A guard checked Yamini’s bag. Another ran a scanner over her camera body before they opened the door and waved her through.
The conference room was large, bright, and intimidating in the way official spaces always were. Long table. Microphones. Name placards. A national emblem on the far wall. Two flags in the corner. Men and women in formal clothing sat in tight clusters, murmuring quietly.
At the center of the table sat the gray-haired chief minister she had seen at the event a week earlier. He spoke in low tones to the man beside him, then paused to glance at his watch. Seated beside him was Tina, the chief minister’s daughter. Unlike at the event, Tina was now dressed in a professional cream suit with pearl earrings. She was gripping a folder tightly.
Yamini moved to the right side of the room, where a thin strip of tape marked the boundary. A couple of other press photographers were already stationed there. Nodding in acknowledgment, she stood next to them. She took out her camera and adjusted the settings. She took a few test frames of the room, capturing the minister’s profile, a couple of senior officials, and a woman in a cream sari who appeared to be an advisor.
Just as she wondered if the lighting would dim when the meeting began, she felt a shift in the room.
People quietened and sat up straighter before looking toward the entrance.
Yamini lowered her camera slightly and turned.
The door opened wider, and she saw two more guards taking positions.
A moment later, she saw him.
Bharat Singh Jogra.
Yamini’s breath caught.
Oh my God. Why is he here!
He was once again in a dark suit and sunglasses. And he walked into the room like he owned every inch of the building.
Yamini swallowed hard and lifted the camera automatically, the way her hands always moved when her brain tried to panic.
She clicked pictures while his entourage followed—two assistants, four security men, all scanning the room with sharp focus. They spread out like a shield without anyone giving an obvious command.
She noticed that Bharat Jogra didn’t glance around like a man arriving at a meeting. He moved with purpose straight toward the main table.
Everyone in the room rose.
The chief minister stood as well, smoothing his jacket as if this wasn’t his office anymore.
Bharat stopped near the minister and extended his hand.
The minister shook it with a bright smile. “Your Highness. Thank you for coming.”
Yamini’s stomach dropped as realization dawned.
The heightened security was for him.
The chief minister gestured toward the seat beside him. “Please,” he said, deferential. “Shall we begin?”
Bharat inclined his head once and took his place at the table. Papers were passed. Chairs scraped softly. Conversation resumed in measured tones.
Yamini lowered her camera slightly, her fingers stiff.
Why is he here?
Her mind scrambled for logic, clinging to it. Bharat was a steel magnate. Environmental clearances, sustainability optics, and ministry approvals were a part of his world. She was the one who didn’t belong in places like this.
You are here for a job.
She was a photographer. People didn’t pay attention to photographers.
And the man who ignored even the most important people wouldn’t bother looking at the photographer.
