.
Amaal pulled out of her mother’s arms, a matured version of herself, and threw herself on her father, her feet lifting in the air as he hoisted her half up.
“I missed you.”
“Didn’t seem like it.” Her father set her back down, tapping on her nose like he always did.
She twisted her mouth, turning to the scenery in front of them.
The elusive mountains surrounding Srinagar were snowcapped, the sky grey but beautiful.
Chinars were beginning to darken after autumn, framing the airport.
“How does Kashmir look?” Amaal stretched her arm out.
“Just as beautiful.” Her father slung his arm around her, both of them pushing the trolley with each hand. “But the guns never go away.” He eyed the high security around them. Amaal sighed.
“Enough now. Don’t start,” her mother chided. “Let’s go. Everybody is looking.”
“Yes! And you don’t know what we are going to make of Kashmir soon.”
“It’s not a school project, Amaal.”
“Dad, you haven’t met the KDP founders yet. Mom, I sent you Atharva’s last speech video. Did you show it to Dad?”
“Yes.”
They stopped by the car, and her father began to load the bags. Amaal closed the dickey and got into the driving seat.
“This is Atharva’s car?” Her mother asked, sliding into the seat behind hers.
Her heart somersaulted. “It’s Samar’s.”
“The one in Jammu.”
“Yes.” Amaal drove down the parking, payment and security exit.
“Needs maintenance,” her father grumbled, eyeing the dashboard in front of him.
It wasn’t torn or broken, just… rugged. Amaal glanced at the stain under her foot.
Blood. It was definitely blood that had been scrubbed to a dark stain on the carpet now.
She set her foot on it when not accelerating.
She hoped her father wouldn’t see it or find anything unpleasant in here.
She had checked the car before bringing it, and hoped Samar had too. No Glock business.
“Dad, these guys are investing all the money they make back into their party. They don’t even make much money. Please.”
“Look at her defending her bosses to me.”
Amaal shook her head, taking her parents through the streets of Kashmir. There was heavy military presence and a check post to enter the city, which did not help her case. But she kept the banter up, hoping it would be enough to distract them.
————————————————————
Amaal knocked on Atharva’s office door.
“Come in, come in.”
She pushed the door open, expecting to see him alone as there was no noise. She was surprised to find Samar there, sitting on the visitor’s chair, poring over some papers. Atharva was on his chair, ending a call.
“Hi, I can come later.”
“Come, come.” He set his mobile down, the evening sun sparkling orange around his silhouette. She took her eyes to Samar, who hadn’t even looked up. The sun sat on his eyelashes, tiny dust motes sprinkling around them.
“Nothing urgent, my parents are here.”
Samar’s eyes rose, and the deep black was suddenly glinting lighter in the sun.
“Of course,” Atharva rose to his feet, already walking around his desk.
Amaal thought he would ask her to bring them in, but he passed her through the door and out.
She kept staring at Samar, who went back to his papers.
A tiny pang of dejection inched inside her chest. She didn't know why, but she wanted him to be just as excited to meet her parents, maybe even be at his best behaviour, which would be a miracle in itself.
“Durrani sahab.” She heard Atharva greet her parents in the hall outside. “Was your flight on time?”
Samar didn’t glance up again, and Atharva kept on talking to her parents outside like he was their long-lost son.
Amaal closed her eyes, breathing in the disappointment.
She was about to turn and go to them when she heard their footsteps.
They were already here, her parents hanging onto Atharva’s every word as he led them inside his office.
Amaal stood to the side, her heart suddenly thudding at the thought of Samar meeting them and them Samar.
Please be nice. She prayed under her breath.
“This is my founding partner, Dr. Samar Dixit,” Atharva introduced just as Samar rose to his feet.
“Samar, Amaal’s parents. The other Durrani, who would have been happy if we had rejected her resume.”
Her father threw his head back and laughed, looking at her with amused but proud eyes. Amaal shrugged, feeling like Open Day at school.
“Hello, sir.” Samar nodded, proper stiff shoulders and feet apart. “Ma’am.”
Good.
“It’s a pleasure, Doctor sahab,” her father held his hand out. Samar shook it.
“Durrani sahab is a dental surgeon in London,” Atharva went on. “Samar is a trauma surgeon, the man who held all our lives in his hands through many missions. Still does.”
Her father nodded, looking Samar in the eye — “It’s the toughest responsibility a human can carry. Strangers’ lives.”
“You’re right, sir.”
“Mrs. Durrani is also a dental surgeon, a better one than Durrani sahab, I hear,” Atharva smirked, looking at her. Her mother beamed.
“I see my daughter is divulging family secrets here.” Her father cocked his head.
“Her job is to hold all our secrets and divulge them at the right time and the right place.” Atharva enthused. “And she does a splendid job. We sent them all to start a new team the day she joined, and she has singlehandedly come back leading the pack.”
