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  Growing bolder, Sabah puts the plates down on the table and coaxing his lips open, pops one shahi tukda right into his mouth.

  Aamir brushes her hand away, stands up and spits out the morsel. Stepping away, he surveys her outfit and coy demeanour and screams, ‘Why are you acting crazy?’

  ‘Crazy?’ repeats Sabah. ‘Yes, I’m crazy. Only for you.’ And bypassing the table, she comes to stand in front of him.

  Aamir steps back immediately.

  ‘Moeen bhaijaan told me that you like eating. So, I cooked and cooked for you.’

  Aamir scratches his head. Okay, so that was why she was feeding him like he were a cow.

  ‘And see,’ continues Sabah, ‘just like a Bollywood heroine, I changed my outfit with every dish I served.’

  Aamir’s eyes widen in shock. He looks at her. Closely, this time. No wonder she is wearing this dress and hat. He has never seen her in Western attire before. And yes, wasn’t she wearing a salwar suit or something before . . . he hadn’t really noticed. But yes, now that she mentions it, he is sure it was a different dress last time, or at least a different colour. Had she actually changed an outfit for every dish she served? Bloody hell! And he had not even noticed. Aamir bursts out laughing.

  ‘I work so hard to catch your attention and you dare to laugh at me. Do I look funny to you?’

  Aamir controls himself with much effort and tries to explain. But her ridiculous hat sets him off again. Angry at him for making fun of her, she pushes him out of the house.

  ‘Just let me take my books,’ he pleads as she slams the door on him.

  But she does not relent. Stamping his foot in annoyance, Aamir dials Moeen and orders him to come home asap.

  ‘I’m waiting at the door,’ he barks into the mobile before hanging up. It was his jihadi brother who was behind this grand seduction scene. Oh, the idiot!

  * * *

  In another city, another scene for seduction is being set by a guy who has flown in expressly for that purpose.

  The last time he was here she could not meet him. This time he knows it will be different. He has planned a perfect evening for the two of them. A surprise for her, although he has kept her parents in the loop and they are only too happy to accommodate his plans by giving him all the necessary information about their precious daughter’s study regimen.

  Nitin has booked an entire restaurant for Sanam, wanting to woo her in style, with continental cuisine and a live singer crooning her favourite numbers. Thursday, according to Sanam’s mother, was a light day for Sanam because she had earmarked it for revisions and clearing backlogs, if any, and so Nitin’s romantic dinner is organized for a Thursday evening. Furthermore, her parents also planned to dine out that evening, leaving Sanam alone at home, making it easy for Nitin to whisk her off for the super-special date, before he catches the red-eye flight back to Bengaluru. Yes, Nitin cannot linger. He must get back in time for an important work-related meeting the next morning.

  Nitin rings the doorbell at six sharp. And waits. Rings again. No answer.

  Calls her on mobile then. No reply. Redials. Same result.

  Tries her parents then. They are at their dinner, as planned.

  He learns nothing more from them. Sanam must be home, they assert. Else call her.

  Nitin calls again. It keeps ringing. He curses. Waits some more. Still no show.

  He drives back to the airport and grabs a sandwich and coffee while waiting to board his return flight. What a waste of a day and twenty thousand bucks! All because he believed an IAS wife would be a prize catch. Well, you can’t win ‘em all. What next? Nilima. Nitin texts Nilima and asks her how her day was and chats with her until they announce that his flight is ready for boarding.

  Sanam returns home late.

  ‘Where were you?’ Both her parents have the same question.

  ‘I went out for a drive. A long one.’

  ‘But why you didn’t take your mobile,’ Mom cries out.

  ‘Mobile? Oh! I forgot.’

  It’s only when mom asks, that Sanam thinks of it . . . looks around and finds her cell phone in her father’s hand.

  She had not even missed it.

  ‘You know, Nitin had come home for you,’ he reveals then.

  ‘He flew down just to surprise you,’ adds her mother. ‘He’s gone now,’ she says sounding irritated.

  Sanam is suddenly glad that she had forgotten her mobile at home.

  But says nothing.

  It was a lucky escape.

