Chapter 3
Your name is a bubble
Faint as a whisper on my lip
Pinging off the walls of my heart
Lived far too long
As long as our separation
I wonder why it never burst
Why its walls never tired
Of holding the weight of nothing
But then I remember
That death is easier than love
And when has my heart ever chosen easy
Where you were concerned?
The Karakoram Ranges parted away, opening up a clear, wide sky and more snow-capped mountains in the distance.
The ones in their proximity were bright orange, burnt with the trees of the same colours that he had seen back home.
The mountains stood like sentries in repose, allowing the dusty road to wind down from Gilgit Airport to the valley of Hunza.
It was like being in the mind of God himself, ruthless and merciful — all at once.
Like standing between wars — security that you knew was deceptive.
Atharva glanced at their driver — their state-assigned driver.
He knew he wasn’t just a driver or even an experienced security personnel at that.
The set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, even the purposeful shag of his haircut gave him away.
An operative. Atharva knew Altaf’s senses were also attuned to this man, sitting beside him on the passenger seat.
Yathaarth made a squeak, and his hand went to his stomach, rubbing circles, the belt of his carry cot a hindrance. His son made another sound, and Atharva knew he wanted to be set free.
“Come here,” Begumjaan turned in the seat on the other side of Yathaarth and popped his bottle into his mouth. He latched on — always hungry.
“You owe me for disrupting my sleep,” Begumjaan cooed to Arth. “And your Ammi owes me three trips to tend to the farms. It’s harvest season.”
Atharva held back his smirk. She was the wife of an ex-soldier and the shrewdest military advocate out there. She was also the Safiya Begum. Of course, she saw through pretences and appearances too.
“You can keep mother and son both once she is back from Ada’s,” Atharva added to her fairytale. Naughty green cat eyes gleamed at him — “You will say that only. Eh, Janab? Midnight feeds got to you so soon? This is just the beginning, let the teething start.”
“She can deal with that. If I don’t get my 6 hours at night, I cannot function,” he laughed quietly. His insides were roaring. Change my name if I don’t find you sneaking away to your attic leaving these two to me.
“Is this the silk route?” Atharva asked the driver, sitting up as they entered a new cut road.
It was paved smoothly, a charity of China’s — on paper.
Behind the scenes, it was a strategic security infrastructure against India.
Atharva knew this was indeed the ancient silk route, connecting Xinjiang to the northernmost edge of Kashmir and onwards to Kabul.
And a road built by a foreign country in an occupied land that belonged to him. To India.
“Ji, Janab,” the driver replied eagerly, ready to engage him in conversation. “This is the ancient silk route that connected Kashmir and Xinjiang in China.”
“Was it developed recently?” Atharva prodded.
“No, Janab. These roads were paved around 20 years ago by the Mir of Nagar. Not the current Mir, his father. Since then, the Pakistani government has to be thoroughly harassed every year to maintain it.” The driver laughed lightly, evoking some comment, some reaction, something from him.
So that’s how China had come in — using the Mir as the facade, Atharva noted. He threw his own googlie — “Are royal titles still recognised here?”
If the driver was bemused, he did not show — “Ji, Janab. You mean the Mir of Nagar?”
“Yes.”
“The Mir’s titles are only for name sake now, like you have in India…?” He went on, giving away his own in-depth knowledge about Indian royalty. Not that good of an operative then.
“Now what’s happening is, the Gilgit provincial government and Pakistani army commanders rule here.
The Mir, our current Mir, that is Mir Faiz Qadri Rehman Ali, he is very young.
And a little crazy. Faiz’s father was also not as strong.
Though Allah knows he tried. He was too ambitious for his own good and kept waiting for some miracle to happen. What miracle only Allah knows…”
Oh, Atharva knew all right what miracle the old bastard had waited for.
“…but his father, Mir Rehman Hussain… he was a force, Janab. He didn’t let Pakistani forces intervene in the governance of Nagar, even though Pakistan controlled the region physically. Things changed later on…”
Atharva knew all of that theory, he had studied every single detail of this region, read everything he could get his hands on, inquired about anything remotely related to the royal family of Nagar.
But it was just the superficial that he had been able to scratch because unlike other royal families and communities, the Mirs of Nagar were a fiercely private and guarded lot.
