Chapter 11 Aditi
Aditi
The sound around me is distant. Like I’ve ducked underwater.
Like someone turned the world upside down.
Volume, movements, everything’s muted. My breath’s ragged and I feel my chest constricting.
Is this what death feels like? There are people speaking, crying, phones ringing, but nothing feels real.
Everything’s too loud and too far away all at once.
Nothing feels real. In this alternate reality, my fingers keep refreshing X.
It’s not me. I want to stop doing it. Because if I stop doing it, it will stop from happening.
But how am I to control this when it’s not me who’s doing it?
It’s my fingers. Every time I swipe down, I want it to say something else.
I will it to say something else. Anything other than what it’s saying.
That it was a mistake. That it wasn’t our flight. That it was some simulation. That they’re safe. That the first reports were wrong.
That someone, anyone, survived.
I don’t care. Only Aman survived. He has to survive. How can it be otherwise? He just took a flight. How can he not be there?
Of course, he has survived. What’s this? This is not happening, of course. So silly, it’s another one of those bad dreams.
But the same tweet appears again and again.
‘Indigo flight from Jaipur to Delhi crash-lands. Many casualties feared.’
The word that catches on my tongue is feared. Not confirmed. Not certain. Just feared. See how cruel and funny that is? God’s a bit like that. God, of course, knows for sure Aman has survived and yet he’s holding that information from me. Possibly to teach me a life lesson.
Look how I saved Aman? Now, be good to everyone.
I’m telling god—message received. I’m clutching the Ganesha locket around my neck and whispering to it.
I tell my personal god that it won’t be a locket, but a visible tattoo.
Please let Aman walk in through those doors.
Please. Of course he will. I tell god I will be the best version of myself from now on.
Fanatic, dedicated, loyal. The kind who walks up the temple steps barefoot. Just let him be safe.
But what am I even saying? Of course he’s safe.
Then someone points towards the glass wall that separates us from the real world outside.
We hear the sirens first. Then blue and red lights flash, lighting up the puddles outside. Two ambulances pull up. Or ten. Or twenty. Slowly. No urgency. That’s how I know.
No one’s hurt. Or they would be running.
Maybe they got everyone out in time before the aircraft went up in flames.
Aman would have come sliding down those yellow inflatable slides.
It will be a funny story to tell afterwards.
Everyone’s safe. Maybe except for a couple of people who were sitting at the back of the plane.
They always say the back of the plane is most dangerous, right? Furthest from the exits.
I can’t breathe. Not the gasping kind of panic. Just . . . like my chest has forgotten how to rise and fall. Like I’m hollow. Like someone has scooped everything out and left me skin.
A few men in uniform walk in. Airline badges around their necks.
The tallest is the one who will speak. It’s clear by the way he’s holding his head—stoic.
C’mon, won’t he look stressed if something had happened?
Of course, nothing has and that’s why he’s able to walk straight, professional.
He’s here to tell us nothing is wrong, and that every passenger was extracted and they are all now wrapped in blankets and being given hot coffee.
He’s soaked, like he ran from the parking lot. Everyone turns to him.
He doesn’t look at us right away. He talks to the woman at the Indigo desk. She holds a hand to her mouth. Nods. Then straightens up. Nothing has happened, of course. The Indigo girl is just surprised that it was a big accident, but thankfully, no one was injured!
Maybe a few people had broken bones from the slide.
And then the man walks forward, clearing his throat.
‘The Indigo flight . . . has crash-landed outside Delhi airport,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. For now, there are no confirmed survivors. We are still trying to get the fire under control.’
It doesn’t feel like real words. It feels like sounds pretending to be words.
No confirmed survivors.
Did he say that? Or did he say confirmed survivors? We have confirmed survivors.
Someone screams. Someone drops to the floor. Another woman bangs her fist on the glass counter. A phone clatters. There’s the crash of a chair falling. They are all hearing him wrong.
I want to tell the people who are panicking that he’s saying confirmed survivors.
But I don’t move. His voice is suddenly drowned out by people’s voices.
I refresh X again. A new tweet. This time from the ministry.
‘We are saddened to confirm that the Indigo flight from Jaipur to Delhi has suffered a fatal crash. Rescue teams are on site. At this moment, no passengers have been reported alive.’
I read it out loud. I don’t know why. My voice doesn’t sound like mine.
Did it read passengers have been reported alive?
All passengers? I turn to look at Raghav.
He doesn’t say anything. His face is pale.
But he’s not crying. Neither am I. Not yet.
There’s nothing to cry about yet. Just a man who has announced that he doesn’t know what has happened.
I dial Aman’s number again. This time, it rings.
Once.
Then . . . nothing.
Why would he cut the call?
Oh? He cut the call? He’s alive? I want to show everyone. Did I imagine the ring?
No, the phone rang. How can it not ring?
More people are gathering by the doors now.
The ambulances haven’t moved. They just sit there.
Idle. Flashing. Waiting for nothing. The TV turns louder.
Now they’re showing images. Mangled seats.
A part of the wing, scorched. A child’s toy on the tarmac.
A woman’s handbag, open. Shoes scattered.
I imagine his shoes. The grey Converse ones.
I turn to Raghav. His eyes are on me. Behind him, I see the paper chai cup we left on the floor. It’s empty now. A little crushed. Who knocked it over? Who stepped over it? The ambulances are still outside. Flashing red, then blue, then red again.
I whisper, ‘No. No. No. No.’
I close my eyes and try to imagine Aman’s voice. Just his voice.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I’m hearing everything wrong. They are saying everyone’s not dead.
Or . . . everyone’s dead? I want to run to him, but where would I run? I just stand. Still.
The rain outside has stopped.