  Days become . . . weeks . . . months . . . Now, it’s almost a year.

  Both working. No, all three working.

  Sanam to score.

  Aamir to clear the entrance.

  And Sabah to ensure Aamir does not make it.

  9

  The day of reckoning dawns. But Sanam is not ready for it. She has prepared for the exam. Now she has to deal with the results. She sits before the computer, paralyzed. Unable to muster the courage to key in her ID. She knows that she performed well and done as best as she could, yet . . .

  Her father calls from office.

  ‘Are they out?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ she whimpers.

  ‘Check, beta,’ he urges her, knowing that she is nervous.

  ‘I’m trying . . .’

  At that moment, an unknown number begins flashing on her phone. She tells her father that she needs to see who is calling her. They both disconnect. Sure enough, the phone rings again. This time she answers the call.

  It’s a reporter from NDTV wanting to interview her.

  At first Sanam assumes that they have the wrong number, so she checks who the reporter wants to speak to. The reporter gives her name. ‘Why?’ she asks the next question.

  What she hears numbs her brain for a second.

  It’s a prank call and she is in no mood for this right now.

  She hangs up and returns to her computer. Keys in her registration number. Date of birth. Hands shaking, she clicks the ‘Submit’ button.

  What she sees takes time to sink in.

  She has made it.

  ‘Yes!’ Fist up, she acknowledges it first to herself and throws back her head in relief. And then she ventures another look at the screen.

  What’s this? She has . . . she has come . . . first!

  Her head spins. Dizzy and suddenly short of oxygen, she gulps in a lungful of air and runs out of the room.

  ‘Mom!’

  Her cell phone is ringing again. She sprints back to answer it.

  It’s that NDTV reporter again. She wants an interview bite.

  Sanam smiles and agrees this time. Dancing in the room.

  Her phone doesn’t stop ringing for the rest of the evening, and for days to come . . .

  Kupwara, Kashmir

  Aamir checks his phone repeatedly, sighing in frustration each time.

  Sabah stops whatever it is that she is doing with his Ammi and hurries over to him.

  Ammi asks, ‘Aren’t you going to work?’

  Aamir nods, his eyes still glued to the phone.

  ‘Whose message are you waiting for?’ she asks.

  ‘What message . . . there is no Internet only,’ he laments.

  Sabah takes the phone from him, ‘I don’t need the net to message you.’

  Retrieving his phone, Aamir checks it yet again. ‘Arrey, why has the government stopped it today!’

  ‘But this keeps happening here na . . . What’s the big deal?’ asks Sabah.

  ‘My results?’ Aamir tells her. ‘They’re out today.’

  ‘Then toh good only that it’s gone,’ Sabah replies, miffed. ‘First time that I approve of this ban.’

  Aamir walks off, muttering. Reaches Chinar Inn. Goes to the front desk to take up his duty.

  ‘Meet Kalra sir, first,’ the other boy at the reception tells him. ‘He asked me to send you to him the minute you come in.’

  Aamir makes his way to the major, who is sitting in the garden. The old man get
s up the second he catches sight of Aamir and gathers the boy in a bear hug.

  Aamir is astonished.

  ‘Maar di baazi!’ booms the major. ‘You’ve proved yourself to the world!’

  ‘I have no idea, sir, I couldn’t check my results,’ Aamir corrects him sounding glum.

  The major hugs him again and says, ‘I have checked!’ with a broad grin.

  ‘Isn’t there a ban?’ Aamir is more confused than ever.

  ‘Ban is in Kashmir . . . not in Delhi . . .’

  Amir’s his face brightens, ‘Sir, have I?’ he begins cautiously.

  ‘Have I kya?’ bellows the military man. ‘You have topped young man!’

  Aamir stands stock-still.

  ‘Mere sher, you’re ranked second in the whole of India!’

  Aamir still does not move.

  He needs time to absorb that his world has changed.

  Sanam’s House, Delhi. The TV is On.

  What is flashing on the screen today is not just the news.

  Prime Time News is doing a special story on the UPSC results.

  The names of the toppers flash onscreen as the presenter begins by announcing the results.