“Is this my Open Day session or what?” Amaal protested.
“We can type up a report card if you want.”
She laughed, her eyes quickly going to Samar, who was standing there silent, stoic — just Samar.
“Please, sit, what would you like? Coffee? Kahwa…?” Atharva got on with his effortless hospitality, while Samar moved away to offer her parents the two chairs.
“It was a pleasure meeting you,” he nodded at her parents. To Atharva — “I’ll see you tonight.”
He walked out of the room, just giving her a chin nod of acknowledgment. Same old Samar.
————————————————————
The winter wind looked heavy outside the window, but the superior-grade heater in her flat kept it toasty warm. Her mother half lay on the pile of pillows behind her on the bed, while she sat with her back to her bent thigh, staring at the wind howling outside the glass shutters.
“Dad’s snoring is trumping the heater too,” Amaal observed. “I had forgotten how loud he is.”
“I can’t even make it out after all these years,” her mother chuckled, her thighs shaking under her back. Amaal lay her head back, and her mother straightened her knees, letting her lie down. Amaal sighed, feeling sleepy but not ready to sleep yet.
“It’s been a year,” her mother said. “Are you happy here?”
“Hmm.”
“This is long-term, then?”
“Hmm.”
“And your future?”
Amaal rolled her eyeballs until her mother was in her field of vision. Upside down.
“It’s here.”
“An answer other than Hmm.” Mom stroked her hair. Amaal stilled.
What was this? Infatuation or admiration or something else?
She had thought it would end after Jammu.
That working in not-so-close quarters again, in the harsh realities of Srinagar, would cure her of whatever this was.
But here she was, waiting for even a crumb of his attention, vying for his eyes, craving his Hmm.
So much so that she herself had started parroting it.
“He looks like a good boy.”
Amaal’s breath hitched. She gaped at her mother.
Mom smiled, running her fingers through her hair — “After 20 years in the clinic dealing with all kinds of people, the intuition comes strong. Atharva seems genuine. He says what he means, and that’s a decent man. Even for a politician.”
“Oh no… Mom. No.” She sat up. “It’s not like that.”
Her mother frowned, sitting up and crossing her legs. “Did I read something wrong in that room?”
“Of course!” Amaal laughed. “Shit, how did you even think that? That’s ATHARVA!”
“You looked… red.” Her mother chuckled. “Maybe you were embarrassed taking your parents to your workplace.”
“Of course not! I am not a teenager anymore, Mom.”
Her mother’s sharp, assessing eyes stayed a moment too long on her before blinking away — “Forget it. If it’s not in your mind, then forget it.”
“Yes. PLEASE. I am here to work and build a life. Maybe one day… who knows… You and Dad would also like to come back?”
Her mother’s smile lost its sheen.
“I know what you have seen here, I know how hard it was for you to leave and create our life in London. I also know how much you love it. That is why I am saying that ‘maybe.’” Amaal shrugged.
“You can talk up Kashmir in your calls all you want, Amaal. But the reality is far from what you are building in your head. We saw it with our own eyes. My family had to leave overnight. Dad and I were scared they would come for me if they found out who I was.”
“It was that bad?”
“Yes…” her mother’s eyes went far away, then came back immediately. “We did not talk about that time so that you wouldn’t experience any trauma. But Amaal, it’s still the same. We saw it again with that Badamwari firing…”
“That was a one-off incident.”
“Let your elections start, then you’ll see. Dad is right, this is gutter. These politicians, their dirty power play…”
“You just said Atharva is genuine.”
“One good man cannot clean the filth of an entire hellhole like this. And even he is just starting out. See how he will become when power shoots to his head.”
“He won’t.”
Mom sighed. “I rest my case.” She lay back on her pillows again. “Maybe if things improve, you settle here for good, your husband and family are here… then we will come.”
“Husband and family,” she snorted. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Why not?”
“I have not even completed one full year here at KDP. The road is too long for me to make my own life before there is a husband and a family. If there is a husband and a family, that is.”
“We’ll see.” Her mother reached out and switched off the night lamp, pushing her away from the duvet she was tamping down. Amaal crawled to her side and lay down on her own pillow, letting her mom do the hard work of throwing the duvet over them both.
The room fell silent. Only the wind whistled outside.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“How old were you when you met Dad? 23?”
“22.”
“And you married at 24?”
“And had you at 28 after I completed my studies.”
“Nowadays, girls can’t marry so young.”
“If they find the right man, then why not?”
“Men are all kids at 24 now.”
“True.”
Amaal sputtered, turning over and spreading out in her favourite running pose to go to sleep.
“Your bosses don’t seem like boys.”
“They are in their 30s…” Amaal clamped her mouth shut. Shit.
“Samar.” Her mother pronounced. Amaal did not respond. And her mother did not ask again. It was good to be Samar sometimes.