Chapter 10 Raghav
Raghav
The board says ‘On Time’.
This, despite the earlier two flights to Delhi being late by fifteen minutes.
We both lean forward, almost at the same time, to get a better look. The words are in the same dull yellow font they’ve been using for the last three hours. Aditi says, ‘Maybe they are on a better aircraft. Should be able to land.’
‘The rain’s getting worse though,’ I say.
‘Thank god for the toothbrush then. We might be spending another night here if they are diverting,’ she says.
There’s a crick in my neck because of last night. I’m sure I won’t be able to survive another night on these ergonomically cruel chairs. ‘And I don’t think Urban Company will allow another delay.’
‘That’s what you’re worried about?’ she says with an impish smile.
I watch the board. The plane has been ‘on time’ for nearly an hour now. They should be close.
‘They’ll probably be so tired,’ Aditi says.
‘I want to add here that I will be overseeing the packing while you guys will be in a hotel. Probably getting a spa or something.’
She frowns. ‘Do I look like someone who gets a spa done?’
‘Is there a specific type?’
‘Like Megha. She looks like one. Model types,’ she says.
I smile. ‘Okay, what do you think Megha does exactly?’
‘I don’t know. Flight attendant? Or HR? Influencer?’
‘She’s preparing for the NET,’ I answer. ‘Mathematics.’
‘Oh, nice!’ she remarks. ‘So both of you are, like, maths, analytics kind of people?’
‘I mean, she’s much better at it. She’s enrolling herself in a PhD as well.’
She shrugs and a sadness comes over her. ‘Actually, I don’t know the type. I’m just an unemployed MBA graduate like thousands of others.’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ I tell her. ‘You will find a job.’
Though I know it’s not easy. The market’s shit and there are hardly any non-toxic, well-paying jobs for freshers from average colleges with no experience. Maybe she knows that I’m lying because she falls silent.
I check the time. 6.54.
The board still says ‘On Time’. How could it not have landed and still be one time? Fucking glitch.
ETA: 6.57.
Then 6.59.
Then 7.01.
Still ‘On Time’.
Still no messages.
We both look up again.
Nothing has changed. But somehow, everything feels slower. As if the board itself is waiting for someone else to decide what to do. Aditi gets up and paces, then returns to her seat. The plane should have landed by now. I look outside and rain’s heavy so maybe . . .
‘Why hasn’t it changed to “Arrived” yet?’ she says, too casual for how her foot is bouncing. ‘Did it get diverted again?’
‘It might take time to update,’ I tell her. ‘Traffic or rain maybe slowed the taxiing.’
She doesn’t reply. She’s now checking FlightRadar on her phone.
Then she pauses.
Her thumb hovers over the screen.
‘This is a mess,’ she says quietly, her eyes darting across her phone.
‘FlightRadar shows it descending, but someone on a forum is insisting their cousin on the flight just texted about a burst tire on the runway.’ She scrolls again, her frown deepening.
‘Wait, now someone else on X is saying there was a security alert and they’ve been diverted back to Jaipur. What is going on?’
Diverted. A burst tire. A security alert. People begin pulling out their phones, scrolling, refreshing. Then the board blinks. Just once. Then again. And then the yellow words flicker and shift.
Flight Status: Awaiting Confirmation.
We both see it. We stare.
‘What does that mean?’ Aditi asks. Her voice is quiet but sharp.
‘It said “On Time” two seconds ago,’ I say. ‘Maybe they’re still landing. Or like . . . yesterday. Maybe it got diverted.’
I look outside as if that would give me an idea.
The speaker above us crackles.
‘Passengers waiting for the Indigo flight from Jaipur to Delhi, please note: arrival status is being updated. We request your patience. Further information will be shared shortly.’
There’s no alarm in the voice. No panic. But it’s not the usual script either. For the other two flights that got diverted, there was no announcement. I check my phone. Nothing. The last message from Megha was about an hour and fifteen minutes ago. A selfie from the plane. Half-asleep, but smiling.
I send her a text. ‘Landed yet?’
Aditi’s staring at her screen too. ‘Nothing from Aman.’
Around us, other people start to shift. You can feel the atmosphere change. A man stands up suddenly and goes to the information counter. He’s asking something. The woman behind the glass is nodding, checking her screen, saying something that’s obviously not satisfying him.
Then the TV in the corner, which has been on low the whole night, is turned up.
The news anchor is in the middle of a sentence.
‘. . . crash-landing on the outskirts of Delhi. Eyewitness reports suggest heavy smoke. No official statement yet from the airline, but emergency teams are on site.’
The headline reads in red:
brEAKING: FLIGHT FROM JAIPUR TO DELHI CRASH-LANDS. CASUALTIES FEARED.
I freeze.
Not all at once.
It’s more like a slow lock. One joint at a time. Neck. Chest. Hands. Legs. My head spins. Of course, this is not true.
Aditi turns to look at me. Her face is still. No blinking. She looks like she’s listening to something far away, like her ears have stopped working and she’s waiting for the sound to catch up.
‘No, that’s . . . some mistake,’ I say, my voice hollow as I stare at the news ticker, trying to find a flaw in the data. ‘They’ve mixed up the flights. It can’t be ours.’
She picks up her phone again. Dials. Presses the speaker button.
The dial tone rings. Once. Twice. Then nothing.
Network error. Do I imagine it? Do I hear sirens?
No. I’m imagining it. This is old news. This is not today.
Not this flight. Not the flight Megha was on. There’s some mistake. There has to be.
I look at the screen again. The image has changed.
Now it’s showing wreckage. Twisted metal.
Smoke rising. A group of men in neon vests walking towards the camera.
A partial view of the wing. I recognize it.
Indigo’s logo. Faded. Tilted wrong. Aditi bends forward suddenly, like she’s about to throw up, but she doesn’t.
Someone behind us starts crying. A loud, uncontrolled sob. Someone else starts calling someone.
My hand is still clenched around the phone.
I don’t remember deciding to hold it. My thumb moves on its own, hovering over Megha’s contact.
The TV is wrong. The news is always wrong.
It always is wrong. I just need to call her.
I press her name. The call doesn’t connect.
I press it again. Nothing. A raw, pointless anger flares in my chest.
Not her. Not this flight. The TV is lying. They lie. Just static and noise and lies. Call her. She’ll pick up. She has to.
My mind, finally accepting the phone is useless, pivots to its next rational, desperate task. I start typing ‘Plane crash . . .’ into the browser.
I hear Aditi whisper, ‘No. No. No. No.’ Over and over again, each time softer.
From the corner of my eye, I watch as Aditi’s phone slips from her hand and crashes to the ground. I sit back next to her. The browser loads. The articles say the same. No one is saying the word. But everyone knows.
The reporter on TV says the words ‘no update on survivors’ and ‘fireball’ and ‘engine failure’ and ‘skidded’ and suddenly the blood drains from my head.
I hear her voice, faint but clear.
‘What if this is wrong? This is wrong.’
‘This is wrong,’ I say.
Planes don’t just crash. On the floor between us is the paper cup of tea, half finished. And in my pocket, a toothbrush she gave me.
The rain outside has stopped.