  Rank 1: Dalit candidate, Sanam Jadhav

  Rank 2: Kashmiri candidate, Aamir Fizal

  Sanam’s dad whisks out his phone to take a screenshot.

  Next come the interviews.

  Both the first and second rank-holders have been lined up by the studio for their soundbites. One is in Delhi, the other, in Kashmir. As the anchor introduces the two, the screen splits to show the winners, both of whom have tuned in to the anchor moderating from the TV studio in New Delhi.

  Sanam’s mother is in joyful tears seeing her daughter on TV. It’s a pre-recorded segment and Sanam is, in reality, sitting by her mother’s side, watching herself on TV.

  ‘We have with us here in the studio, Sanam Jadhav, the first Dalit to have topped the UPSC exam,’ says the presenter, ‘and this wonder girl comes from our very own capital city, Delhi.’

  Sanam beams into the camera. So do her parents sitting on their sofa at home.

  ‘Also with us in the studio today, the second rank holder, Aamir Fizal, our hero from Kashmir!’ He sits nonchalant and unmoving as the anchor goes on to declare, ‘Well, Aamir has repeated history . . . he has stepped into the shoes of Shah Faesal, the only other Kashmiri to have topped the UPSC.’

  Sanam throws him a cursory look . . . and then looks again . . . He’s hot!

  The next instant the camera zooms into her and the anchor starts shooting his questions, ‘How does it feel to be number one, Sanam?’

  ‘On top of the world!’ Sanam watches herself, ‘It’s a great place to be.’

  ‘Sure,’ agrees the anchor. ‘Tell us how you got there?’

  ‘By systematic and consistent hard work, and yes, my supportive family behind me . . . every step of the way.’

  Her father pats her affectionately on the back when he hears this.

  ‘But there must be something you did that others didn’t,’ prompts the anchor.

  Sanam responds, ‘Everyone gives their best. So, one can’t say they didn’t do it.’ She pauses for effect, then continues, ‘It’s just that my strategy worked.’

  ‘And what was Sanam Jadhav’s strategy?’

  ‘Score really well in the essay, ethics and optional and get decent marks in the rest.’

  ‘Isn’t that risky?’ he comments.

  ‘It is,’ agrees Sanam. ‘But my belief is in myself and my way of working sees me through . . . every time.’

  Aamir’s lips twitch involuntarily when he hears this but does his best to look deadpan. However, Sanam notices that fleeting smile and after that finds it difficult to follow the rest of her interview on TV. Her eyes are fixed on him, watching for another unguarded moment that tells her he’s amused.

  On screen, she is articulate and confident and reveals how she prepared for sixteen to seventeen hours a day, every day, having all three meals at her desk, that too, after repeated reminders from her mother. She also narrates how her father had installed an air purifier in her room, worried that she would fall ill because she never left her room and that she was breathing the same toxic air-conditioned air, day in and day out.

  And on it goes—Sanam narrating her story, lapping up all the attention she is getting. Meanwhile her mother and father watch transfixed, with their daughter sandwiched between them . . . soaking it all in.

  ‘One final question,’ says the anchor. ‘How did you celebrate this news?’

  ‘We partied all night! It had been so long,’ she says, laughing, ‘that I’d almost forgotten how to do that.’

  The anchor then switches to Aamir. ‘You heard Sanam. Now, tell us how you celebrated?’

  ‘Ammi made some kheer for me.’

  Sanam is bowled over by his simplicity. He had kheer!

  The anchor urges Aamir to reveal more, ‘And what happened after kheer?’

  ‘Nothing . . . I was on night shift as usual at this hotel where I work.’

  Both Sanam and the anchor were blindsided by that piece of information.

  ‘And were you working all the while that you prepared for the exams?’ asks the anchor, a look of wonder on his face.

  ‘Yes,’ confirms Aamir quietly.

  ‘How did you study?’ the anchor wants to know. ‘Like Sanam, did you have an hour-by-hour study schedule that was sacred?’

  Aamir laughs then.

  Sanam shifts uncomfortably. She has been watching him closely.

  ‘You can’t plan anything in Kashmir,’ he replies.

