‘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 sayconfirmed 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 sayingconfirmedsurvivors.
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 passengershave beenreported 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’snotdead.
Or... everyone’s dead? I want to run to him, but where would I run? I just stand. Still.
The rain outside has stopped.
12
Raghav
Time doesn’t stop. It fucking doesn’t stop.
It should. It should collapse into itself. It should fall silent and cease to exist.
Singularity or whatever the fuck people talk about? Where time and space and reality, everything bends? Nothing has meaning. Why doesn’t it, when meaninglessness has been achieved already? But the world just keeps going on shamelessly. Footsteps echoing, announcements continuing, fluorescent lights humming overhead like none of this is happening. People breathing, coffee warming, vending machines beeping, ambulances screeching. It fucking goes on? Relentlessly?
