Amaal looked away, listening to Atharva come back from his extempore detour. He had developed this nasty habit of veering from the written word lately, especially when it was Iram’s speeches. Her eyes fixed back on him, and she breathed a sigh of relief as his words matched the script in their hands.
“Thank god he is back on track. Why the hell did he go extempore?” She hissed to Iram, hoping she’d have a good enough reason.
“Did it sound wrong?”
“I sincerely hope, for his and KDP’s sake, that this is all the extempore he does today.”
A deafening cheer erupted. Amaal’s eyes crossed to Samar again. He wasn’t looking at her this time; his eyes, behind those no-nonsense specs, were trained on the crowd. He cut a simple enough figure in his formal plain shirt and pants. Maybe another woman wouldn’t give him a second glance. Because he was just a man, lean, exuding a muted gravitas of his profession. She was unfortunate enough to know differently. She was unfortunate enough to know the T-shirts and cargoes, the tight muscles under the lean build that lifted 100 kg rocks, the cold stares behind those specs, the ‘Hmms’ behind his public silence.
“Saeni khodgarzee…”
She startled and gaped at Atharva in the foreground of her vision.
“Sæni Kasheer!” The chant was one long, loud cry.
“Humaari khudgarzi…”
“Humaara Kashmir!”
“I’ll go down to the front to get the set-up ready,” she muttered to Iram and turned on the balls of her feet. The chants and cries outside became louder. She broke into a run to go down and check if the manifesto copies were in order when she caught Atharva storming off the stage and towards them in her peripheral vision. Amaal stopped to see what was wrong and gasped when he took Iram with him, and then they were behind a stage panel. Gone.
What the actual fuck!
“Amaal?” Begumjaan’s voice made her turn, and there she was, climbing up the backstage slowly. She quickly schooled her features — “Welcome, Begumjaan. We were told you would give it a miss.” She held a hand out to help her up the last step. Begumjaan grinned — “Good that I didn’t.”
Amaal’s eyes widened. She gaped at the shrewd matriarch of this wild lot. “Begumaajn,” she warned.
Safiya Begum pinched her lips and zipped them shut. But her eyes were mischievous. Amaal turned to the stage. The manifesto copies were already being rolled out. Zorji, Qureshi, Samar, Adil, were all walking out. The MC was already introducing them.
Fuck you, Atharva.
She steeled herself and stormed up towards the panel. What she saw there made her recoil.
The mad man was kissing her, thankfully with her face and body shielded by his.
She cleared her throat. He did not listen.
“Atharva…” she coughed, loudly. And he stopped. His head turned.
“They need you on stagenow,” she clipped. “Manifesto launch is being set up. Qureshi, Adil, Samar and Zorji are already there.”
“Zorji is here?”
“Yes, quick.” Amaal snapped.
He nodded. And she walked away, having seen enough. She wanted to wash her eyes out but first she’d have to get a hold of this election, which was going to spin out of control thanks to Atharva Singh Kaul.
————————————————————
Amaal speed-walked down the KDP Boulevard Road Headquarters. If the mansion was her home, this was slowly turning into her second home. Her Media Team sat at the house, but all major meetings, stakeholder conferences and official engagements happened here. The place was ostentatious, on one of Srinagar’s most prestigious roads by the Dal. For four soldiers who had started the party on rickety chairs, this was a whole kingdom won in five years. Amaal saw the set-up for their post-manifesto launch press conference being dismantled from the atrium.
Despite impediments, it had gone off without a real hitch, just as the manifesto launch had. Or that’s what she hoped.
Amaal glanced around for any late lingerers, journalists or cameras. None.
She ran up the curving staircase and straight to Atharva’s office. Amaal knocked on the cool wood but did not get an answer.
“Where is Atharva Bhai?” She asked a member outside.
