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And just when life was looking up for Aamir, it was getting hellish for Moeen. He got picked up during a night raid after clashes broke out between the security forces and the local youth. The police claimed they were questioning him for his links to terrorist organizations. This, after Moeen was seen talking to some militants who appeared at the funeral procession of their slain group member. Moeen and some others were charged with pelting stones at the forces, allegedly to clear the way for the militants to escape.
It is in such disturbed circumstances that Aamir’s results are declared. He had kept his IAS attempt a secret, not wanting to unnecessarily raise his family’s hopes. His well-kept secret was now headline news broadcast on national television, and a matter of great local pride. Yet, he had not had the heart to celebrate. Instead, it was time to contribute to Moeen’s family—fill their empty hearts and stomachs with what little time and money he had.
So here he was, spending his last evening in Kupwara with Sabah, in a cafe. He felt especially bad for her. A bud that was yet to fully bloom and savour the world was having to weather strong winds. First, Moeen bhaijaan had been taken away. And now, he was going. That was a double whammy for her teenage heart.
‘Be strong,’ he tells her. ‘I’m just a phone call away.’
His words act like balm to her spurned heart. She had got it all wrong that day, she tells herself. He cares. He actually cares for her! And her face lights up . . . making the evening merry as Aamir tells her about all the shenanigans that Moeen and he had been up to before life forced them to grow up.
Someone in the café recognizes him from the TV interviews and walks over to their table to congratulate him.
‘So happy for you,’ says the man, shaking Aamir’s hand. Aamir smiles and thanks him.
‘And that girl too . . . what was her name?’ he tries to remember.
‘Sanam,’ replies Aamir.
‘Yes, Sanam,’ recalls the man. ‘Proud of her, too.’
Sitting down beside Sabah again, Aamir murmurs, almost to himself, ‘Sanam . . . nice name . . .’
Sabah throws him a dirty look, pushes back her chair and storms out of the café.
10
A struggling IAS aspirant attains stardom the minute he clears the UPSC. Or so the coaching centre ads lead you to believe.
You do ascend the heights as drive you must now up the hilly terrain to this heritage site, where you will be unceremoniously knocked off your star status. And labelled simply as an Officer Trainee (OT). A year-and-a-half-long drill follows. You are made to sweat both in class and the (physical training) PT ground. Survive lecture after lecture and trek after trek . . . until you get anointed as a babu, in a cadre that may or may not be to your liking.
Driving up to the academy, Sanam soaks in the breathtaking view of the hills that will become home for the next year and a half. She is in high spirits. Reaches Library Point, Mussoorie. Takes the road up . . . and up . . . to the Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration (LBSNAA) or quite simply, the academy.
Like her, all the success stories have queued up at the gates for an ID check. This takes time—but then so did the preparation to reach here, didn’t it? They are willing to wait, under a warm summer sky, until it is their turn to register.
Sanam impatiently shifts from one foot to the other, sweating; peering around the queue to see if the line is moving; patting tissues on her face and neck . . . cursing under her breath. Noticing her acute discomfort, the guy ahead of her offers her his place in the queue. She cheerfully moves into his place and then turns around to thank him.
The smile freezes on her face when she recognizes the gallant young man. That Kashmiri! Rank Two.
‘You!’ she almost screams.
‘Do you know me?’ he asks, bending a little, because he is quite tall.
‘No, I don’t,’ says Sanam, not wanting to admit that his face has been haunting her for the last two months. ‘And I don’t even want to . . .’ she mutters under her breath.
But he has sharp ears. ‘Why don’t you want to know me?’ His voice is as gentle as before.
Sanam finds it very difficult to be annoyed around this soft-spoken hunk.
‘You two,’ someone shouts from behind. ‘Cut the romance and move on . . .’
Flustered, Sanam tries to go forward at the same time as Aamir. And the two collide into each other.
