“We got it.”
“I heard that. What exclusive about Atharva do you have?”
“Atharva has it. He is willing to share photographs from his SFF days.”
“You are naive if you think Sana Shaikh will take them live with the respect they are due. These pseudo-liberal human rights journalists call the Indian military butcherers.”
“And what will I be doing when she is butchering the narrative on those photos?”
His frown melted, his eyes turning sharp with questions.
“An exclusive means she gets first dibs on it, not that it cannot be released elsewhere after the initial head start. If she wants to win the fastest fingers first race, she will have to publish them at the earliest, which is a Tuesday — the lowest readership for a week. If she doesn’t, five more news outlets, small and big, would have already published it — with my narrative. Whatever claim she makes, will either live for 24 hours in a small readership, or not see the light of day at all.”
A beat of silence passed. The unimpressed man didn’t flinch or blink. But his feet began to recede. “I hope this interview is worth the hustle.”
Samar Dixit turned on his heels and pulled open the door.
“How did you know so quickly about my offer?” Amaal asked.
He didn't even turn to acknowledge her question before he left the room.
5. The spring of Srinagar…
The spring of Srinagar arrived with beautiful bursts of greens and the lightening of the cobalt sky. Amaal experienced the transition in real-time as she literally lived in the middle of greenery for 12, sometimes 14 hours a day — at the KDP office. She hadn’t been able to do more than take walks around though, busy as she was in erecting the beast that was slowly becoming the KDP media team. She was not only coordinating with the media now but also stepping in for media buying and narrative-shaping, both of which put her in close working quarters with Atharva Singh Kaul.
If she could select a leader for a state as hopeless as Jammu & Kashmir, she would select no one but him. Nothing was official yet, because he had three other partners. Qureshi was getting stronger in Muslim-dominated districts in South Kashmir. Samar already had a base in Jammu’s grassroots. Adil didn't seem too interested in anything other than his IT toys. Atharva was the only one who had not established his USP yet. But Atharva was also a Pundit. Amaal knew enough about what Kashmir had done to the Pundits of this state to realise that Atharva as the CM candidate was a one-way ticket to tanking the election even before it started.
But he was such a perfect candidate. He was everywhere and nowhere. He held the party together, became the voice of reason in a room full of heated debates, disappeared for weeks on end and returned with news of some new development in some remote village, thankfully with photos and videos to show for his absence. He did good for even those villages from where Pundits had been chased. He helped even those people who had usurped properties of their Pundit neighbours, and did so without any ill-will towards them. A man like that could change the entire fabric of hatred in Kashmir, and maybe, one day, make it whole again.
But would a man like that ever get elected? Because from KDP’s own election records, they had never secured a victory in villages with just development. They had only secured it with the right mix of religious and sectarian candidates who also happened to champion development.
Amaal worked with Atharva closely, and had the biggest pang every time she thought about how he could become so much more.
The sounds of pigeons taking flight with a flutter broke her chain of thoughts, and she focused on the view in front of her. The Zabarwan Hills in the distance, still dusted with snow, wooden houses in the foreground, rising and falling with their sloped thatched roofs, sitting on this bustling road of Nehru Nagar. Amaal felt the chill from the morning outside permeate the window and into her skin. She shivered. Spring wasn’t supposed to feel this cold. She closed the white-framed glass windows one by one, feeling her eyes burning. It was Thursday already. Burnout was imminent. She had been feeling the effects of fatigue every weekend this last month. After almost five months at KDP, she figured it was normal.
Travel wasn’t a problem, but the long hours and trudging home from the office in biting cold was. Thank god, winter was behind her.
With her laptop playing Sigur Rós’s latest on repeat, she quickly went around folding her bedding. The deathly tune, haunting and chilling, made her feel even colder. She had half a mind to change the track but walking to the desk to change seemed like too much work suddenly. Amaal stopped midway folding the blanket, and stared at her bed.
8.15 on a Thursday morning. Her eyes closed of their own accord. If this were a corporate job or a news agency, she would have fallen into bed and called in sick. She couldn’t do that here. Not because there was no set leave policy. She knew the leaders enough to know that they would give her the day off. But she now also knew that she was so integral to the daily working of the media wing of the party that a day off was a sin.
Her head began to pound.
“No.” She groaned, letting the half-folded bedding slip from her fingers. “Painkiller. Give me a painkiller someone!” She called out to the thin air like she was used to. But during her college days, there was a roommate to hear her out and press a painkiller into her hand. She eyed the bed longingly. Just ten minutes. She could rest for ten minutes, then leave for the office and buy a painkiller on the way.
She glanced at her wrist watch. Yes, it was just 8.20. She could leave the house by 8.30 and still arrive on time. A little late was also ok.
Squealing, she picked up the blanket, whirled it in a wrap around her shoulders and fell into the middle of the bed.
————————————————————
Samar pushed out of his jacket and hung it over the chair beside Atharva’s. The office was a mess today.
“Are you sure we don’t need to hire somebody for logistics?” He looked around the desk. The floor was covered with boxes full of party scarves and tarpaulins that they were going to pitch into tents at Badamwari. Amaal had gotten Atharva sold on the idea of getting together locals of Badamwari area and starting a festival of their own to celebrate the spring bloom of almond trees in their park. “Ice blue popping in-between pink almond blossoms” — her pitch. Samar hadn’t been sold on theaestheticuntil she had started outlining that they would set up tents and give out free stalls for local craftsmen and women to come and sell their wares. KDP would sponsor the event, set up stalls, and outsource them to those who needed a place to sell. A grassroots awareness drive and a media boom. A costly affair.
“Money is tied up for the rest of the year. Either we all pitch in and manage it, or find somebody who is ready to do it at half the salary.”
“Both impossible.” Samar sat down on his chair. “Don’t you think we are doing too many events too fast?”
