“You are ok,” she patted his hair, whispering. “You are ok.”
“Let me go.”
“No.”
The pain was unbearable now that he had opened his eyes. His chest was pressed to the bed, aching. Everything he could see over his shoulder below his neck was covered in a glass box, a sheet over it all. The way he was burning everywhere, there was no staying back here. He knew third-degree burns. What he had was worse. He glanced at the time on the wall clock. 15 hours down. Dehydration was imminent. He could already feel the effects, even with the IV line he noted going into his body. He just hoped he could go in peace. Samar began to turn his head away, closing his eyes again when something pressed into his hair.
“No.” Her mouth murmured into his hair, her tears wetting it.
He did not have the energy to say it again.
“You will live again.”
Not everybody is reborn after imminent death.
“You will live again.”
Her mouth wouldn’t leave his hair.
“You will live again, Samar.” Amaal roared quietly into his being.
I: The Party
1. Amaal Durrani, from London School of Economics…
Srinagar, 2009
“Amaal Durrani, from London School of Economics,” she relayed, eyeing the young man sitting on a small sofa set in the centre of the massive hall of the mansion. A chunky laptop sat in front of him, and he typed with one finger. She peeked at his screen from the top of the hood, seeing each letter materialise after a lag of 2 seconds.
A m a l D
“Amaal,” she emphasised. “Double A.” She turned the file of her resume in her hand and flashed it. He nodded, taking another six seconds to backspace. Amaal glanced around at the house. Was this a joke? A political party in a house? There was no signage, no posters, no flag. It was just a house. A house that was not lived in, thankfully. She glanced at the only source of activity — the kitchen. A man was milling around, bringing out a canister of water and placing it on a table between the rows of chairs occupied by the applicants. Amaal looked at each of their faces one by one. Three out of twenty chairs were occupied. All three were men. And all three looked… identical. Uninteresting. White shirts and black trousers, shirts that were either too loose or too tight, worn only for this interview.
She glanced down at herself. The warm Burnt Sienna-coloured velvet pheran, not richly beaded but locally embroidered. A cream Pashmina shawl knotted around her neck. Anything but straightjacketed. A Media Coordinator’s position was not black and white. It required dealing with both black and white, but the dealing itself had to be coloured — a different hue for a different interaction — creative, mixing up the drink as per the customer’s face. Or maybe she was expecting too much from a small regional Kashmiri party.
Amaal held her horses. Judging before experiencing was a taboo she had set for herself in the first year of media school. Her eyes had opened to the world then. So much of what she had assumed had been rewritten when the veil of indifference had been lifted. Kashmir. Her family’s home. Her childhood. It’s skewed history. It’s misunderstood fabric. It’s muddied politics. It had all been unravelled in front of her as she had gone on reading and researching her way through tough realities.
“Please take a seat, your name will be called.” The man on the laptop finally finished entering her details. Amaal stepped back, walking towards the setting of chairs. The first three were occupied in a line. She picked the one at the back. It had a better view of the rest of the house, and the tall window that opened up outside to the front garden. It was more than a garden, it could be a full golf course. But it wasn’t in bloom. It was winter, and gloomy even at mid-morning, but Amaal recognised a drooped garden when she saw one.
The click of a door made her head turn. A man looking in his middle age stepped out of an alley, a file folder under his arm. He wasn’t wearing white on black. Blue on black. Some colour. For the sake of the interviewers, Amaal hoped he was an interviewee. She discovered he was when he marched towards the coat rack, picked up his coat and walked out of the mansion, file and a portfolio held under his arm.
“Amal?” The man on the laptop announced.
“Amaal,” she corrected, getting to her feet just as the man in front of her did. “Oh,” she smiled. “Amal?”
“Yes.” He did not smile back. Amaal shrugged, sitting back down. Her BlackBerry buzzed. She popped the lock on the top and scrolled down the line of chats live on her BBM. Family Durrani, LSE 2008, Mean Girls XO, Shayla K…
She stopped scrolling. It seemed everybody was active at… she calculated the time difference, 6.30 am in London. But days started early in winter. She clicked open Family Durrani.
MOM
1 cartoon skimmed milk
2 cartoon whole fat milk
Cheese crackers
Dhaniwal
