“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.”
Atharva turned just as the door darkened. The man looked middle-aged, was tall and tanned, his eyes slits in this sunlight. In jeans and a sweater, he looked like a tourist more than the head of a district in HDP. The man beside him was just as tall but looked nondescript, local — a white kurta and a brown shawl wrapped around his wiry shoulders. He looked younger, younger than Atharva. The round pair of spectacles was the only accessory on him that made him look urbane. Atharva concentrated on the older man.
“Tsering?”
“Yes. Atharva Kaul, is it?”
“Yes,” Atharva pushed his hand out. He walked inside the office and shook it.
“Thank you for waiting. How long have you been here?”
“A few minutes.”
“Did you have lunch?”
“Later. Where is everybody?”
“Everybody?”
“This is the party headquarters for North Kinnaur, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then where are your members?”
“Out, in their homes.”
“What do you mean?”
