The City of Pillars: A Kashmiri Political Romance Novel by BHAVINI K. DESAI

Author:BHAVINI K. DESAI [DESAI, BHAVINI K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Asha K. Desai
Published: 2022-07-05T05:00:00+00:00

…main bohot practical aadmi hoon.

Her finger stopped there. Atharva’s whispered words to her sleepy mind last night came back to her. He had sounded caged in, like a tiger prowling behind his jail. But she had been angry, so angry that instead of opening her eyes to him, she had let sleep pull her in. Now, in the light of this morning, even angry with him, Iram tried to understand his perspective. And suddenly, she found emotion lacking in this speech. His emotion was lacking.

It was a perfect speech from every angle — the most diplomatically viable poets were quoted, the right issues were highlighted, just ample attention was given to KDP’s manifesto, and all important wings of the party had approved it. Even so, the speech was just that, a speech.

In a mad moment as Iram pulled her laptop and began typing, she knew she was gambling and gambling bad.

Vaiti vaiti posh chhak ravat pakh, she typed. Then printed it.

And that is how she found herself at the venue with two sets of speeches under her arm, one approved by Atharva and his party, a 15-page long tribute to Kashmir. Another — a single sheet of paper, with 6 little words written across it.

Because the last big public rally at Zaina Kadal had blown to shards, this time the officials had granted KDP the Municipal Park to conduct their manifesto launch. Obviously, the state government was ensuring KDP drew minimal crowds. But the tide of people turning up was a slap on the face of authorities. Iram turned towards the fast-filling arena and blinked. The sight that the crowd presented left her thoughtful. Funny, while the entire team was hustling from pillar to post, checking public address systems, re-checking props for the manifesto, coordinating media, she was standing backstage, frozen in time.

“Where the hell is my final speech? I’ve been refreshing my mailbox all the way!”

She startled at Atharva’s bellow. And then turned to his dark penetrating gaze. He had sweated on the way even in this cold. But she could see how his face had been wiped with a wet tissue, hair brushed back. Only faint trails disappearing inside his collar bore witness to his perspiration now.

“Atharva,” she uttered, as he stood intimidating over her, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed.

“Who else?”

She shook her head.

He cocked an eyebrow and she produced a sheet from the clipboard that she had been hugging to her chest. She didn’t miss how his gaze took her in from head to toe and gave an imperceptible nod of appreciation. Then she was proud that she had worn this crimson pheran today, the only happy colour she owned.

He frowned and looked down at the phrase typed across the paper in her hand.

Vaiti vaiti posh chhak ravat pakh.

“What is this?”

“You wanted to quote this poem by Premi,” she said.

“And the party didn’t want me to open with a Pundit poet. Can we get over this? This is not the time, Iram…”

“Do it.”

“Iram…”

“Do it, go a little extempore and let your emotions sway this speech.

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