“Begumjaan!” Adil called out. Samar turned. And his ball was gone.
“Ho, ho ho, Daaxsaab…” he went out running into the snow with the ball. Samar sprinted, feeling powdered snow flying in all directions around his shoes. Adil tried to kick the ball away from his side but he slid down and took it from under him, coming back up to his feet and kicking it up until it was head-level. Before the joker knew what hit him, Samar head-butted the ball right to the side of his head. Not enough time to duck.
“Fuck! Die, asshole.” He pressed his hand to the side of his face.
“Come to me and I’ll treat it.”
“Is something written here?” Adil pointed to his reddening forehead.
“Chut…” his word was cut off at the loud honk that tore through the silent air.
“Pack drill, go,” Adil ordered him. There was no watchman at the gate, so it was one of them or their handful of members who went out whenever somebody honked. It was a good five-minute sprint down the estate road and an imposition waiting to happen.
Samar spared him a look before turning his head to the road. Zorji’s blue Santro was hurtling down to the porch.
“You made our respected Zorji get out of the car and open the gate, Samar?!” Adil gasped, running to the porch in time to open Zorji’s door. Samar dusted off the snow from his knees and back, pushing his hands inside his jacket pockets to warm them. He had left the gate open behind him.
“Welcome to the newest party offices, Zorji!” Adil declared, assisting him with the portfolios he had in his arm. Zorji patted his back, his eyes coming to Samar.
“You boys don’t know the difference between weekdays and weekends?”
‘Samar.” Adil deadpanned. Samar let out a scoff, nodding at the old man — “Welcome, Zorji.”
Zoravar Rasool was old but not frail. Samar had a lot he owed to him, including his quiet dismissal from the SFF, with nothing more than an unfit note. If left to his commander and Aamir Haider, he would have been locked up in a military jail.
Zorji, in his prestigious capacity as army counsel, had not only brought out the merit of his case but also leveraged his goodwill, both of which had led to this second life that he was living today.
“Last I saw this place in October, it was bare,” Zorji held his head up, staring at the three-storey mansion. “At least now it looks a little full.”
“You haven’t seen the inside yet, come, come,” Adil shut his door for him and led him up the steps to the verandah. Samar followed at a slower pace, absorbing the sights of the estate. Now that he saw it with fresh eyes, he realised how much they had accomplished in such a short time. The four of them, with members coming and going, had not only gotten this mansion up and running as their party office but also populated it with a full-time cook, two cleaners, peons and an office boy who would also double up for admin and bank work — all things an up-and-coming political party must not worry about. They did worry about it all, because their funding was coming from their own pockets. Mostly Atharva and Qureshi’s pockets. Samar didn't have much to his name here except his beat-up black Indica that was in need of serious repairs.
He climbed up the steps to the main house and walked across the wide verandah, noticing that the snow had been cleared. He stepped inside and the warmth of the fire burning in the hearth tangled its fingers around him. Shiva, their cook, was busy arranging a tray of kahwa outside the kitchen.
“None for me,” Samar called out to him. He didn't even look up. Just took one cup off the tray. Samar liked such staff. They made concentration on work better. He turned and walked through the hall, seeing the chairs from their rounds of interviews still lying haphazardly. Their office boy, Karim, was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s not a holiday,” Samar called out to Shiva.
“Don’t tell me. Tell the one who has taken it.”
Samar also disliked such staff, who talked sense even in hierarchy. He ignored the jibe, striding through the alley. The open door of the main office was ringing with laughter.
“…but you shouldn’t have dropped Begumjaan off.” Samar heard Atharva just before he entered the office. Three of them were settled around the desk. Zorji and Adil occupied the double visitors’ chairs, the only two they had. And Qureshi, their fourth partner, was sitting on one of the two chairs behind the desk. Atharva, though, was nowhere to be found.
“She has threatened murder when I get back home but if she were here, none of you would be working.” Zorji sat back.
“I disagree.” Atharva’s voice sounded from under his desk. “She would have been an asset,” he rose out from under it, papers in hand.
“Are those resumes?” Qureshi asked. He set the thick bundle on the desk with a thud — “Five positions in media and eighty-one resumes. We’ve shortlisted two for each except Media Coordinator. But that’s a topic for later; let’s start with updates. Qureshi?”
“I met the Anantnag Trader’s Association. They are part-time merchants and full-time tour guides. We figured a way to penetrate deeper there. It’s the best time, because tourist season and trade, both are down. Until February, they are all at home. Ready listeners.”
Atharva leaned back on the glass window — “Who did you leave there?”
“Shabad. I will go again on the weekend.”
“Set up a Booth, Qureshi. Set up a Booth. Ask Shabad to enrol five local members and start at district level, at least.”
“That’s the next step.”