‘Yaar, you two got it all wrong,’ it is that same loud voice that called out earlier. ‘“Scene cut,” I said, and you are now adding masala?’ Everyone in the queue bursts out laughing. Including Aamir.
Sanam gathers herself and moves ahead, not looking at Aamir or anyone.
As soon as they are inside the admin building, the column moves at double the speed. After the forms have been filled and hostel rooms allocated, there is the complicated business of getting familiarized with at least a fraction of the campus—which is not just huge, but takes you uphill and downhill, with residential complexes located on various gradients. The beauty of the place is mind-blowing—a heritage property with five-star facilities, it sits on a hill, beneath a sapphire sky flecked with drifting clouds.
Classrooms can wait until tomorrow but finding the Officers’ Mess right away is critical. Sanam huffs and puffs up the steep incline to her hostel block and then down again to another complex, where she has to climb what seems an infinite number of stairs until she reaches the Officers’ Mess. By the time she reaches for her plate, she knows she has earned it.
Along this arduous journey uphill to the Mess, she gains not just an appetite, but a few friends too. One of them is Kuldeep. He is panting even more than she is and keeps her in splits, cursing every inch that sloped up to make their life more miserable. From Chandigarh, Kuldeep cannot stomach the fact that a Delhi girl, Sanam, has never been to Punjab. So, he goes into damage-control mode and fills her with dope on all the happening sights, clubs and stuff that make his town a must-visit. Along the way, Sanam also comes across Neeti, who turns out to be her roommate; only she is yet to enter their room. For Neeti has dumped her luggage at the registration desk only, choosing to first eat than doing anything else. She seems a kindred soul, running late—exactly like Sanam and that proverbial rabbit in Alice’s wonderland.
All that lavish spread . . . the immaculate table layout . . . and the cool mountain air that whet appetites even further . . . the climb was worth it.
At the Mess, a lavish buffet spread on a table that’s immaculately laid out. With the cool mountain air to whet their appetites, the OTs get down to the serious business of eating. All except Sanam. She is chatting vivaciously with fellow trainee officers, eating less and talking more, as always. Kuldeep, guy from Chandigarh comes to sit beside her, lapping up everything she says. He has seen her picture in the papers, he says, and watched all her interviews on TV. He likes her dusky beauty, he lets slip in between sips of manchow soup. Sanam only nods.
Aamir, seated at the head of the table opposite theirs, is busy enjoying his five-star meal at the academy. He is especially enjoying the desserts and is digging into them happily when Sanam glances his way. Aamir happens to look up from his gulab jamun just then and catches her looking at him. Sanam quickly turns to Kuldeep.
After that sumptuous meal, wearing a close-fitting bandhgala is proving to be a nightmare for some OTs, but they have no choice. The mandarin-collared Indian suit is the stipulated formal attire for all official ceremonies, and the male OTs had been asked to invest in one before showing up. Today is the Inaugural Ceremony and the need to look dapper is paramount.
Sanam, pulls on a brightly-bordered sari around her slim figure. Adds on a few trinkets to accessorize and runs down to the auditorium where they are to gather for the function. Even walking at normal pace is a run on this hilly terrain. She wants to be early to meet the visiting dignitaries, if that were possible, and also the organizing staff, faculty and her batchmates of course.
A melee of figure
s scurry up and down the block that houses the auditorium they have spruced up for the event. She looks around and sees hundreds of OTs in bandhgalas and saris everywhere. Sanam falters as her eyes fall on the one bandhgala that clings to its owner like second skin. Draping him even as it reveals his sinewy and muscular torso; its crisp blackness accentuating his light skin.
It takes Sanam a while to realize that she has been ogling. Deeply embarrassed, she takes a quick step forward, not looking—not at him, nor at anyone or anything else—and in her rush to get out of this awkward situation, she would have tumbled down the path, had Kuldeep not emerged from nowhere and grabbed her arm. She grips his hand—would have clasped anyone’s at that point—to escape the indignity of rolling down the campus, in her ceremonial attire, in full view of the gathered trainees and dignitaries.
