Amaal ended the call.
She took a deep breath, then let it out. Only after putting her mobile down did she open her laptop and google Sana Shaikh. Her eyes bugged. 53 years old, Ramnath Goenka Award winner, Editors Guild’s favourite Human Rights baby.Fuck, Amaal huffed out an incredulous breath. Had she known, half her hubris would have died in the first five seconds of the call.
————————————————————
At 11.42, when she was three minutes away from her deadline and in complete jitters, instead of her mobile’s ring, she flinched at the blast of the media room’s door crashing open. Amaal gaped at a fuming Samar.
“Are you unhinged?” He was breathing rapidly, his dark eyes wide. She had never seen him like this.
“Wha… what happened?” She scrambled to her feet.
“What have you told the Kashmir Times people?”
“Why?”
“Have you promised them some exclusive news in return for an interview?”
“How do you know that?”
“Have you or have you not?”
“I…” Amaal glanced at her watch. 11.43. If the call didn’t come within the next minute, then it was not coming. She began to nod her head when her BlackBerry let out its shrill ringtone. She looked at the screen and did a double-take. She picked it up in her hand.
“We are not done talking.”
“It’s Kashmir Times,” she showed him the screen. He stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him — “Do not commit to anything without asking me.”
“Atharva had agreed…”
“No.”
She ground her teeth and clicked the answer button. “Yes?”
“Sana Shaikh here. I will need to speak to my Editor regarding…”
Amaal turned her head to the window, tightening her mouth — “11.45, Sana. I have the next call waiting.”
“This is not a commitment I can make without…”
“It was a pleasure talking to you.”
“Yes,” she agreed. Amaal was not about to disconnect the call but she remained silent for a second.
“Hello? Are you there?”
“Atharva Singh Kaul’s 500-word interview, vetted by KDP, in Sunday edition.” Amaal raised her ask. “The exclusive about him will be delivered to you by Monday afternoon.”
“What is it about?”
“You will know when you get it.”
“And if it’s not worth my while?”
“We are both here. If my word is not worth gold, I don’t stand a chance in this industry, do I?”
“Make it worth my while.”
Amaal did not believe in having the last word. The last ask was hers. She smirked, ending the call. When she turned, the leather jacket was still there, less intense than five minutes ago.
