Chapter 36
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
…Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
- Rudyard Kipling
The hour was pre-dawn. He had woken up even before his alarm had gone off, or so Iram had pointed.
In truth, Atharva hadn’t slept all night, thinking and mulling over the membership drive trip.
He had thought exactly what he would do, planned it down to the hours, made notes on his phone about what he would say at every citizen group and community gathering that they would visit, pulled up the research notes that he had drawn up himself — because he did not have the privilege of an assistant here.
Zafarji was still tied up with being discharged from office.
Atharva had asked him to stay put but he had decided to leave after his first month in Qureshi’s government.
Without him, Atharva was a man on his own.
He felt a familiar thrill course through his body.
A thrill he hadn’t felt in long years. As KDP had grown and flourished, the basics had been outsourced while he had taken higher, more important matters into his hands.
Speeches, networking, policymaking, interviews, press barrages and the lot.
This, the low level booth visits, the talking one-on-one with the most common person on the street, had been lost in his quest for bigger targets.
“Atharva,” Iram walked into their bedroom with a whisper. Yathaarth was peacefully sleeping on the bed between their pillows, cocooned by more pillows since they were both up and about.
“I was just coming down,” he grabbed his wallet and pushed it into his back pocket, reaching for his car keys and phone — a combination he hadn’t filled his pockets with in a long time.
Iram’s arms came around his torso and her mouth pressed into his back. Atharva glanced up in the mirror. The room was dimmed, a low night light illuminating the length of her hair visible behind his shoulder.
“Myani zuv…”
“Are you happy?” She asked.
“I was always happy,” he swallowed.
“No, you weren’t.” Iram nuzzled into his back. “You were content, maybe, in the peace of our family. But you weren’t happy.”
Atharva leaned to the side as she came around him, pushed up on her tiptoes and kissed his jaw. He framed the back of her head in his hand, holding her close.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For seeing through me and letting me be.”
She pulled back, grabbed him by the collar and tugged him down to her mouth, fusing it quick and hard over his before stepping back.
“Hey,” he bound his arm around her to snap her back but she escaped, laughing quietly. “I have packed coffee and sandwiches for you both. Quick. Noora is already setting up the back of your Land Rover with pillows and shawls.”
“Give me that kiss first.”
“I gave it.”
“You teased it,” he stepped up and she turned and ran. Atharva felt the first thrilling smile build up over his mouth at her escape. He ran a hand through his damp hair, walked to the bed and kissed the fluttering hair of his son. “Bye, Dilbaro.”
————————————————————
His car smelled faintly of wet wool and cheap air freshener — both belonging to the man lounging in the nest of pillows in the rear seat.
“Pass me the coffee, no!” Noora’s arm weaselled from between the front seats. Atharva kept driving. Noora tapped his shoulder — “Coffee, coffee. Iram packed it in that brown thermos.”
Atharva reached down, grabbed the thermos, eyed the hand resting on his shoulder and smacked it on pudgy wiggling fingers.
“Ooooooooow!”
“Nap for twenty minutes. You will take over then.”
“Why?!”
“Because I said so.”
“But I didn’t say so!” He pushed his face forward, holding his hand close to his chest. “My hand is injured now.”
“Drive with the other one.”
“I forgot my rock music pen drive at home.”
Atharva toggled the music button on his steering wheel and Lata Mangeshkar’s voice filled the car.
Suno sajna papihe ne…
“Khhhwhkkskkks,” he mock-snored.
“Eighteen minutes now.”
Atharva saw in the rearview — a mouse of a man jump under the covers. He smirked.
Suno sajna papihe ne… kaha sabse pukaar ke…
He smiled, driving up the winding road of drizzly hills.
His coat was buttoned and yet the damp had found its way in.
Monsoon in these hills had a way of being both everywhere and nowhere at once — a film on the windscreen, a chill in the bones, the muffled hiss of tires on wet tarmac.
For the first time since he had come here, Atharva did not detest the rains.
The morning was draped in mist, deodars and pines were dark green sentries canopying the way, apple orchards, tin-roofed villages and prayer flags burst into his eyes every now and then.
Noora’s twenty minutes turned into hours.