Aamir sees her entry, in all its dramatic proportions, even as two other OTs try to engage him in an animated discussion on the joys of life in the hills. Ah! A sari definitely makes her look older . . . and yes, even more beautiful, if that were possible. So young she had seemed to him . . . on TV, and in real life, this morning. Too young to be here. And so fragile! Making him want to protect her. Hell! Where did that come from? Aamir reins in his wayward thoughts and concentrates on his conversation with the fellow OTs. No drifting. He has only one goal—to make a difference. To all those lives in his state. That is what has brought him here. And that is how it shall stay!
The OTs have arrived from far and near and initially want to just soak in the feeling of being at the place where they are officially officers in the making. It is an uplifting feeling, as high as the hills they are on . . . perhaps even loftier. However, the lengthy ceremony, the highbrow gathering, the long speeches and oath-taking and the verbose descriptions of the history of the place and the course, invariably take their toll, relegating many into sleep mode.
Kuldeep starts unbuttoning his stifling bandhgala the second he steps out of the auditorium.
‘Phew!’ he heaves a sigh of relief and sucks in a lungful of fresh air.
‘Young man, was it so suffocating?’ checks someone.
The authoritarian voice has Kuldeep snapping to attention at once, his hand flying up to refasten the bandhgala collar.
‘No, sir,’ replies the OT meekly. ‘Never, sir.’
‘The point of this academy is to train you in all this as well,’ the senior gentleman, who was probably an officer and teaching faculty here, explains. ‘You’ll need it when you start working.’
‘Yes, sir,’ agrees Kuldeep. ‘It’s . . . it’s just that it’s my birthday today . . . and you don’t exactly wear a bandhgala on your birthday, sir.’
There, he had said it. Two whole minutes of debating with himself whether to say or not to say, he had decided to risk it. Worst what could happen . . . they might strangle him with his own bandhgala, pulling it tight around his neck. That’s okay. He had been choking already.
Sanam, exiting the auditorium just then, overhears Kuldeep and leaps to his rescue, ‘Sir, isn’t he lucky? He’s joining this place on his birthday—makes it so extra special!’
And the senior man nods in agreement, his annoyance fading instantly. Kuldeep thus manages to walk away unscathed.
Out of earshot, the two give in to their building urge to burst out laughing. And laugh all the way back to their hostel block. Sanam’s block. Kuldeep’s was to the left.
Two hours later, Sanam and her roommate, Neeti, haul a huge plate of cookies, a knife, paper plates and tissues to the birthday boy’s block. Sanam has topped the cookies with various types of sauces that she had seen in the desserts section in the Mess hall and had gone back to fetch. This was to be the cake that the OT from Chandigarh will cut to mark the day that he officially made his debut into this world. She had asked the entire batch to gather in Kuldeep’s room for this unofficial ceremony
And so flocked everyone, around the plate of sauced cookies, singing raucously. Someone switches on a peppy number on a Bluetooth speaker and the OTs let down their hair after a gruelling day and dance. By now all the Indian coats have come undone and are flapping and getting in the way of everyone, proving to be the ultimate ice-breaker. Sanam sways to the music, losing herself in the beat and the moment. Aamir stands watching from a corner. But moments later, he quietly slips out.
On the way back to his hostel block, Aamir pauses at a point where the ranges appear raw and uncut. A signpost on the pathway claims that this point offers the best view of the Gangotri peaks. Darkly brooding and imposing in the absence of the sun, the craggy mountain face still comforts him in a way nothing else can. His eyes dwell on both the peaks and the crevices taking in the rise and the valleys nestling in the hollows.
Back in his hostel room, Aamir sits down to blog on his laptop. The Unknown Voice had something to say.
It’s supposed to be one world, but they seem like worlds apart.
The people are the same. And the mountains too.
Yet, their fates are so different.
You’ve got grenades there. And music here.
Processions there. And dancing here.
The youth attend funerals there. And cut birthday cakes here.
