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.
11
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 werewrong.
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 bethere?
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 isfeared. 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’swhy 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.
