Page 115

“If you want to become a leader in this place, don ’ t build roads or dams or highways,” Atharva spoke, thundering down the stairs, earphones plugged in and phone in hand.

“Just stop a road or dam or highway from being built. Gather some people and protest. That ’ s what being a leader has been reduced to in Kashmir.

In the whole of India for that matter. It’s like a pre-independence hangover.

Mahatma Gandhi did it then to stop the nation.

He mastered the technology of stopping the nation, and that was the perfect solution for those times. But not today, not anymore.”

“And what about your party Kashmir Development Party? What is the technology you follow?”

“We are trying to master the technology of making the state go. In Jammu and for the upcoming elections. Thank you Mr. Kaul, for sparing your precious hours early in the morning to converse with me. I am grateful on behalf of my publication The New Yorker.”

“My pleasure Mr. Lipovetsky.”

“You are off the record now — For your profile portraits, is it alright if I publish your most recent photos from Srinagar?”

“You can talk that through with Amaal Durrani.”

“Oh great, ok.”

Atharva checked his watch, disconnected the call and wound up his earphones.

It was quarter to 8, and he had a long day ahead.

The kind of day that got him excited beyond measure.

The kind of day that meant he was out of his office and Town Council chambers, the kind of day that promised Dal and fresh air and people.

He picked up the flask of coffee that his cook-cum-caretaker had left on the long table outside the kitchen. “Thanks Shiva, did you order in groceries and supplies for the next month?”

“Given the list to Noora,” his sullen cook droned. He was always in a mood, his efficiency 110% with a 0% chance of a smile. He hated Noora with a passion, and for some reason, adored feeding the rest of the KDP army. That last part had made him an indispensable part of Atharva’s household.

Atharva gave a nod and left the still empty house. Then something struck him and his steps halted midway. It was 10 minutes to 8, and a Wednesday. Which meant Iram might go to her publisher’s office. He wasn’t sure if his apology had been accepted but it seemed like the decent thing to do.

That’s how he found himself in his car, blasting Elvis Presley, windows open to let in the morning sun, waiting for her.

And she didn’t disappoint. At exactly 2 minutes past 8 she emerged from the house, wearing her famous velvet ice blue pheran and a dark blue coat.

A chunky brown woollen scarf was knotted at her throat.

She saw him but didn’t stop, taking the route through the estate walk.

His chest rattled, and Atharva put the car in motion.

“My car won’t burn more petrol if you are in it,” he shouted from his open window when he reached her. She stopped, stared ahead for a long moment, then walked around the hood to settle in. He didn’t show his victory, neither did she give another inch, and smoothly they drove out of the estate.

“Your publisher’s office?”

“No, can you drop me at SMC?”

“What work do you have at Municipal Office?”

She looked at him. His brows rose unapologetically.

“I had re-applied for residential proof, so I need to drop off some documents.”

“You could have asked anyone from the party to do it, they keep going to SMC on a daily basis.”

“Thanks, I wouldn’t be comfortable asking for help.”

“So, how’s the editing for your book going?”

“Not good.”

“Why?”

“Because I am fried.”

“Is it the work at KDP?”

“No, no… I just don’t know where to produce this magical scene where Zoon and Taj can reconcile! Not in this book at least.”

“So they are called Zoon and Taj.”

She shut up, realizing she had said more than she had intended to. Much more.

“What’s the plot?”

“It’s… about Kashmir.”

“That’s not plot, that’s setting.”

“You know so much about story writing!”

“Let’s put some masale tchot in you,” he laughed. “Maybe then you will answer straight.”

“No. You drop me right outside SMC.”

He, of course, took a detour despite her protest. They picked up the first of the piping hot masale tchot from Polo View Road and ate while driving, with Elvis singing ‘You’re the devil in disguise’ in the background.

“I need you to come sit with me one of these days to start on the Manifesto launch speech,” Atharva stated.

“Whenever you are free.”

“That’s the thing… I am never in the ‘free’ frame of mind lately. There is something or the other needing my attention at the office.”

