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  Before Aamir can return to the many windows on his laptop, the Internet connection goes down. He doesn’t know how long it will be before it comes back on again. That’s life in the Valley. One never knows what will hit you next.

  Aamir chuckles. The government’s Internet policy has made his decision for him . . . favouring his Abbu this time. He need not fill out those forms any more or bother with LinkedIn and job boards. Chinar Inn is going to be his next stop.

  How catalytic this move will turn out to be, Aamir has no idea.

  4

  It’s long past midnight, but sleep is furthest from her eyes and mind. For the eyes are inundated with tears even as dark, angry thoughts overpower the mind. Sanam is wide awake. For a girl who drops off to dreamland the minute her head touches the pillow, giving her not even time to draw up her quilt fully, tonight was an aberration.

  Rewind . . . play . . . rewind . . .

  The nightclub brawl plays out like a video in loop in her mind. Showing how powerless she is, in vivid colour and high-resolution density, each time. Chandrav Pandey is bang in the middle of it, chucking insults, in high volume. His taunts hitting her even more than the metallic shower head had when it broke loose and fell on her head while she was shampooing her hair that morning. She had bled then as she does now. That time it was but a singular gash in the scalp that she fixed with some ice cubes and plaster. It did not go for her jugular like this one . . . slashing both her head and her heart. Sanam’s equilibrium and poise need to be restored quickly if she is to avoid sinking into paralyzing depression. A mere pep talk will not suffice. She needs surgery, not a Band-Aid. She has understood that power is what she lacks and that’s precisely what she will have to gain.

  Her mind made up, she starts planning the way forward. Sanam is wired this way and a flow-chart begins to take shape in her head on the types of power and the ways she can acquire each of them. Money power is no big deal given her family background, availability of capital and connections, topped with an enterprising mindset. But flashing wads of money isn’t the way she wants to exude power, so she shelves that idea. Then there is muscle power, but that isn’t relevant in this case. Political clout is another kind of power—this ranks high: politicians in India are twice blessed, having both affluence and influence. They amass one by misusing the other. A zero interest in politics rules out this route too for her. What she craves, she realizes, is real power; the kind that comes from people who recognize one’s grit, integrity, hard work and acumen, and that special something that only you have. Then it strikes her—she will become a bold and honest, high-ranking and authority-wielding government official. She will fight against the rampant misogyny, corruption and exhibitionism that proliferates in society and the economy. This idea strikes the right chord. Yes, that’s the road to take. But where and how should she start?

  Two hours later, soon after dawn has broken, but before the milk and newspapers arrive at their door, Sanam paces outside her parents’ bedroom door, impatiently waiting for her dad to emerge to collect his morning papers.

  He eventually does and raises a sleepy eyebrow upon seeing his daughter up so early. Even before he says anything, Sanam gives him the headline of the day.

  ‘Dad, I want to join the IAS.’

  Then, giving him no time to process this information, she continues, ‘No MA, MPhil, or LSE degree. I’m just not interested in any of those. I want to be an IAS officer and that’s my final decision. What do you think?’

  Mr Banjara looks at her, taking in the dark circles around her eyes . . . her voice all worked up . . . the way she repeated herself—something she did when she was very tense—and the fact that she was up before him despite partying till late.

  ‘Good . . . very good,’ he nods and potters off to the door to collect the morning deliveries.

  Ma has been standing by the door and listening in. IAS officer? Sanam hadn’t thought of it before . . . so many options she’d considered . . . but never IAS . . . then?

  Something happened last night. Both of them sense it. But they know better than to ask till their girl is ready to tell them on her own.

  After telling dad, Sanam turns to go to Ma. She finds her already there and in the loop.

  ‘Ma . . .’

  Before she opens her mouth to explain to Ma why IAS will be a good option for her, Ma pronounces, ‘I know you can do it. And be the tallest officer there ever was.’

  Sanam hugs her mother and hurries back to her room, a new spring in her step and determination in her eyes. There is so much to do suddenly. A new chapter in her life is about to unfold.

