By Chance ...

Nikhil's father is dead.

He doesn't have to tell me. I see it written big and bold in the newspaper. I immediately look over at him; he is standing in the balcony, gazing out - hands in his pockets, his brow slightly troubled, as if he is deliberating a serious matter.
Anyone who doesn't know Nikhil wouldn't suspect anything wrong. Even his friends barely see through his facade. Just a few of us - me, Smriti, Harsh, Riddhi, Ruby, Gray - are able to make out that he is having an off-day. And only Smriti and I know the reason.
Nikhil was estranged from his dad. My father-in-law hadn't tried very hard to keep in touch, but I blamed that on his acceptance of Nick's anger, rather than lack of time. My husband thought it was the latter, and this just made him angrier.
Nikhil pretends not to care right now, but underneath all those layers of indignation, there is just that wisp of sadness, I know it. I go up to him and hug him. 'I'm sorry' I whisper to his shoulder because I really am, and he doesn't respond, though we both know he heard my words, and we both just let it be.

                                                                            *

Nikhil was well-loved. I know that because I grew up with him. Well, at least for the first eight years of my life anyway. I was their neighbor, and we were about as friendly as a boy and girl as different as we were, could be. There were stupid fights (he often resorted to pulling my hair, and I would always scream at him; I also liked blowing the occasional raspberry at him ... but he totally deserved it) and the silly secrets...Then, when I was eight (and he was nine), Nikhil and his family moved away. And I moved on.
Those days, his family was whole and happy. Smriti was his intelligent sister, just one year younger than him, and she was (and has still remained) my best friend. Auntie was a homemaker who was very talented at designing (always winning the rangoli contest), and Uncle worked at the bank. Or so we thought.

Uncle played with us a lot back in the day. Nick, Smriti, my brother and I always played with him. He would get us these little treats - chocolate sticks, little key chains - that we adored. He was, in other words, our adult-friend, the 'cool' Uncle we'd always show off about at school. He was a sweetheart and that was the only dimension I'd ever seen of him, with the exception of one time. It'd been evening and Nikhil and I had been playing hop-scotch, in front of his house. I had totally been winning, when a man on a motorcycle on the other side of the road started whistling. The motorbike had been a dashing red, and the man was thin and bearded, looking a bit like a fox. We turned towards him automatically and he motioned for us to approach him. Before we could so much as respond, Nikhil's father had burst out of their house and started raging at the fox-faced man. Nick and I had been frightened, totally confused. The man had hopped on his bike and sped off. Soon everyone was out of the house trying to console Uncle, and Auntie had been desperate to know what had happened, but Uncle just shook his head and walked back in.
                                                                        
                                                                                *

I re-met Nikhil in college. He wasn't in the same university, but we were both in the same state, and a mutual friend had introduced us in an attempt to help me make new friends, and instead lead me back to an old one.

The college days were good. Nick and I spent a lot of time together laughing about old things and talking about how things had changed. This new Nikhil was quiet and shy, an introvert, and he did not pull my hair even once (though he threatened to). I had quite started liking this new guy, and casually asked how his family was, how his father was. That was when his face darkened and he stormed off without a word.

Without digressing too much, it would suffice to say that he later revealed to me what had happened after their move - his father had become more and more irregular in his work, had started shouting more at Auntie, and overall, had changed completely.
'He walked out one day. Just walked out. I didn't see him till three days later. Mamma was sick with worry, but he didn't give a damn. Three days later, he comes back with this big briefcase. I didn't know what was in it that time. He just said, "Aap sab ke liye hain," (Hindi for "this is for you all") and left again. He told Mamma something. Something I didn't hear, and then he walked out again. Mamma told us that he had gone to do business. Business, my foot! The three of us managed, though. Mamma didn't let us see the briefcase, but I got a glimpse of it once anyway - it was filled with money. A few days later, I read his name in the newspaper. I'll never forget what it said.'

The newspaper of that fateful day had this big headline: Varun Khanna now leader of ACE Associates.

That seemed OK, until Nikhil understood what ACE meant - it wasn't a reputable company, it was the largest drug cartel in the state, and Varun Uncle was its leader. It felt like a cruel joke.

                                                                               *

Varun Uncle had had an accident when he was younger. His hand was brown and purple and stiff, and his sleeve always hung off of his left arm loosely. He hadn't divulged the details of the accident. He simply said that it had been a case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time, and either way he hadn't been too fond of his left hand. And we just left it at that. It was only later, that I realized maybe something awful had happened, something not meant for children, or even adults (because as far as I knew, even Auntie didn't know what had happened).

