The flat was on the fourth floor. Zara reached it first — her auto was faster than the BJP convoy, which was one of the things she had learned about political life: a smaller car moved more quickly through Lucknow traffic than a white SUV with a flag, whatever the occupant of the SUV thought about their own importance.
She had a key. She had always had a key. The flat had been her campaign base for six weeks. She knew the slightly sticky lock on the front door, and the way the second bedroom's window didn't shut all the way, and which of the kitchen taps ran hot faster than the other. She let herself in, stood in the living room for a moment, and looked at the space.
Three bedrooms. One living area. One kitchen. One bathroom and one attached. A flat she had been treating as a base of operations and a place to sleep four hours on nights when she was too tired to go back to her actual apartment across the city.
And in thirty-one days, one election.
She heard the lift. She heard voices in the corridor — his people, arriving with luggage and displeasure, the sounds of an entourage managing a situation that their candidate's entourage had not anticipated and was not pleased about. She heard the knock, though they had a key too — the knock was a provocation, an announcement, a way of saying: we are here, we are coming in, you cannot stop us.
She opened the door. Aditya Malhotra was standing in the corridor with the expression of a man who had spent thirty minutes in a car recalibrating. He had recalibrated well — she could see it, the controlled readiness, the face that had decided what this was and how to manage it. He was holding a small bag. His entourage was behind him.
"Siddiqui," he said.
"Malhotra," she said.