Atharva did not mind. He was feeling more alive than he had in months.
The remote valleys, the bends and the curves, the emerald trees tunnelling out into rust-shaded mountains — and the promise of doing after a long time.
He hadn’t felt more wired than he did in the ten hours of that drive.
————————————————————
Atharva turned into the village of quaint homes at the crack of noon.
The flat roofs over homes were tamped down with green stones and sheets, looking like an extension of each other.
The only structure rising out of them all was the village gompa, at the very edge of the settlement.
It was made of grand sandstone, but embellished with nothing except colourful prayer flags strung together.
He parked the car in the village square. Noora was pretending to sleep in the backseat.
Atharva reached behind, found his leg twitch, but just grabbed the folder of papers he had brought along and exited the car. He shut the door with a thud and pressed the lock button.
“Eh! Big Brother!” Noora’s banging shook the window behind him.
Atharva glanced from left to right, the village square deserted save for a stray dog and a few pedestrians looking curiously at him.
Their eyes went from him to Noora’s antics behind him and Atharva begrudgingly unlocked the car.
He did want publicity but not the comic kind.
“I will not talk to you,” Noora informed softly in his ear before jumping out of the car and stomping towards the only place in the square that did not look like a shop or a house. The HDP office.
Himachal Development Party
Chitkul, Distr. Kinnaur
Atharva followed Noora, smiling at the old woman who was staring at him without blinking.
Her stare wobbled, but she smiled back, shying away and turning towards the lane leading away from the square.
A trio of men was carrying a load on a wheelbarrow, eyes on him.
Atharva nodded. Two of them nodded back.
The sky behind them was a pristine cobalt blue — clear, with thick white clouds.
The mountains weren’t barren unlike the road here but rich with deciduous trees.
Even the village smelled lush and pure and green, wet too, thanks to the stream that flowed behind it.
Iram would have loved it here. Yathaarth would have stared at all this nature and eaten three meals without fuss.
Atharva grabbed his phone, snapped a photo and texted Iram.
ATHARVA
Reached Chitkul
IRAM
Shiva misses Noora
And Junior Janab misses you
He smiled to himself, thinking about taking them to his next recruitment drive. Provided, it was in a safer zone. This one was a high-risk zone not only for its altitude, air pressure and connectivity but also because of its proximity to the India-Tibet border. The last village of India.
Samar had sent him the itinerary for Spiti-Lahaul, which started from Chitkul in Kinnaur. This was the village that, if captured, would prove strategic. Because any ruling government at the Centre would vie it for itself.
Atharva tucked the padded folder of membership drive and panchayat election strategy under his arm and walked into the HDP office. Empty. Save for Noora and one other man sitting side by side on a table, dipping Parle-G biscuits into a cup of tea.
“So, you work full 12 hours?” Noora asked, biting into the non-soggy part of his biscuit.
The man popped his biscuit whole into his mouth — “Sometimes.”
“Smart man,” Noora grinned, dipping the soggy part again into the tea and cramming it whole into his mouth. ‘Does everyone here work like you?”
“There is just me and Tsering.”
“Who is Tsering?” Noora chewed, catching his eye. Atharva stood unmoved, seeing this play out.
“Tsering Barpa. Head of Kinnaur HDP.”
“Where is he?”
“Gone to his home to eat lunch.”
Noora scoffed, eyeing Atharva. “Bosses are like that only.”
He dipped a brand new biscuit into the tea and it came out half-fallen. His face fell too. Atharva could not throw him into the river behind the village just like that biscuit because the man-child had his uses. Like this one.
He cleared his throat.
“Yes?” Tsering’s number two turned. His face was weathered, even if young, tanned but bright. His mouth pursed like he was bored out of his mind.
“You must be Sonu.”
“Yes. You are?”
“Atharva Kaul.”
“Oh,” he leaned an elbow back on his chair. “Yes. Samar sahab called. He sent some file with you.”
Atharva blinked.
“He is the ex-CM of Jammu-Kashmir,” Noora poked him.
Sonu scratched the base of his goatee. Then smiled carelessly — “Hello. Come, sit.”
“Where is Tsering?”
“He will be here… oh, he is here.”