“Atharva and I.”
“What was she doing there?”
“Talking to Mansoor Ali, one of their official spokespersons…”
“I know who Mansoor Ali is. Then?”
“I told you I do not answer to you, don’t push me.”
“Then why did you come to tell me?”
“So that you freeze all her access and passes. Immediately. All of you have made her a hero here without any reason.”
Amaal closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then let it out. “Ok, Samar.”
“Don’t use that tone with me.”
“What tone?”
“That condescending tone.”
“Ok, Samar.”
He stared at her. He was back to being the Samar from Jammu — not seething, not happy, not anything. And then he walked around her, opened the door and walked out. Completely back to Samar from Jammu.
Amaal caught the door before it fell shut and turned in the opposite direction, heading down the alley to Atharva’s office. If this were true, there were conversations to be had. If it wasn’t, this was going to get ugly.
“…neither do I want to give you one. But just so that I don’t look back at this moment and see you win, here’s why I was there… I go there to meet my publisher, whose office happens to be above Awaami Party’s. I hadn’t realised that but thanks to you, now I do.”
Amaal had never heard Iram’s voice at that octave. She stood outside the closed door, checking the alley for any lingerers. This party office was turning into a drama company lately. The door pulled open, and there stood Iram, hassled, her hair flying with the wind of the door, bag in hand. Atharva stood behind her, looking just as enraged as Samar had sounded happy. That was a rare sight.
“Hey,” she broke the tense air. “How was the meeting at the headquarters?” She asked him. “I heard you sanctioned my budget without cuts.”
He nodded. Amaal saw his rage disappear. She could rarely make out what was happening inside him either. With Samar, it was always a blank. With Atharva, it was clever, quiet smiles.
“Oh, Iram,” she turned to the woman hyperventilating at the door. “I need you to work from the media room in the first half tomorrow. Your insight for Twitter was good, but we need to turn it into strategy…”
Iram blinked. But did not respond. This was going to get so ugly.
“Blog hits are plummeting,” she told Atharva. “We need to start publishing Iram’s pieces. I’ve mailed the starters to your work ID. Let’s discuss it tomorrow. Maybe late evening?”
“Yeah, ok.”
This was definitely going to get ugly tomorrow. She would tackle it tomorrow. First with Atharva, then with Iram. She stepped back, waved, and walked away. Samar would not be very happy tomorrow.
————————————————————
The next morning, Amaal was not surprised when Iram submitted her resignation.
She was, however, surprised when Atharva clearly stated to her that he would like to retain Iram.
In that tight space, caught between her boss and an employee, a woman no less, with righteous indignation, Amaal climbed the stairs to the top floor. Atharva’s floor. Now, Iram’s too.
Iram was on the terrace, leaning on the parapet, her laptop open.
“Hello,” Amaal greeted, taking a seat on the ancient wooden swing left in one corner of the terrace. She sipped from her cup of kahwa and pushed her feet.
Iram straightened. “Amaal, thank you for this chance to write for your party, but I think I am happy to leave now.”