Their photos didn’t appear in papers, their riches and palaces and forts didn’t make it to the ‘Royals of the World’ lists, they didn’t show up at congregations of the erstwhile royals’ events.
They lived inwardly, holding a part of the world that was just as oblivious as it was beautiful.
“… but our mothers and grandmothers and grandfathers still consider Mir the king.”
“And you?”
The driver guffawed — “Sure, why not? We just do our jobs, get our salary and hope things get better here — whoever makes it better. The people in your Kashmir are already getting that dream fulfilled,” he sounded wistful. A good actor.
“They work hard, they choose their future,” Atharva smiled.
Their car turned onto an exit of a narrow single-lane and they left the Karakoram Ranges behind, the bottomless valleys and blue mountains of the silk route only a mystic shine of sunlight on squinted eyelids.
They travelled for another five minutes and a giant wood-and-stone structure rose into view.
The place was a luxurious mountain hotel converted into an official guesthouse for the Chief Minister of Jammu & Kashmir by the Chief Minister of Gilgit-Baltistan, at the request of the Chancellor of Azad University of Hunza.
Atharva expected to meet the Chancellor of Azad University but was surprised to find the Chief Minister of Gilgit-Baltistan at the gate instead.
His convoy came to a stop. His door was thrust open by his security. Fahad was right there, waiting. Atharva got down, a smile on his face for the aged Chief Minister of the other half of Kashmir, waiting for him with a matching smile in his ancient eyes.
“Dilshad sahab,” Atharva nodded, extending his hand for a shake.
“Janab.”
“Friend of Mir,” he heard Fahad mutter in his ear as he passed him to shake hands. He knew it, of course, but couldn’t decipher why the special treatment in spite of the circumstance.
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“Koi kuchh bhi kahe[21], whatever the lines, the fact will always remain that we are brothers,” Dilshad Khan pointed to his own chest and then at his, clasping his hand again.
Atharva thumped his hand atop their clasped ones, smiling his full statesman smile — “Bilkul. Kashmiri toh Kashmiri hai.[22]”
“Before your address at the university tomorrow, I want to show you our Kashmir.”
Atharva opened his mouth but he held a wrinkled finger up — “No, I will not take no for an answer. I checked your itinerary. You have the afternoon free.”
Not for you.
“Bring Bhabhi and Chote Janab too, it will be a good way to make memories. Your little boy is three-four months old already, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but my wife couldn’t accompany us.”
“Oh,” his brows furrowed. “Is everything ok? I heard about your loss after the attack on her. It was terrible…”
“We are moving on from that.”
“Hmm… what else can be done? Did you find the culprit?”
Atharva eyed the man, something not right in his inquisitiveness. His gut ticked. He wanted to keep this trip as uneventful as possible and yet it felt like this question needed him to probe. Instinct won and he felt the lie burst out of his mouth — “Yes.”
Dilshad Khan blinked.
“I’m sure you would have made him pay,” he recovered quickly. Atharva flashed a non-committal smile.
“And what about your wife? Has she remained strong through it all?”
“Yes. She would have accompanied me but her sister has caught chicken pox in Ahmedabad. She had to rush to her.”
“And you got stuck with baby duty,” he grinned.
“It was that or expose him to chicken pox and have ourselves many more sleepless nights,” Atharva quipped, trying to measure the old man. Nothing seemed off about him now.
“Then this should become your first father-son trip. Let’s make one out of it.”
Atharva hesitated.
“Come, Kaul sahab. Don’t you want to see what was left on this side?”
“I will have to consult my secretary and security…”
“Done.”
Atharva saw his desperation for this free tour and decided to strike. His gut was ticking and working overtime, and like the soldier he once was, he caught its tail and followed it blindly.
“And I want to see your royal palace.”
“Royal palace?”
“My Dadi was from here. I have heard grand stories about that palace from her.”
Dilshad Khan’s eyes widened in joy — “That’s it? I was going to show you our fort but the palace and our Mir’s durbar can also be arranged. In fact,” he grabbed his mobile. “Let me check if Mir sahab is available. He will be delighted to meet another young leader.”
Atharva caught Fahad’s eye, Altaf and Zafarji standing beside him.
Altaf did not look happy, as if he had already sensed the change in itinerary.
Tough luck. Atharva had been clear from the get-go to these three men about their reason to be here.
Now they were getting an open invitation into the palace where Iram might be staying.
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