  Later, when the parents are alone, they turn to each other, ‘You didn’t suggest IAS, did you?’ the mother asks.

  ‘I assumed you did.’

  ‘How will the Chaudhrys take it?’ she asks, unsure if this will suit their Bengaluru-based prospective son-in-law’s family.

  ‘Nitin’s family will be on cloud nine. A wife who is an IAS officer is a prize!’ he winks, grinning at his wife.

  * * *

  ‘Remember to smile . . . in the hotel business you’ve got to do it all the time.’

  It is Aamir’s first day at work and this is Abbu’s way of seeing his son off and wishing him luck.

  As Aamir approaches the hotel, he glances at his reflection in the glass of a shop window and practises the smile that Abbu has recommended. Someone giggles. Without turning around to see the person who is vastly amused by his fleeting vanity, Aamir walks away briskly, deeply embarrassed.

  But the giggler follows and soon accosts him.

  ‘Aamir!’ A light touch on the shoulder and he stops and turns around.

  ‘Sabah?’ Her almond eyes are twinkling with mirth. ‘What are you doing here?’ Aamir asks, trying to hide his embarrassment. Both at being caught practising the smile and because she was enjoying it so much.

  ‘I came to wish you luck,’ she says simply.

  ‘Thank you,’ he responds automatically, and then, as an afterthought, ‘For what?’

  She knows about his new job, she says.

  Who told her about this? wonders Aamir. Besides Ammi and Abbu, Aamir has not discussed it with anyone.

  ‘I know . . .’ she says as if she can read Aamir’s mind. Actually, she overheard his parents talk of it when she had gone over to his place. Her frequent trips to his house, even when he was in Srinagar, were mostly to glean whatever she could about him from his unsuspecting mother. ‘I know everything about you,’ she mumbles mysteriously, half under her breath, but he hears her and goes bright red. Aamir declares he’s already late and quickly walks away.

  Sabah runs away to join her friend waiting for her at the street corner. Aamir hurries to make up the few minutes he has lost.

  He arrives at the Chinar Inn punctually. He gets placed immediately in the housekeeping department and is soon plunged into all the various complexities that the job entails. The next few days fly by as he masters the intricate art of fluffing and arranging the pillows to perfection and changing bedsheets—hardly as straightforward as it sounds because it involves tucking them in skilfully at the corners and making it so tight that a coin can bounce off it. There was also the matter of cleaning the windowpanes and the toilets. After replenishing the used toiletries, he was to leave each room spotless and dispose the trash. As he goes through room after room, within a week, things click into place and Aamir is sure that he can do it all in his sleep.

  Just when his skills begin to acquire an art form, Allah intervenes with a change of vocation. Two boys manning the front desk have not turned up for work for various reasons. So, being a pretty face—as his supervisor puts it—Aamir is shifted to their spot for the day.

  As commanded, Aamir instantly assumes the debonair mantle of the suavely smiling front-desk personnel. Aamir discreetly shadows his senior, taking calls only when he is tasked. With the need at the front desk stretching beyond that day, he is taught to inspect the filled-in forms during check-in and
also to handover key cards. His portfolio gradually expands to attending calls from guests without being prompted if the front office manager is busy.

  ‘Just watch me as I talk to the guests. We simply must not go wrong in this because we, as the face of the hotel, are probably the first and last face that the guest will see during their visit to our establishment.’

  Aamir hears this litany repeated so often to him that he knows it by rote and can recite it backwards if asked.

  It is his third day at the desk when he gets this unexpected chance to shine.

  Even as he hovers in the background, busy with the jobs he has been assigned, and the main guy stands there lording over the front desk, it is Aamir that the guests want.

  The first people to approach the reception desk that day is not one, but two Swedish girls. They sideline the senior man and directly approach Aamir, who is far, far junior. Could be his intriguing looks. Could be his quiet charm. They seek his input on the best way to spend their day.