                                                                              *

Nikhil and I got married when he was 28 and I was 27. It was probably the happiest day of my life. Through the many ceremonies, he kept making me laugh, getting me to notice the gossipy aunties, and he generally lightened my mood. It's hard to say at what point we 'got together', but it happened, and that's all I cared about. Nikhil and I weren't a dramatic, flamboyant couple, we weren't the heroes of a rom-com, more like the sidekicks who brought comic relief, and shared their own quiet little love story. And honestly, that was enough.

                                                                           *

Nikhil breaks down at the funeral. He is the one performing the rites, and with each mantra, his mask melts away a little more. The sadness that has been there like a tight knot inside him (and not just since the death, it had been there ever since his father had walked away ... twice)  slowly comes undone. Smriti isn't like him, while she too is angry with her father, she decides to forgive him that day, and cries without hesitation.
I want to tell Nick not to hold it in, I am tearing up as well. I want him to be free of the anger and resentment pent up inside that heart of his. But I don't have to say it.
Slowly the tears trace their way down Nikhil's cheek, and he doesn't stop them, they come and come and come, and he just lets those angry tears flow.

                                                                            *

One year later

I guess many of you would've thought that the story ended there ... well, not completely. It ends one year later, in a mall. But I wonder if you would call it the end ... or another beginning ...
           
                                                    -               -              -              -

Glass shards are flying everywhere. There is screaming and people are running for their lives. There's total chaos and panic, and dead bodies are piling up on the floor, innocent people are falling like dominoes. You don't have time to think, you need to run, you need to escape.
I scream his name again and again, and try to see through my tears. Where's Nikhil? Where could he have gone? I want this to be a game, I want to close my eyes and wake up from this scary dream, a nightmare, that's all this should be. But it's not. It's a real live terrorist attack and I'm in the middle of it.

People are evacuating. Safety means getting to the ground floor. That's where I should be right now, at least, that's where Nikhil should be. The guards are fighting back, they're helping out. And so, without thinking, I join the crowd and run down the stairs.

                                                                               *

I'm pushed out into the first floor. There's literally a crush of people making their way down, and I'm not one of them. Where's Nikhil? My phone isn't working either.
There are shooters here too. There's not as many people though. Maybe I can hide, maybe I can jump out the window. Better a broken leg, than a lost life.
The ladies bathroom has windows, right? But I can't be seen. For a second, I have this ridiculous idea I'm playing cops and robbers. Except this is the real life, you-could-actually-die version. My breathing is shallow, my heart pounds so loud, I'm sure it's gonna explode. I'm behind a wall, and I'm listening for footsteps. I have to run...in 3 (but I have never been this scared), 2 (come on! come on! come on!), 1.5 (now or never..), 1 (NOW!)
And I'm across, in the washroom, but I made a lot of noise... where's the window? where's the window? Is there a window? No. Tears rush to my face, I need to pee. I can't die. Not now. There are people behind me, I hear them shouting, 'Koi hain vahan! Chalo! Chalo!' (Hindi for "Someone is in there! come! come!") I'm going to die. For sure. But not without a fight. The adrenaline kicks in and I know I have seconds before they come in ... there's a tiny window above one of the stalls, maybe I can fit through it. I rush inside the stall, lock the door, close the toilet's lid, and manage to stand on it, if I can remove this glass ...
There's a clatter of footsteps, and people rush in. No.
'Ah, dekh yeh kon hain. Ek choti si ladki. Neeche ao, na bachche.' (Hindi for "Look who's here. Just a little girl. Come down, kid"). A man says to me mockingly. I turn around, my hands going up unconsciously. A chill of fear makes its way down my spine. There are three men inside the washroom, two pointing their guns at me. They're young and strong, and are all wearing masks and gloves.
'Should we kill her, or should we have some fun before?' the same man -wearing a green mask - asks. My heart is beating way too loudly. I feel revolted. I'm reduced to pleading. 'Please, please.'
The men laugh. The only thing separating us is the stall door. They're going to open it. Then they'll kill me, or ...or...or...
' Boss aa rahe hain! (Hindi for "The Boss is coming!") Chalo, let's show him our last prize.' Green Mask says.
Are they going to kill me? Can I make a run for it?
They look at me. Red Mask says, 'Don't even think of going anywhere.' Blue Mask stays there, watching me.
I wait, my breathing reduced to short bursts. My palms sweaty, my hands shaking. I just want them to kill me, to shoot me, to end it fast. I close my eyes.
'Yeh dekhieye Boss, ek pyaari chori.' (Hindi for "Look here boss, what a lovely girl"). The disgusting voice of Green Mask says. There's a booming laughter of a slightly older man, and the Boss enters.
I open my eyes. He's slightly rounder, and the wrinkles are visible on his face. He carries himself awkwardly, keeping his arms straight. His mask is black.
I force myself to look at him, so that he can see me clearly. The jovial look on his face fades.
'Tum log jao. (Hindi for "You guys go.") I'll deal with this one on my own.'
The beating of my heart takes a new rhythm. What's happening? The three men look as confused, and they seem to be about to protest when they see the face of their Boss. He seems livid. What was going on? T'hey leave hurriedly.
'Get out of the building!' The Boss says.
I immediately think of Nikhil. I don't know why. There's something similar ... something familiar ... I can't spot it.
He looks at me. He takes out his gun, and I close my eyes and breathe.

