In a country like ours—so many people that people wish there were less people sometimes—that everything keeps moving; it has to. So many people, but fewer now. Who wished there were fewer people? We have to move, they keep telling us. Like our grief has timed out in this corridor. Enough, like they are saying. Please, it’s an airport, we need to keep this running. People have places to go, lives to live. You need to take this grief somewhere private now. It’s too ugly. A lot of people are watching. You can’t cry here any more. The world needs to work, the wheels are turning, there’s no pause.
Someone from the airline says they’ll be shifting families to a lounge area that’s being emptied as we speak. I can’t be in that lounge.I’m not family.
Megha’s brother told me they will be in Delhi in a few hours, and her parents don’t need to see me. I tried to make him understand, but I think I was being stupid. Why would they understand? I was the one who caused this. Megha’s brother reminded me of that.
‘We need to leave,’ I tell Aditi and her friend.
‘I’m Tejal,’ the girl says.
‘Aman’s brother’s coming. He’s driving down from Dehradun. He will be here in an hour,’ I tell them both.
Aditi looks at me. ‘I can’t see him. I won’t see him.’
I nod at her like I know what to do now. We walk slowly through the terminal, through a world still fucking pretending to be normal. Same announcements go on. Flights are landing now. I overheard there are alternate runways. Seems cruel. An alternate path for the rest of the world to keep churning, keep moving, while ours is incinerated in a fireball.
‘Aman’s birthday is in three days.’
The first time, I think I misheard it.
‘Aman’s birthday is in three days.’
But then, I hear it again and again and again. I turn to look at her and Tejal shakes her head to tell me that I shouldn’t. Aditi whispers it like a prayer she can’t let go of, as if willing to move time three days ahead, and he will be born again.
We don’t enter the lounge. The guard outside asks if we are family. Show us the proof, they ask. I wish I could rip my heart open and show it to them.
‘The passenger’s name is Megha Barua,’ I tell the guard. ‘The family is coming.’
‘And who are you?’ the guard asks kindly—who would have spent the rest of the morning shoving and shouting at people. But kindness? What place does kindness have in my life now?
‘Boyfriend,’ I say, the word grating. Not boyfriend, soon-to-be husband if all went right for a few years, because it would have.
‘You can wait outside,’ he tells me.
There’s a TV on in the distance. Blackened, charred bodies. Bodies. Bodies. I can’t wrap my head around the wordbody. She’s not a body.
I don’t want to enter the lounge. It seems awash with grief. I hear someone say that identification will take days. I could pick Megha out from a crowd from a whiff of her perfume. Escada. So distinct. So cheap too, she used to say. But the healthcare workers on the television are wearing masks. How will theyidentify her? Every word is jagged. Identify? Why will they have to identify? She will talk. She will say,I’m Megha Barua.
But bodies don’t identify.
My Megha is now a body.
We sit in the new holding area. Aditi leans forward, elbows on her knees, staring at nothing. Every few minutes, she unlocks her phone. Refreshes. Again. And again. I want to do the same. Tejal has her arms around Aditi and holds her like she’s trying to stitch her back together. Tejal glances at me briefly.
‘You just met her?’ Tejal asks.
I nod. ‘They were together on the flight,’ I explain. ‘Megha Barua. She... was leaving her family for me.’
Tejal processes that. Quickly. There’s a certain anger in her eyes, like she distrusts me. Fair. No reason to trust me. Or anything. The world’s a fucked-up place with no rules, no certainties, no hope, nothing. Then her eyes flick to Aditi, who’s curled into herself, looking small. Breakable. Broken?
‘And they’re coming here?’ she asks, her voice stern and staccato, already knowing the answer. ‘Then both of you can’t be here when they arrive.’
Aditi looks up, eyes red and wide, like she’s hearing this for the first time.
Tejal softens, but not too much. ‘Aditi... I know this sounds harsh. But you need to go home. You can’t be here. You have to be anywhere but here.’ She gestures vaguely around. ‘You need space to breathe.’
Aditi doesn’t answer. Just stares.
Tejal sighs and presses on. ‘I’d have taken you in, you know that. But your brother came to see my parents. And he was totally... he created quite a scene. My parents have asked me not to talk to you.’
