“Where are we with these new hires?”
“Media Head’s position does not look like it is filling any time soon, so I will keep that position with me for now. The rest, we have invited the final two for each position. Except Media Coordinator. She seemed competent and, frankly, had a spark. Nobody came close.”
“I think,” Samar intervened, “we should reconsider.”
“You agreed that she is the most suitable.” Atharva shuffled the resumes and came up with a stapled bunch. “Amaal Durrani. London School of Economics. Impressive degree and equally impressive communication skills. She spent more time in our office than all others put together that day. That’s the kind of engagement we need for this role.”
“She also pulled a pain relief spray on a man carrying a Glock last night.”
Adil whirled in his seat — “This, I have to listen.”
“She was there, behind Lal Chowk after sunset. One of those Haq Force militants was following her, Glock in his pocket. She was chatting loudly with her aunty in the hopes that shouting out loud that somebody was watching from a balcony would deter the man.” Samar recounted. “The fool didn't even realise when I neutralised him and instead sprayed me with a pain relief spray.”
Adil burst out laughing. Samar glared — “Then she was wondering why I wasn't blinded yet.”
“Throw acid into his eyes and he will still come back glaring like that,” Qureshi laughed, rubbing at his beard. Samar pursed his lips. Pepper spray, acid gas, tear gas… nothing blinded them. They had spent training hours inside closed chambers filled with those gases. So had many of these militants.
“Her being attacked does not discredit her from the position,” Zorji interjected.
“No,” Samar agreed. “But she is a walking-talking liability. She mentioned during the interview that her father does not want her to work in Kashmir. I presume she is living on her own here. That’s not our problem until she becomes an employee. We all know how cross-party targeting happens here. Add militancy and threats to us, and she will be a sitting duck once this party takes off. She is London-return. India is not for her, forget Kashmir.”
Everybody looked to Atharva, waiting for his take. He was quiet, staring into space. Samar knew he made sense. And that is why Atharva was conflicted.
“This is a solvable problem.” Atharva finally said, surprising him. “If we have consensus on hiring her, I can speak to her. We can make sure she is living in a safe area and understands the dangers of life in Srinagar.”
Silence.
“If you are so sure about her, go for it.” Qureshi held his hand up.
“I want to meet this girl who sprayed pain relief spray in Samar’s eyes.” Adil held his hand up.
All eyes turned to Zorji, even though by default, Atharva had already won.
“Do you have another applicant who can compete with her?” The old man asked the only pertinent question. Samar thought about it, and had to agree that they didn't.
“Not yet.”
“Are more applications coming in?”
“No.”
“Then bring her in.”
4. Baap ki dua always worked…
Baap ki dua always worked, Amaal grinned, holding her ear muffs tight to her ears as the auto rickshaw zoomed up the hill towards her new office. Three months’ probation, and then she wasin. Her father had been unfairly sad, borderline mad about the opportunity. But the three-month probation had given him hope. Amaal didn't mention how she wasn’t about to be thrown out of a job that was as close to a dream job as it would get at this point.
A good position, good salary, in Srinagar, where white-collar jobs were anyway scarce. The political party looked like it was run by decent men, but she wasn't naive enough to take them at face value. Politicians rarely were, if ever. She did not have firsthand experience with them, but her theoretical knowledge was enough to colour her mind. Not judgement, but wariness. She checked her watch. 7 minutes to 9. She pressed open her BlackBerry. BBM was silent today because most of the UK was still asleep. She locked it and set it down.
The rickshaw came to a stop outside the iron gates of the house and she pushed the leather covering off, getting out and staring at the surroundings. Amaal pulled her ear muffs off and stuffed them inside her bag, looking around. She hadn’t noticed how isolated this was. There was another bungalow’s gate next to the wall of this one, but that looked rusted and locked. The other habitable house was way down the street. Amaal pushed her hand inside her bag to check for the spray bottle. She had sanitised it, and kept it as a spare until the pepper spray she had ordered from Delhi arrived. How did Srinagar shops not stock them?
She pulled out the money, paid the rickshaw driver and walked up to the gate. Amaal pushed it open. There was no security either, just like her last visit. She looked at the curving stretch of road meandering through the forest towards the office. Snow was cleared to both sides, making the path safe and inviting. Amaal launched into a brisk walk, wondering how the estate would look in spring. She had noticed thick Chinar and almond tree covers around the house. Come spring, maybe there would be some bloom.
The house came into sight, and Amaal gasped. It was so beautiful. She hadn’t appreciated the grandness of it enough last time, focused as she was on her interview. Now, in the bright winter sunlight dappling over its ice-covered sloped roofs, it looked like a mega version of their old home that they had left behind. It was still in the family, sold to a far-off uncle, but Amaal didn’t like going there anymore. She didn’t like loving what was not hers.
I’m going to buy a house like this here and have it filled with apple trees and a hammock,she thought to herself before setting her foot on the first step of her office.
Her feet worked faster and faster as she climbed, the mild murmurs from inside spilling out through the half-open doors. She stopped at the heavy wooden double doors. The slit showed the backs of three men, all seated on wooden chairs that had been arranged for the interviewees. Amaal raised her knuckles and knocked. The murmurs quietened.
