Chapter 61 Samar donned the koti
Samar donned the koti from his garment bag and stepped out of the back of the party Innova.
Vande! Mataram. Vande! Mataram.
He brought his eyes to the troop assembled below it. The KDP and HDP members from his circle, waiting.
“Samar Bhaiya.” Hariraj Singh presented him with the registration papers, party constitution, affidavits of allegiance to the Constitution of India, PAN details, and a list of office bearers. He ran his eyes through the bunch, checking names and spellings on the forwarding letter.
PARTY NAME: National Development Party
PARTY PRESIDENT: Dr. Samar Dixit
WITNESS 1: Atharva Singh Kaul
WITNESS 2: Hariraj Singh
After a long back and forth, they had finally agreed on National Development Party.
Atharva had favoured North India Development Party because he had set his ambition aside after the hand that life had dealt him.
Samar, on the other hand, had seen what ambition could do when pushed right.
And he had succeeded in convincing Atharva.
Samar looked up from the papers and found Atharva’s Range Rover turning inside the gates. It rolled down the compound and came to a stop in front of him. Atharva got out, giving him a peep into the rest of the passengers — Iram, Noora and Yathaarth.
Atharva eyed him up and down. “You got your baraat too?”
Samar did not take the bait, looking around himself at the members instead — “We are not making a spectacle but they need to know that it’s not just a small-time party.”
“Heyylo!” Yathaarth’s head popped out of the back window, waving like a monkey on coke. Samar strode to him and tickled his forehead, making him break into a loud giggle. He seemed to get the biggest kick out of it. “Look who is going to see Delhi today.”
“Me!” He jumped and Samar immediately covered the window frame over him before he hit his head. “And Mama, and Noona and Baba!”
“Hi, Samar.” Iram’s voice made him peek at the passenger seat.
“Hi, Iram. All set?” He nodded to the jumpy kid. Atharva had promised them a Delhi trip after this was done today.
“I’ve kept sugar off but as you can see…” she gestured to the backseat where now Noora was also bouncing.
Samar chuckled — “Celebrate for us today. I am flying straight to Srinagar after, so party hard in Delhi. Some sugar is good for health. Doctor’s word,” he took Yathaarth’s face in his palm and shook.
“Again!”
Samar did it again.
“Ok,” Atharva intervened. “It’s 9.56. Samar, you can come home to play this weekend.”
“Noora, come out,” Samar tipped his chin.
“Why? I am on picnic.”
“Join the party, stand with them.”
He scoffed at Iram — “Huh, they need crowd. Biryani and 5000 rupees.”
“How about I give that all to you from your last salary?”
“Works…”
“This month’s salary. That will be your last.”
The cartoon scuttled out of the car and ran to the gathered group of members.
“I’ll be back.” Atharva left his car idling for Iram and Yathaarth and turned to him. He tipped his chin. Samar nodded. Today, he had to lead the way.
Samar walked up the three steps and handed over the bundle at the reception desk, where they already stood ready and waiting.
He got frisked, followed by the rest of his members, and then they were invited in, striding down the wide lobby and through another waiting area.
The doors to the Secretary of the Election Commission were closed.
They waited outside as the officers processed their application to be submitted.
This wasn’t as big a fanfare as it was made to be.
Ideally, the application documents for registration of a new party ought to have been couriered.
But they were not a new party, they were an evolved party, having gone through a genesis from a regional party, expanded into a state-wide party across three different regions of Kashmir, Jammu and Ladakh, and then expanded to Himachal as HDP, and later across Punjab, Uttarakhand and Haryana.
They had two state governments under their name.
“Sir?” An officer called out to him. “You may go inside.”
Samar pushed open the door and strode inside, seeing the ECI Secretary coming to his feet.
“Hello, Dr. Dixit. Congratulations.”
Samar shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. The papers have been submitted.”
“They have been accepted for consideration. Approval of party name and registration will be communicated to you within 30 working days.”
They shook hands again as a photographer asked them to pose for photos. The members all stood with them, and then he had one as the President of National Development Party.
“Badhai ho, Bhaiya,” Hariraj took his hand.
Samar smiled, nodding, as members came to congratulate him one by one.
Atharva hung back, waiting his turn. Samar waited for him.
When everybody had finished, and Atharva took two steps, Samar opened his hand for a shake.
But Atharva’s hand closed in a fist and his face split into a grin.
