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 ofmen 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.