Why?
Someone needs to ask these questions and someone needs to answer them too. Aamir falls asleep . . . his questions unanswered.
11
The infamous PT class, held every morning at 6 a.m. in the polo grounds, is something that every OT had been warned about. But nothing can match the actual pain of waking up at that ungodly freezing hour, get ready even as your teeth chatter, and march down the steep, inclined path, fingers and toes almost numb with the cold. The kilometre-long trek down to the PT ground is killing in itself for most of the OTs. Sanam races downhill, uncharacteristically late, but all her planning fell through when her exhausted sleep-consumed body forbade her ears to respond to the early morning alarm she had set on her cell phone. Half bouncing, half slipping, she manages to reach the wide green expanse where the batch has assembled in tracksuits and sneakers for their drill. The instructor points out to her and one other latecomer that if he could make it to the grounds on time, so could they. This hits home worse than any punishment would have.
As they fall in line, a shrill whistle sets the much-maligned session going. First, they must jog two laps around the polo grounds that to Sanam look like they are endless. If she had not been in the middle of the line, she wouldn’t have known till where to run and from where to turn, for the fogged out boundaries become visible much later. By the time she completes the first lap she is gasping for breath. As she hobbles off for the next lap, she almost bangs into someone who is standing still instead of running like the rest of them. She veers to a stop just in time and looks up to curse . . . and finds herself looking into a pair of brown-black eyes, the very same pair that have been haunting her even before she has seen them in real life. Aamir! Yes, it’s none other.
‘What the—’
He nimbly steps aside, throwing up his hands in mock surrender.
She bites her lip before the curse spills out and hobbles on, trying to catch up with the group. But they are already half-way into their second lap by now. Even as her body propels forward, her mind twists backward . . . trying to figure why the Kashmiri goon had stood stationary when the whole batch had been sprinting forward . . . or at least trying to.
It is only when she is in the middle of her second lap and most of the other OTs have finished their run, does she get it—that bloody Kashmiri had already finished his rounds when she hadn’t even begun her second.
The rest of the exercises are a blur for her and for many other OTs. They go through the motions, deadbeat, clueless as to what they are doing or why, having not even the energy to count how many times they did it.
And then, there were those . . . three, in fact, who were pulled out to stand in front, with their backs to them and lead the batch.
Sanam hated all three of them, bitterly.
She fumes, scalding him with her anger and irritation.
He glances behind, must have felt something. But sees nothing.
A few OTs manage to make it to breakfast that first morning. Ravaged by their first PT session, they have just about enough energy to shower and hobble like old gnomes to their classes on time. Sanam, Kuldeep, Neeti, Rajbir and Palak . . . are all comrades in misery.
At half past nine, on the dot, Course Director, Dheeraj Sinha, makes his grand entry. Dressed suavely and on point, bearing a no-nonsense demeanour and a tablet PC, he greets the class in impeccable English—complete with a British accent—and gets down to brass tacks.
Sanam is highly impressed. This is precisely the sort of officer she wants to become. Smart and successful with a regal carriage and an attitude to match. Although not very tall, he looks fit and energetic as he conducts that first ‘ice-breaking session’ as he calls it. He lays out the ground rules as well as the academy’s expectations from the class, clearly and succinctly.
She drums her fingers, biding her time until he finishes his initial briefing. At his first pause, she begins firing question after question, stopping not even to catch her breath.
Dheeraj sir takes it in his stride. However, he can answer only a few of those queries, as time is short and there are other topics to be discussed in class that day. Plus, other students have also flagged up points, though not half as many as Sanam, even if they are counted together as one.
As for Aamir, he sits quietly.
Unheard and unnoticed.
‘Sanam, you said you were, right,’ Dheeraj sir calls out to her after dismissing the class. She runs up to him in joy. ‘You raised some good questions. Meet me after classes tomorrow, in the library,’ he tells her. ‘We’ll take up your issues then . . . point by point.’