“Atharva Singh Kaul.” The man wearing a crisp cobalt shirt held his hand out. He was tall, well-built, and his smile bloomed just when hers did. A scar cut across his cheek, marring the charm of his face. But there was something in the way he smiled. Something welcoming in his grey eyes, even when his body looked like it was a weapon. Amaal took his hand and his grip was firm, his stance warm with one quick pump.
“Hello,” Amaal left his hand and took it to the other man. The one in a lean, black, body-hugging T-shirt, half sleeves moulded to his biceps. No other coverage, even in this winter. He hadn’t extended his hand yet. Amaal held her smile, keeping her arm out. He looked at her for a long second. He was taller. Leaner than his partner. And even though there was no scar on his face, he looked more wronged than Atharva Singh Kaul did, with an impervious expression in his black eyes.
Amaal blinked and widened her smile. And his hand fell into hers. Cold.
“Dr. Samar Dixit.”
“I know.”
The imperviousness of his face broke. His eyebrows rose, only slightly.
“Not you, as in personally. I knowaboutyou,” she clarified. “You wouldn’t think I’d walk in here to handle media coordination without doing my due diligence on who I am going to be working with, right?”
“Then let’s hear it, Ms. Durrani.” Atharva Singh Kaul nodded, holding out an arm to the lone chair in front of their desk. She smoothed the back of her pheran and lowered herself to the chair. The men took their seats and looked at her, expectant.
“Oh?” Her eyes widened. “You are serious? No questions?”
“You opened a thread, let’s see where it goes,” Atharva Singh Kaul asserted. “Tell us about ourselves from your research.”
“Did you do the same with the other applicants?”
“Would it make a difference?” Dr. Samar Dixit spoke. She gaped at him. He had a voice that was rough. She had heard Atharva Singh Kaul in his handful of speeches on YouTube. Samar Dixit wasn’t as widely known. But they both were looking at her with identical expressions — impervious. Was it a good cop-bad cop routine? They had been in the military; she would not put it past them. Amaal did not let herself feel intimidated at the thought of their heavy track record. If she wanted to work with them, she would have to take the mild sense of awe off the table at this very moment.
“Four years ago, a pack of wild Mountain Wolves were tearing into houses of a border village called Teetwal in Kupwara. Children were being lifted off. Three ex-military soldiers came to the village, and began working on barb fencing village assets. They got the village’s wealthiest man to supply funds in exchange for bringing free fencing services to his properties. They designed the fencing themselves with military precision, pooled in their contacts for material. They mobilised able-bodied men from every house for four hours every day and brought the womenfolk to serve free meals. Within 9 days, they completed the building of barbed wire fencing. They didn't stop there; they went ahead and started building a wall across the village’s entrance on the bank of Kishanganga. When they were successful in fortifying the village, one of the younger boys who had worked with them told them, ‘If our panchayat had done half of this on time, 36 children would have been alive.’”
Amaal paused, letting her words linger.
“Panchayat elections were three months away in Teetwal. The three of them stayed back and raised five local candidates for the election, helped them contest, grouped them together to create a cohesive bond. And the village was so small and remote that before word could get out about what was happening, all five of their candidates had won. The party they defeated was Awaami Party. Those three men were Atharva Singh Kaul, Adil Hussain and Samar Dixit.” Amaal smiled at two out of three of those sitting in front of her. The steady air of the room told her that she had them. So she went on, adding her own takeaway from their first-ever election.
“The lack of media coverage and communication before and during that Panchayat election proved to be a blessing in disguise for them. But when they started fielding similar plans across neighbouring villages in North Kashmir, they couldn’t bury as strong a stake as they had in Teetwal. They lost three Panchayat elections in a row before gaining their first victory again in Jammu’s municipality. It’s been four years now, multiple Panchayat and Municipal elections across Jammu and Kashmir. But their victories have been fragmented.”
“And why do you think that is?” Atharva Singh Kaul asked.
“Because their names in newspapers are pronounced more as social workers than politicians. Word of mouth takes years, sometimes decades to get out. One successful term of a party in a Panchayat is not enough to prove its merit as a state party.”
“What is required?”Atharva Singh Kaul asked.
Amaal glanced from him to his silent partner, then back at him — “Communication.”
Atharva Singh Kaul smirked. “The four people before you have said as much. This role is for communications.”
“Communication. Singular,” Amaal stated. “Modes may be many, and that’s a mix of textbook knowledge and contemporary media.Howyou communicate is unique to the subject and the audience. Thecore messagemust be well-defined. That’s communication.”
“Define the core message.”
“Now?” She blinked.
“Why not?”
Amaal paused.
Then she sat forward and pulled her pen out of her bag. She opened the cap and set it down. She then began to twirl the body of the pen until the top came off. She separated the refill and the nib and set them down on the table, holding the remaining hollow metal of the body.
“Five parts,” she counted, then glanced up at the two men. “For this pen to work flawlessly as a whole,” she picked up the refill. “It needs to bring all five parts together.” She inserted it inside the body, assembling the nib and the caps again. Slowly. “All five must be different, work differently, but serve together.” She assembled the pen and popped the cap, holding it. “When it writes, though, you must think it’s one whole unit. That’s core message. It is not the root from where all your messages come; it is the message that is the amalgamation of it all. That echoes everything in a few words. In the case of your party, your core message will depend on your goal. You have not publicised it yet, but I am using my discretionary power of deduction to presume that you want to dip your toes into Jammu Kashmir Legislative Assembly Election of 2014. That is the reason you are on a hiring spree.”
Atharva Singh Kaul sat back. “Tell us about yourself, Ms. Durrani.”
“About me?” She chuckled, capping the pen and pushing it back inside her bag lest she forget it. “My name is Amaal Durrani. I am a UK First Class Honours holder from the London School of Economics and Political Science…”