“We will figure something out.”

“Why don’t you come with me on this tour now?”

“What tour?”

“I’m touring the backwater villages of Dal today. We can talk in the car or on the steamer. You will also get a chance to clear your head and think about that ‘magical’ scene of yours.”

She chewed her lip, looking from the windshield to her window and back again. “Umm… can’t we work in the office later?”

“We can do that… I just thought you might want a change of scene, maybe that’s why your writing is not flowing.”

She shook her head, smiling slightly, “That’s not how my writing works. I don’t need good scenery for it to flow.”

“Ok.”

He dropped her outside the SMC building at Lal Chowk, and with a nod, took a U-turn to zoom down towards Dalgate.

———————————

Atharva glanced down at the list of villages in his itinerary copy, then back at Fahad.

The cold Dal wind felt quiet slapping on his skin, but it flapped the papers in his hand quite noisily.

He crumpled the sheet of paper in a nice neat ball and smiled playfully at Amaal’s associate and personality opposite.

“We go where the lake takes us,” Atharva breezed. “No itinerary.”

“I go where big brother goes,” Fahad hurrayed.

The seven KDP members behind him hooted and laughed.

One of them was the Party photographer, another an intern who took good phone videos.

Atharva had deliberately planned his tour on the day when Qureshi had a big rally.

So most resources were diverted there, leaving him with a small, intimate group to do as he pleased.

The crowd on Dalgate was scarce, only flower and vegetable sellers filling their shikaras on the bank.

The vehicular traffic zoomed by on the road, but the lake seemed calm and mysterious.

Their steamer arrived with a fluttering honk and docked on the gate.

Atharva handed in the two female members, then stepped in.

“Hey, Iram!”

Fahad’s call made him turn. And there she was, rushing down the steps, her hair flying behind her, even as she tried to clamp it down with one hand.

The other was busy keeping her satchel from falling, while her eyes were down on her steps.

That sight — that pure, messy, instinctive gesture made something in his chest loosen.

“Hi,” Iram panted, all flushed face and big, dreamy eyes.

He didn’t notice that her eyes were turned to Fahad, as they exchanged words quietly.

Then he walked her to the steamer and handed her in.

Atharva held his hand out and she took it, turning her gaze from Fahad to the edge of the steamer and then to him.

They weren’t dreamy, her eyes, he noticed then when her beautiful sun-lit hazel gaze hit his. They were decisive.

“You came,” he frowned.

“I wanted to see you in your ‘free’ state.”

He scoffed, amused. Fahad jumped into the vessel, followed by four other members. And the steamer set off into the morning of Dal.

Through the channels of water cutting houses and shops, the small steamer steered.

Iram hadn’t been to this side of Dal Lake very often— the residential, village side.

As tourist shops selling everything from textiles to woodwork, woollens to shawls, snacks to flowers passed by, they started to veer into the smaller mazes of houses and houseboats, wooden structures built atop the lake bed.

The water was slowly freezing on the sides and they encountered many a white lotuses stemming from ice blocks, dark green weeds floating freely.

The brown wooden houses that populated the village ahead were iced too, looking like someone had dusted icing sugar atop their roofs and windows.

“Variya kaal gov na myelnasi!” A loud voice came from one of the many house docks. Atharva grinned and waved. The young fisherman pulled up his catch and ran parallel to the steamer, jogging as their vessel trotted to dock.

“Tohy ch'ivaa vaarai Rafiq?”

“Waaray, waaray. Waliv!”

“Rafiq is the leader of fishermen this side,” Atharva told her as their steamer was docking. “He will help us break the ice.”

“Is this your first visit here?”

“No, but the last time I came, they were blindsided by Awaami Party’s radical brainwashing. Come,” he helped her out, followed by the other two women onboard.

“Waliv, waliv,” Rafiq welcomed. “Pakh.”

As everybody started moving towards the small shikaras anchored on the other side, Iram lurched and rushed to keep up.

“You don’t know even a bit of Kaeshir,” Atharva observed, face straight, lips twitching.