  ‘Depends,’ replies Aamir, smiling. ‘Do you want it hectic and action-packed or relaxed and easy?’

  While one wants it ‘relaxed’, the other intervenes, giggling, ‘Half the day hectic, half, relaxed!’

  ‘Okay,’ he says after thinking for a moment. ‘Drive down to the Lolab Valley. You’ll find fruit orchards as well as army barracks there. Gushing springs. And huge, silent graveyards too alongside. All opposites.’

  ‘Sounds interesting . . .’ says the girl who had been giggling.

  ‘Will you take us there?’ asks the first girl. That is bold. She looks him in the eye . . . flirting.

  ‘Ah, if only I were so lucky,’ says Aamir mournfully, ‘but I have too much work today.’

  ‘Too bad!’ pronounce the duo. They task him to book them a cab and a guide as well. ‘Someone like you,’ they chirp.

  The manager of the hotel, Retired Major Ravindra Kalra, who happens to be passing by, overhears the entire exchange and is impressed by the skill with which the new recruit handles the guests. He says nothing then but, when he eventually comes across Aamir’s senior in the banquet hall, he expresses his appreciation. The front desk manager, however, is starting to feel insecure about his position and all this positive feedback about Aamir only makes him more apprehensive.

  ‘You’re not to fool around with the guests . . .’ he reprimands Aamir when he returns to the front desk.

  ‘I’m new, sir,’ Aamir responds, treading cautiously. ‘I’m grateful to learn from you about how to manage weird situations.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. Come to the computer. I’ll show you how the check-in software works.’

  Later that evening, Aamir is alone at the reception, making entries into the computer. The hotel is short-staffed at this hour because the man on night shift is stuck in the sudden curfew that has been imposed in his area following another minor incident of pelting and gunfire. Aamir has therefore been roped in to do a double-shift.

  Major Kalra passes by and this time he catches Aamir’s eye, who greets him respectfully. Major Kalra smiles back. ‘I liked the way you handled the guests this morning.’

  Aamir smiles and thanks him.

  That miniscule of an exchange sets the tone for a long and fruitful relationship between the old man and the young recruit, based on mutual respect. Long and meaningful conversations the two go on to have, on current and diverse topics that interest them, provoking animated discussions, sometimes in the gardens, sometimes in the lobby, or even in the major’s room as Aamir stands supervising the housekeeping staff and the old man sits, sipping a cup of tea. Whenever each has some moments to spare or something to share, they seek the other out.

  5

  Mukherjee Nagar is where Sanam finally lands up. After extensively researching online the coaching centres of Jia Sarai and Rajendra Nagar and more such IAS-preparation colonies, checking out chat threads on discussion boards, she concludes Mukherjee Nagar to be the fastest and most dependable escalator to her civils services dream. Yes, the crowd here is mostly the Hindi-speaking neighbouring-states-wallahs; however, these are people who have lived, loved, read, talked and even dreamt IAS, at least nineteen hours a day. This was the type who suited her perfectly—their language skills she would be happy to overlook.

  Therefore, it came about that it was this ghetto of a neighbourhood, Mukherjee Nagar, bursting with coaching centres—sometimes three to four crammed in a building—that Sanam arrives at, searching for Kamal Kant Tripathi’s (KKT) institute for IAS aspirants. It is the high star rating that draws her to KKT. She finds it—a corner two-storeyed edifice with KKT on the first floor, sandwiched between another coaching centre on the ground floor and accommodation for PG students on the second. Huge signboards are plastered on its walls, three of them screaming KKT, and two announcing Vidyasheel, the other institute contained within these walls. Every remaining inch of wall space is taken up by scanned digital prints—some blurry, some torn—displaying faces of star students who made it to the IAS, and also, intimidating mugshots of their celebrity coaches. Absorbing the success stories and the promises pinned on these walls, Sanam takes a deep breath and walks in.

