“Samar?”
The haze cleared, and he minimised the window. Adil was standing on the other side. The noises from the people working around them pervaded his senses.
“Hmm?”
“The girl is injured, come and see her.”
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was she doing there?” He tipped his chin to the place they both knew was the devil’s cave.
“Hell if I know! But she was there at the rally yesterday. Atharva thinks she might need stitches.”
“Then tell Atharva to take them…” Samar bit his tongue, breathing out. He was being unreasonable. She was nobody. Nobody to Aamir Haider. Just some…
“Why are we treating her here? Send her to a hospital.”
“Atharva needs you to come.”
Adil didn't wait for him to rebut that. He knew it was the end of the argument. If Atharva needed, he would go. They all would.
Samar worked to swallow his anger. It had been a while since he had lost the sane part of his head like this. He grabbed the nearest bottle of water and chugged it down.
“Samar Bhai?” One of the Media Team people said something to him about The Lalit and interviews. He nodded without listening, accepting the folders they pressed into his hand. He kept drinking the water, settling the haze.
Concentrate on today. Concentrate on the road show. Concentrate on Kashmir University.
Samar got to his feet, adjusted his specs to see the world around him clearly after the haze, and put one foot in front of the other. As he walked a few steps, the next few became easier.
He strode down the alley and opened the door to Atharva’s office —“You needed me?”
The girl stood trying to put her coat on, with Atharva sitting on the couch. Samar refused to see any connection to Aamir Haider in her. He just saw a patient. Her sleeve was dyed red.
“Check this wound.” Atharva directed, grabbing her arm and pulling her down. “With her permission. I think it’s deeper and there’s shrapnel stuck just above her elbow.”
“Thanks, but I will get it dressed by a doctor,” she glared at Atharva. If Samar were in a better mood, he would have enjoyed that sight.
“Samarisa doctor. Now please, ma’am. Let him see you.”
Samar walked into the bathroom, washed his hands with soap and water, and came out drying them. Atharva had already vacated his place. Samar sat down.
“May I, ma’am?”
She looked at him. She wasn’t as young as she had appeared at first glance. Brown eyes, wary but firm. Like she was running away from something, but not because she was the guilty one. She nodded.
He took her arm in his hands. Atharva had already cleaned the wound on her bicep, the skin clear and the edges clean. It would heal well, no stitches needed. He cleaned the surface with warm water and cotton, tautening his hold around it to feel it. There was shrapnel stuck.
He picked up a pair of forceps from his office medical tray. He glanced up, and Adil was there, too interested in this. Thankfully, he did not look as high as he had half an hour ago. Something good out of this mad morning. Samar picked the tiny shrapnel and pulled. The girl did not scream. She did not even flinch. He kept pulling and discovered it was a longer wire.
Discarding it on the table, he cleaned the wound again with a soaked cloth. Then eyed it under direct light. Clean.
“It doesn’t look so bad. Shouldn’t need stitches.”
He disinfected it and secured gauze around it, picking out a Dolo 650 and setting it on the table. “She must have been in the radius, but it was an LE. The injury is minor secondary,” he briefed Atharva just as he was used to.
“There were three blasts at different positions, so…” Adil trailed.
