They all became resolute and each indicated they were going to take sections of the entire plane and try to figure out where Giresh had gone. One turned to me and said that although the description I had provided of a tall man, with a thick moustache and a receding hairline was good, they still didn’t know who to look for. So, I ran to get my iphone, thank goodness, we have smart phones these days, and produced a picture of my handsome, albeit missing husband.
Of course, I was stopped by the perennial Shyama, who grabbed my arm as I rushed by in the dark and aske, "evvide poye?" (where did he go?)
I mumbled I didn’t know and proceeded to go over and show the cabin crew Giresh’s picture. They all leaned over and committed his picture to memory and dispersed purposefully in various directions. I did the same and retraced my steps down my aisle, peering at mostly sleeping faces but at a few that stared back at me. It was all quite spooky and unnatural.
I wondered what I would say to my kids, and I could hear Preeti’s voice in my head, "amma, how did achan disappear in thin air, in the close confines of an airline, 36,000 feet in the air?"
I was lost. With Giresh, anything was possible. I was hoping they would find him in first class talking to Abishek Bachchan or some other celebrity.
The crew returned and they couldn’t find him either. They had combed the entire cabin. First, business and economy class.
By this time, my anxiety had reached an all time high and we were wondering what our next steps would be, when I looked clear across the plane to the opposite side and in the dark I saw the vague silhouette of a man with a receding hairline slumped forward in an aisle seat looking like he was sleeping. I jerked up and the others looked at me expectantly.
"Do you see him?" they asked.
I replied I wasn’t sure but began walking briskly making a loop through the back end of the plane towards the opposite side and towards the slumped figure. Giresh was fast asleep, completely unaware of the drama that had unfolded in the dark confines of the plane.
Unlike my western counterpart, I slapped him awake.
He jumped and I asked him what he was doing there. You could see he was confused, he mumbled something incoherently but not so confused that he couldn’t feel the rage emanating from me. He got up and followed my departing figure looking to the crew for help.
The same cheeky crew member who had earlier said that he couldn’t have gone anywhere, looked at Giresh and said, “we thought you had gone for some skydiving!”
As I approached my seat, I heard a familiar voice say “kitte alle (found him I see)!”
I smiled weakly and sat down.
It would have been okay if Giresh had not mentioned that he had chosen to go sit elsewhere to teach me a lesson since I had remarked earlier that between him and Shyama I was going to shoot myself. I thought that was pretty unkind, so in my sweetest and calmest voice I told him, that I was quite okay if he wanted to go back since the aisle seat there was so much more conducive to his long frame. He looked at my firm glare, thought better of saying anything and went back to where we had found him. I wondered for a brief moment what the cabin crew made of that, while I took all three seats in the row to stretch my frame and went to to sleep for the next several hours.
Mercifully, the only thing that kept me up was the horrendous coughing fits that punctuated the still, dark air periodically. I refused to sit up for the rest of the time until I heard the cabin crew move around with the next round of meals. I sat up slowly. Shyama was slumped over with a knit cap poorly placed over her head, also asleep. She woke up when the crew came close to her, looked at the lady and said, "chaaya" (tea)! The lady promptly ignored her, placed the meal tray in front of her and kept it moving.
My husband sheepishly made his way back towards me at the end of the long and eventful flight. My only other encounter with Shyama came when the stewardess looked at me imploringly to assist her with translating to Shyama that she should wear the seatbelt since the plane was about to land. Ms. Shyama was practicing selective senility in spite of the game of charades going on. By this time, I had a great affinity for the cabin crew, so I turned to Shyama and curtly said, "Seat belt iddu" (put your seat belt on). Our dutiful stewardess immediately picked up on my directive and before I knew it was repeating "seat belt iddu" over and over. Shyama looked at me defiantly, I glared at her. Finally I got up, went over, reached for the seat belt and strapped her ample waist in. The stewardess thanked me wholeheartedly and went on.
Thankfully, we landed, and as the plane began taxiing towards the gate, I heard the click of the belt coming off. Shyama was practising passive defiance, another Indian trait. I ignored her, Giresh leaned over and said we should ask for a wheelchair to help her out the plane. I wondered if he was demented and me more so since I was considering it. Luckily for me, the ever suffering husband spoke up finally as I stood up and looked at Shyama's expectant face.
“Go, go, we have a wheelchair planned!” he said.
Never have I exited a plane more quickly.