Samar laughed, fisting his hand and bumping.
In a second, Atharva had pulled him into an embrace. He thumped him on the back, and Samar thumped back.
“Pave the way now.” He muttered in his ear. Samar smiled, pulling away. “You show us the way first.”
Atharva chuckled, slapping his shoulder. “Out you go to the waiting media,” he pointed at the fanfare rolled out on the main gate on the other side. Cameras, journalists, vans. For a ‘new’ party, this was too much. But again, they weren’t new.
“You are not coming, Atharvaji?” Hariraj asked.
“I have some work.” Atharva smiled, his constraints not hidden from anyone but not noticeable either. Samar knew it. Atharva’s life was in the shadows. For now, he hoped.
“Have fun.” Samar tipped his chin.
“My money.” Noora’s voice whispered in his ear. Samar whirled his head and he cowered back, scuttling away. Samar nodded at Atharva and began to turn.
“Samar?”
“Hmm?” He stopped.
“To spot Arundhati, first identify Saptarishi. You know that already, so move to the handle. The third star on the handle is Vashishth. Once you spot Vashishth, look to its north. The star that won’t be as bright but will be very close to it will be Arundhati.”
Samar stared at him, speechless.
Atharva turned and walked away without saying anything more.
————————————————————
Amaal waited.
With bated breath and impatient eyes, she waited on the doorstep of her new house.
The construction had been halted for a day, the site a hazard everywhere but the verandah.
“Amaal, come and sit here.” Her mother chided, pointing to the chairs on the verandah.
“I’m good here,” she muttered, eyes on the open gate.
The garden to her left opened up the verandah into the porch, but the garden itself was bare yet.
The only parts green were the apple trees, brightened up after the heavy showers of June and July in Srinagar.
This had turned out to be a thankfully dry but warm August day.
Amaal rolled her eyes and looked at the ceiling of her threshold.
Her mother had put up a garland of orange-yellow gulmohars, the heavy sweet scent billowing on the breeze.
Amaal glanced back at the interiors — all blocks of wood, sanmica, silicones, implements.
Paths were cleared to walk, but it was still a hazard.
An unbidden smile touched her mouth. It was her hazard.
This house had taken longer than she had expected to close, but finally it had become hers. There was a loan, but there was an entire life to spend here as she repaid it.
“Amaal, you are sweating, don’t stand there in the sun.” Mom’s loud scold made her startle. And she realised she was standing directly under the sun’s glare. “Sun and sweat is not good for the jewellery.”
She moved back from the sun’s direct rays, glancing down at the cherry red couture saree and temple jewellery that had all been set in place a long hour ago in wait.
She pushed the mane of her smoothened hair behind her ears.
A honk reverberated. And she glanced up like she had at every honk for the last hour. And froze.
The door of a party Innova opened and out stepped Samar.
Her feet moved back into the sun, unable to hold still now when they had held steady in wait for so long.
Her heart rose to her mouth, and began to sing.
Because he wore a koti. Not just any koti.
It was jet black, custom, moulded to his lean torso, his arms more muscled than they had ever been.
She trailed her gaze up, and his eyes were already on her, smiling through the sun’s glare on his specs.
Amaal held her breath, suspended in some space between lungs and mouth — waiting, flustered, floundering.
Samar was striding towards her, seeing nowhere else, just her, crossing her porch and garden and verandah, her parents and the Marriage Registrar Officer, the photographer and the videographer, crossing a decade and more.
He stopped in front of her, and took her hand from where it was gripping the doorframe. Amaal let that breath out.
“Thank you for waiting.”
She blinked, looking down at the flooring between their shoes. “Thank you for coming.”
Her hand was gripped into his and he ushered her out and ahead just as her parents got to their feet.
“You are late.” Dad pointed out the obvious.
Samar smiled, taking his gruffness without rebut. “I am very late, but reached the right place at the right time.”
“Let’s do this, now,” Mom clapped her hands together. “Sir has to leave.”
Samar stepped up to shake hands with the Registrar, and Amaal’s blood began to throb in her veins.
It began. Their marriage papers were opened up on the glass-topped dining table from their old flat, forms reviewed, photographs and details rechecked.
She was a registered Muslim, he was a registered Hindu.
They would have to marry under the Special Marriage Act.
“Do you want to exchange garlands before or after marrying?” The Registrar asked.