                                                                           *

I still can't tell you what happened. It was all so fast. One minute I'm there, and the next, I'm downstairs. The Boss ushers me down the stairs, pushing me continuously with his right arm, his left hand holding his gun, stiff by his side.
'Jao! Jao! Jaldi!' (Hindi for "Go, go away fast"). I don't get it. What is he doing? I want to stop. To ask him. But there is no time, no time. He keeps prodding me, pushing me further down the stairs. And then I am out. And safe.
The sound of sirens is loud. Ambulances are here. So are the police.
Nikhil sees me from the other side immediately. I turn back to thank the man, but I can't see him. It's like he is gone, like he has melted back into the shadows.
Policemen rush to my side,and start pulling me out despite my protests. Where is the man? Where is the Boss? I keep looking back. Where is he?
Somehow I get to the other side. Nick is holding me, and soon I am crying, finally understanding what had happened. Well, most of it at least.

                                                                         *

I had been wearing a coat the whole time. It is winter, it is chilly. Nikhil pulls it off of me when we get home. 'Are you OK?' he asks. I nod. I am, I suppose. I've not been hurt, I was saved! But I need to know why. Who was that man? He had been wearing the mask the whole time, but he had saved me! Maybe I reminded him of someone else, but that doesn't seem to be the case. He was not new to me. I knew that for sure. Had I met him? If so, where?

'Did you buy this there?' Nikhil's voice breaks my thoughts. he's looking at me, wearing a bizarre expression on his face. 'What are you talking about?' I ask.
He is holding something, two things actually. I approach him and see. One's a chocolate, and the other one is a doll? It looks familiar.
'A key chain.' he says, as though he has read my mind. 'Of a fairy. They don't make these anymore. I have an identical one, though. Papa had given it to me.'

MH370

Yesterday, while I was studying upstairs, my mom burst into the room (and with that everyone in my family was in the same room), to tell my dad that they've not found anything yet on the aircraft. And then my dad went on to nod seriously, and asked my mom whether she knew about the stolen passports of an Austrian and Italian.

All this while, my brother and I kept looking at them: Amma, Appa, back to Amma, then Appa... like it was an interesting ping-pong game. We had no idea what they were talking about. And then I asked my mom.

Flight MH370 with 239 passengers (including two infants), was supposed to transport its travelers from Kuala Lampur to Beijing. And then, on Saturday at 2:40 local time, Malaysian Airlines reported this flight missing. It was a Boeing B777-200 - one of the finest airplanes, with a low accident record.
Apparently Vietnamese air force spotted oil slicks - meaning that the aircraft could have crashed.
Also, an Austrian and Italian who were reported to be on the flight weren't. However, their passports were. They claim to have had their passports stolen in Thailand, with the Austrian having lost his two years ago. This report immediately fired worries and rumors of whether this was a terrorist attack.

After that, my brother and I spent quite some time following the news on BBC. The most prominent thing seems to be the lack of information. There have been a stream of pictures showing people in the Beijing and Kuala Lampur airports sick with worry, their faces etched with devastation, frustration and despair. No one knows what has happened and until something definite has been reported, we can only guess.
As I watched the dark backgrounds of the places from where the reporters were speaking, I suddenly lost track of where I was. I could have been in India, or Vietnam, or Ukraine.

This made me think of something else: the fact that, despite our differences, when it comes to tragedies like these, countries all over the world unite. Because, at the end of the day , we're not defined by our nationalities as much as we are by our personalities, and the core human values we all carry. There's something comforting in recognizing this. It reminded me of my English lesson: Bestseller (by O. Henry), which basically tells us that people around the world are all similar, beautifully put together in the phrase: life has no geographical boundaries.

We are united as humans in the best of times as well as the worst, and unfortunately, in this case, we are obviously leaning towards the second. People all around the world are praying, crying, and holding their breaths to find out what happened of their loved ones. I can only imagine how desperate the families in those airports might feel. But I have a message only for those in the aircraft: Hold on, wherever you are. I don't know how it's like to disappear, but you have the whole world looking for you, the whole world rooting for you, and the whole world caring about you.