  ‘Not even your hours of study?’ he is quizzed.

  ‘Well, there’s always some curfew, procession or ban going on. It restricts your movement . . . and every activity . . . both offline and online.’

  ‘But of you must’ve gone to some coaching centre . . . joined online programmes, etc.?’

  ‘There’s no coaching centre in my town,’ says Aamir, his face expressionless. ‘Even the Internet is suspended every other day.’

  ‘Then what was your strategy?’

  ‘I tried to get a grip on basic concepts. Such that if you ask me, I should be able to make you understand them easily.’

  Before the anchor can ask another question, Aamir requests to leave.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Can’t be late for work.’

  And with that he signs off.

  But the channel does not. The expert panellists now take over. Now, this is the live part of the show. And Sanam watches with interest as they go about dissecting everything that has been said until now. Having an opinion even on what was left unsaid.

  Aamir is on everyone’s mind that night. Panellist after panellist raves on about his success, achieved in such adverse circumstances. His self-effacing, humble persona clicks as well and he becomes a star overnight.

  ‘The real number one,’ gushes a clinical psychologist on the panel. A tag that—much to Sanam’s chagrin—soon goes viral . . . the hashtag trending for days after.

  Her bubble pricked, Sanam watches glumly, not knowing that worse is yet to come, for the anchor throws the line open to callers at this point. So many lives and dreams were tied to the UPSC, it made sense to make the show interactive. Even as experts argue vociferously on the need for reforms in examination patterns, calls flood in . . .

  The first caller congratulates Sanam.

  The second caller also congratulates her and mentions how girls are always topping.

  The third caller asks whether Sanam has used the ‘Reserved Category’ quota.

  Anchor checks and reverts with a yes.

  This sets off another volley of comments and questions.

  ‘Why? Aren’t her parents moneyed, holding top posts in the engineering service and teaching. Then why use quota?’

  Others call up—ranting about how unfairly these quotas undermine the General Category students.

  The panellists take up this
issue then. Yes, creamy layer in SC should be denied quota.

  The debate heats up.

  Sanam gives her take as the anchor connects her live and vehemently argues that she has scored way above the cut-off for SC quota, therefore, technically, she has not achieved her distinction because of the quota.

  ‘No matter what you scored, you still used quota,’ argues a caller. ‘This could have been used by another SC candidate not as privileged as you.’

  Sanam is livid at this insane argument but before she can rebut, the anchor cuts her out as they have a live feed with the Kashmiri rank-holder in the second position.

  Their ground reporter has caught up with him again at his place of work for a soundbite.

  Sanam watches as the camera pans into the Valley, then zooms into this group. The tall, light-complexioned Kashmiri, now dressed in a formal suit for work, stands outside a hotel, talking to reporters. ‘I didn’t know whether I would clear it,’ he says with great humility, ‘but someone had more faith in me than I did.’ Turning to a well-built, middle-aged gentleman standing next to him, he says, ‘This is my boss, the manager of this hotel. He’s the one who told me to go for it.’

  Earlier it was the panellists. Now, even the callers go gaga over this Kashmiri’s win. How, in a hostile, uncooperative environment, with no financial support and limited Internet connectivity, he has achieved the impossible. That too, while attending to a full-time job!

  This sets off a media frenzy.

  Channel after channel plays up the story.

  Saluting the good-looking Kashmiri’s impossible feat. And slamming the privileged Dalits for hijacking the quota benefits of their needy brethren.

  Sanam is getting increasingly irritated. More than the channels and media men, it is the Kashmiri, what was his name, Aamir, who is rubbing her up the wrong way!

  For some reason, she just cannot block out his face, even as she slept. He ranked second, after her. But just because they had jihadis and curfew there, he was being treated like rank number one! She bitterly resented this. She had worked so hard and this fellow was raining on her parade.

  ‘Getting to hog the limelight is the first sign of power,’ she had said in one of the interviews. And now this fellow was diluting her power. Grabbing more of it despite being less than her. Punching out in the dark, Sanam cries out, ‘Aamir! I promise . . . life will be hell for you at the academy.’