  It is a different world inside. Nothing in DU has prepared her for the special treatment she’s in for here. Everyone stares at her as if she is a novelty. The stares aren’t a problem in themselves, but the way they stare is unnerving. Like she is the first urban girl that these village bumpkins have ever laid eyes on after hopping off their train at the New Delhi Railway Station. The place is teeming with boys—hormone-driven boys at that; all carrying books and that hungry look in their bespectacled eyes.

  Sanam has never had any problems interacting with people, especially boys. But there is an entirely different breed of boys enrolled at this institute. Neither the academic establishments nor the innumerable social and sports events that she attended in various parts of the country prepared her for this. Not even Tinder.

  Either way, she will just have to get used to them and vice versa, she thinks. She looks around. Why aren’t there any girls here? Just then she sees two, huddled in the corner of the classroom, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Sanam takes a middle seat in the second row next to a boy who seems slightly better to her than the rest. At least, his eyes are on his notes and not on her. Most of them have come from Bihar, he later tells her, some from Jharkhand and a small fraction of them from Uttar Pradesh.

  Raucous and rustic, these boys hang around in groups before and after the classes, pulling each other’s leg and arguing loudly and listening to Bhojpuri numbers. Some do discuss current affairs, although this in their native tongue which Sanam cannot understand.

  ‘Boys!’ A loud bellow, followed by the noisy clatter of ill-fitting footwear on the mosaic floor, drives every lounging body within and without the classroom to their seats in a flash.

  This is Sanam’s first glimpse of the man who runs this acclaimed centre. The USP of this institute was that the owner himself conducts the classes. On the front flap of the colourful brochure that she had downloaded from the Internet, Mr KT of KKT’s proudly proclaimed, in large font: ‘When you do the teaching yourself, without relying on hired hands to do the job, you achieve the best results.’ He is slightly over five and a half feet tall, with an incipient pot belly, in a checked shirt and mismatched trousers and wearing, of all things, a bowler hat. Only some students who have repeated this class several times know that, far from being a mere eccentricity, this crowning ornament actually serves a purpose and conceals a bald patch.

  It takes a few minutes for the youngsters in the classroom and their din to settle down. Getting down to business as it were, Sanam quickly scans through the queries she has listed before coming to class and she is all set to shoot them at Mr KT.

  Tripathi however begins in a laidback fashion. He places his file and book on Public Administration (called Pub Ad) on the table before he adjusts the angle of his hat. He clears his throat and extracts a pair of spectacles from his
shirt pocket which he proceeds to place halfway up on his bulbous nose. In the nanosecond of his first glance at the class, his beady eyes already pick her out from the sea of expectant faces turned towards him. He stares and stares.

  Even Tripathi doesn’t spare her!

  Had this creep been around when she had enrolled at the reception counter, her antenna would have pinged and her alarm bells would have jangled. She would have immediately Googled another institute, one that came with a course director rather than an old lecher.

  ‘Chalo, never mind! I’ll let it go as long as he’s only staring,’ Sanam consoles herself, determined to download all the important and relevant information in his brain. Too much negativity on her very first day at the centre would be inauspiciously depressing. Sanam has but one mission—to ace the civil services exam!

  She begins firing her questions: ‘Sir, what’s the timeline for coverage of the syllabus?’

  ‘That was provided last month,’ he replies.

  ‘But, sir, I only joined today,’ she protests.

  ‘Is that my problem?’ he raises his eyebrows pointedly, the spectacles perched on his nose jiggle up and down.

  To that the class choruses: ‘Yes, sir, evidently, she believes it is.’

  Another voice: ‘No, sir, she just wants to chat you up.’

  Yet another voice: ‘Sir, she likes the sound of your voice and just wants you to repeat what you said.’ A wolf-whistle accompanies this statement.

  ‘Quiet!’ screams Tripathi. The class settles down again.

  ‘Okay, sir, I’ll get that information from someone else,’ she says conciliatorily. ‘I have managed to get a list of books from a rank holder . . . the learning technique he said was—’

  Tripathi cuts in rudely, ‘You’re not the only one in class.’