How did he know that the culprit was one man and not an organisation? The media had speculated Haq Force in all their reports. The real inquiry was classified. The tick of his gut from a few hours ago was now a full-fledged roar.
Dilshad Khan’s arm came around his shoulder, still smiling at the camera. Atharva held his smile. Did he know that the woman he had set out to kill was in his town, in this palace? Atharva’s heart began to race. Where was Iram? What was the story here? He had to take her out of here quicker than ever now. Without tipping even the air around this man.
“Clear, sir.” Altaf’s loud, solemn words made his head turn. Atharva gaped at him.
“All clear, sir, no restriction.” He reiterated.No. She wasn’t here.Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Let’s go then,” Dilshad Khan opened his arm towards the staircase. Atharva nodded, passing his gaze over Fahad.Try again,he commanded with his eyes.If you don’t, I will,his smile threatened.
“Umm… excuse me, where is the bathroom?” He heard Fahad ask one of the guards behind him. Atharva entered the embellished domed stairs and the doors closed behind him to the guard’s directions.
————————————————————
The Mir’s office was not an office. Or maybe he had one but chose to sit in an open pergola with a round ceiling and arches of pillars opening on all sides. The sky and the mountains and the fleecy white clouds formed the backdrop and there wasn’t any security to gatekeep anything. Only a young man, in his mid twenties, sitting on a wooden bench seat, laid in rich, jewelled tapestries.
“Salamaliakum, Mir sahab,” Dilshad Khan addressed reverentially. It sounded too reverential to be true. The young man looked up, his expression bland, schooled, as if he was to welcome guests without giving away his pleasure or displeasure. Atharva took his time sizing up the man’s face — his wife’s younger brother. Alabaster skin — pale but clear, brown beard that had specks of gold, eyes just as honeyed, the shape exactly like… his wife’s. And now his son’s. Atharva held his mind from wandering away again and soldiered on.
“Walaikumasalam. Khunjee,[24]” the boy-king nodded. His hand held a pen and there sat a pile of long books by his side. Account books. Dilshad Khan strode forward, “Please come, Kaul sahab.”
To the Mir, he let loose a litany of Burushaski. Atharva heard his name in there somewhere and figured that was his introduction when the Mir’s eyes fell on him. They didn’t look like intelligent eyes. They looked lost, schooled, like a puppet. The Mir nodded. He was dressed in a brown kurta and salwar, a matching plain woollen cloak on his shoulders. His head was covered by a local flat topi, wisps of brown hair peeping from under its edge.
“Welcome,” he said in slow, accented English.
“Thank you for having me,” Atharva nodded, not about to fold his hands or offer salam to a king he did not recognise. There was no protocol put forth either, making his calculations solid — after his father’s death, this boy was just a puppet in the hands of the Pakistanis, in the hands of Dilshad Khan, possibly even their ISI and the military.
“You come from Indian-occupied Kashmir?” The boy-king observed in a clipped but pleasant tone. “How is it there?”
“Just as beautiful,” Atharva answered, keeping it neutral. Didn’t the boy know he was talking to the Chief Minister of Jammu & Kashmir?
“Atharva Singh Kaul,” Dilshad Khan finally introduced. “The Chief Minister of Indian-occupied Kashmir.”
“I know,” the Mir smiled. It did not reach his eyes. “I have seen your photo.”
“In reference to something good, I hope,” Atharva had to retort, praying he did not say the name that was between them. He hadn’t thought about this. What if Iram had confided in him? What if this man knew him…
“I saw…”
“I have never seen your photo, though,” Atharva cut him off just as pleasantly. “I have heard about you, but there is not much available about your family or history in public.”
“Yes,” he pushed his hands in front of him, clasping one hand over his other wrist. “My late father, Allah rest his soul in peace, did not like media.”
Dilshad Khan chuckled — “Smart man. Cameras and journalists do nothing but spoil the peace of a land. The more you are famous, the more you are in trouble.”
Atharva smirked.The more you are famous, the more you are in the crosshairs, especially if you are planning a conspiracy and a coup and an infiltration and a civil war.
“For how long you are here?” The Mir inquired politely.
“Two da…” Atharva’s words were cut off by the shrill ringtone of Dilshad Khan’s mobile phone. He saw the sharp cutting of the Mir’s eyes to the device.
“Excuse me,” Dilshad Khan began to take steps back. “I have to take this. Jaga Bakhshinda at.[25]Forgive me,” he bowed in front of the Mir and marched towards the far edge of the terrace’s extension.
“Forgive me for not knowing much about you,” Atharva resumed the conversation with the Mir. “As I mentioned, there isn’t much available in public.”
“It’s alright.”
“Thank you for meeting me at such short notice.”
“Thank you for visiting,” his slow words sounded deliberate, practised. “You come to attend the session at Azad University?”
