“Oh ho, Press Secretary Sahiba is here!” Varun’s annoyingly endearing voice made her turn. He was striding up the two steps that led to the KDP Jammu Headquarters, still in his jeans and kurta, with a crisp koti now. Amaal approved.
“Oh ho,” she called back. “Mayor Sahab is here.”
Varun opened his arms and embraced her. She patted his back, laughing. “It’s been a while, no?”
“A while?” He pulled back, his mouth twitching beneath that moustache he had started keeping in his old age. “You went back after the election and forgot we have another round to win here.”
Amaal squinted at him. “You managed fine on your own.”
“Fine? We snatched majority on our own.”
“Well done, mate.” She gave him a quick round of applause.
“What brings you here today?”
“I have…” she rolled her eyes exasperatedly, “a very tiring session that I am not looking forward to at all to plan the CM’s press schedule between his government commitments and party commitments.”
“Who are you sitting with?”
“Vishwas Bhaiya.”
He winced.
“Mmm,” Amaal pressed her mouth together. “What about you?”
“I am here to meet Samar Bhaiya. Ideally, he is supposed to come to me because… protocol. But when has he ever given a damn about it…”
Amaal held her smile as tight as she could while Varun gave her an overview of their new beautification drive across Jammu City, which would be joined by KDP volunteers as well. She missed key details, except when a particular name popped up.
“That’s great,” Amaal nodded through her smile. “I should go and wait for Vishwas Bhaiya in his office…”
“He hasn’t come yet?”
“No…”
Varun glanced at the clock — “If he hasn’t come yet then he will come after aarti at Raghunath Mandir. Which means, not before lunch.”
She huffed — “Don’t worry, I am used to waiting longer with Kashmiri bureaucrats.”
“I heard Atharva Bhai unleashed a whole military routine there?”
“He did, it’s worked to some extent, but old habits die hard…” Amaal trailed as the bright sunlight of the door was darkened by a figure. Samar Dixit. Still in his white shirt and black pants, specs on his nose, hair neat and face unyielding. If he registered shock at her presence in Jammu KDP, he did not express it. He never did.
Amaal looked at him for what was a polite amount of time and moved her gaze away. They had passed in professional settings without much else peacefully. But their paths had gone separate ways for the most part. She was no longer responsible for his press. She no longer worked in the same institution as him. She no longer worked in the same space as him, nor lived in the same building as him.
He was the President of Kashmir Development Party, in the process of starting a subsidiary party in Himachal Pradesh. She was the Press Secretary to the man he did not see eye to eye, spending her summers in Jammu and winters in Srinagar. There was no crossover.
Life had been merciful that way, separating her from him, for good.
“Arey, Samar Bhaiya!” Varun shook hands and embraced him, Samar’s eyes on her. “Himachal gaye toh hume bhool hi gaye?[103]”
His eyes finally left her face. She could feel them go.
“Yahin hoon.[104]” Samar said. “Amaal.” He opened his hand to her because that was polite in this company. She set her hand in his, shaking and moving out of his hold quickly with a smile — “How’s everything with the party?”
“Good.”
“I keep getting updates from Fahad,” she held her public smile up. “Your membership drive across Kishtwar was covered nicely. Atharva would have liked to be there but the engagements that day were tight and very far from there.”
