“Then slowly pull it out.”
Samar yanked it out and his whole body went under.
He startled out with a gasp.
Samar blinked. Once. And brought himself to the present — sitting cross-legged in the back of a car, the dark seat in front of him. He wanted to let his breathing come back to normal, but his heart wouldn’t stop racing, the last five days of the riot weighing heavy on his chest. As a doctor and as a soldier, he recognised death better than the palm of his hand. And yet, when it was one of their own, it came to haunt him at least once before settling quietly into his subconscious.
A KDP member from Kishtwar had died. Many had been injured. But the riot had been controlled in time. He repeated the last part to himself, telling himself that the price paid for this peace had not gone in vain.
He exhaled.
“Where did we reach?” He asked Faris.
“Singhpora.” Faris turned over the driver’s seat. There was a jam in front of them, their car frozen.
Samar squinted out at the dark night. They had started from Kishtwar at 7 in the evening, hoping to get home before midnight. The jam on this highway looked tight enough to have them spend the night on the road.
“If you feel sleepy, let me know. I’ll drive.”
Faris gave a nod.
Samar massaged the balls of his eyes, willing the tightness on his forehead to relax. It had gripped him, and lived there ever since Iram Haider had walked into their office a month ago. Bad news was everywhere. He had just wound up one in Kishtwar. Atharva, Adil and Qureshi had come back immediately after the crisis had been averted. He had stayed back to do what he did best — clean up and investigate.
“Sufiyaan Sheikh is now going to be in Kashmir for good,” Faris said, sitting back.
“He is late in coming back.” Samar let his head drop to the headrest. “The election season is already in full swing.”
“His entry was planned like a hero after Awaami had done the groundwork. CM sahab didn’t like it.”
“Because CM sahab is being pressured to pass his seat to his son. Sayyid Butt is playing a very shrewd game.”
Samar thought about the riot that they had just prevented in Kishtwar. The peaceful town had suddenly erupted after a group of Muslims and a Hindu cycle rider had clashed. They were all friends otherwise. That fact had been revealed just yesterday to Samar.
He ran a hand over his elbow, cracked and wrapped in a crepe bandage after they had all run headfirst into the clashes on that first night. Atharva had sustained an injury to the back of his head, but succeeded in stopping them all. The fool was too gutsy for his own good. He had climbed on top of a car and started talking on a loudspeaker. Samar remembered thinking this was the end. Either Atharva would be lynched to death or sustain injuries that would keep him from fighting the election.
But the crowd had quietened. And then he had pulled his sneakiest move. He had gone and promised on live television that CM Mohsin Sheikh would send backup. Mohsin Sheikh had been compelled to send it, even though his son had been the one to orchestrate the riot in the first place.
A thought struck him, and he sat up. “Is Sayyid Butt still in Kishtwar?”
“No. He left on the second day.”
“Sufiyaan is a puppet, Sayyid Butt is the real game maker, Faris. He led Mohsin Sheikh to the CM’s chair twelve years ago, and now he is betting on Sufiyaan. Keep an eye on him. Sufiyaan Sheikh is anyway going to be on everyone’s radar. Atharva and Qureshi also have their eyes on him.”
“He is planning something like Kishtwar again.”
“Riot?”
“No, he is planning something else. He is meeting Sultan Wani’s people regularly.”
“Sultan Wani was running this riot, wouldn’t it be for winding up?”
“Money exchanged after the job failed?” Faris retorted.
“Hmm.”
“I got update on Iram Haider some time back.”
Samar’s senses went on high alert.
