राम गोखलेची गोष्ट

मधे एकदा मामाच्या घरी गप्पा मारताना अमेरिकेतल्या भारतीयांचा विषय निघाला. आमचे अनेक मित्र, अनेक नातेवाईक कधीचे अमेरिकावासी झालेले आहेत. माझ्या आईचा चुलतभाऊ मला वाटतं १९७५च्या सुमारास गेला असेल. तेव्हापासून जो अखंड प्रवाह सुरु झाला आहे तो आजपर्यंत. ही चर्चा चालू असताना मला एकदम राम गोखलेची आठवण झाली. ‘आमच्या वर्गातला एक मुलगा तर १९७० साली गेला होता.’ मी मामाला म्हणालो.

राम पहिली ते तिसरी माझा चांगला मित्र होता. घारे डोळे, पिंगट केस, गोरा वर्ण ह्यामुळे तो युरोपियन वाटायचा. चौथीचं वर्षं नुकतंच सुरु झालं होतं. एक दिवशी सकाळी प्रार्थना झाल्याबरोबर वर्गशिक्षक वर्गाबाहेर गेले. तिथे कुणाशी बोलत असावेत. मग आत येऊन त्यांनी एक घोषणा केली: “एक बातमी आहे, ज्याची आहे तोच तुम्हाला सांगील. ये रे आत.”

असं म्हटल्यावर राम गोखले आत आला. बोलताना त्याची मान जरा उजवीकडे कललेली असायची. ती त्याची सवय होती. तशी मान कलवून तो म्हणाला: “मी कायमचा अमेरिकेला चाललोय. आज तुमच्या सगळ्यांचा निरोप घ्यायला आलो होतो.”

एवढंच.

ती दोन वाक्यं बोलून तो वर्गाबाहेर गेला. आमच्यासाठी वर्गातला कुणीतरी अमेरिकेला जातोय म्हणजे काय आणि कायमचा जातोय म्हणजे काय हे गूढ होतं. ते गूढ मनातल्या मनात दाबून आम्ही अभ्यासाला लागलो.

तो जून १९७०चा महिना होता. म्हणजे त्या घटनेला जवळपास पन्नास वर्षं झाली. त्या दिवशी राम वर्गातून गेला ते त्याचं शेवटचं दर्शन. त्यानंतर कधी त्याचं नावही निघालं नाही. मामाच्या घरून परत येताना मी विचार करायला लागलो. काय झालं असेल रामचं? अमेरिकेला जाऊन त्याने काय केलं असेल? घरी येईपर्यंत माझं कुतूहल बळावलं, शिगेला पोचलं.

मी वर्गातल्या दोन-तीन जणांना फोन केले. आठवतोय तुम्हाला राम गोखले? चौथीच्या सुरुवातीला अमेरिकेला गेलेला मुलगा?

छे बुवा. हे नावही आठवत नाहीये आणि असा कुणी मुलगा आपल्या वर्गात होता हेही माहित नाहीये. बऱ्याच जणांकडून हे ऐकल्यावर मला एकदा वाटलं राम गोखले हा माझा भ्रम होता की काय? माझ्या कल्पनाशक्तीने निर्माण केलेली व्यक्तिरेखा होती की काय?

मी इंटरनेटमध्ये त्याचा शोध करायचं ठरवलं. पण शोध काय म्हणून करणार? त्याच्या नावाशिवाय आणि तो पन्नास वर्षांपूर्वी अमेरिकेला गेलाय ह्याखेरीज माझ्याकडे काहीच माहिती नव्हती. आणि राम गोखले ह्या नावाच्या शेकडो व्यक्ती असतील. शोध कसा करायचा? अश्या वेळी मी शेरलॉक होम्सची टोपी धारण करून विचार करायला लागतो.

अमेरिकेला गेल्यानंतर रामने नावाचं स्पेलिंग नक्कीच बदललं असणार. कारण इंग्लिशमध्ये Ram चा अर्थ बोकड असा होतो. मी Raam Gokhale टाईप करून शोध सुरु केला. अहो आश्चर्यम्. पहिल्याच फटक्यात रामचा बायोडेटा आणि फोटो सापडला. रामने गणित, तत्वज्ञान आणि एक्च्युअरीच्या पदव्या संपादन केल्या होत्या, तत्वज्ञानावर अनेक पुस्तकं लिहिली होती, Am I still me नावाची आत्मचरित्रात्मक कादंबरी प्रकाशित केली होती. ११ सप्टेंबर २००१ला तो वर्ल्ड ट्रेड सेंटरच्या ३१व्या मजल्यावर काम करत होता, आणि कष्टाने आणि नशिबाने वाचला होता. अडतीस वर्षं अमेरिकेत राहून आता पुण्याला परतला होता, गरीब आणि गरजू मुलांना गणित आणि इंग्लिश फुकट शिकवण्यासाठी. मोठी सुरस जीवनकथा होती ही. माझ्या स्मरणशक्तीत होता त्याहून फोटोतला राम अर्थातच वयाने मोठा होता. तत्त्वज्ञाला साजेसं टक्कल कपाळाकडे पडायला लागलं होतं. मात्र डोळे तेच घारे, आणि मान कललेली उजव्या बाजूला.

बायोडेटात पुण्याचा पत्ता आणि घरचा फोन नंबर होता. लगेच मी तो फोन लावला. पन्नास वर्षांनी माणसाला शोधणं एवढं सोपं असतं?

फोन अस्तित्वात नव्हता असं एका गोड आवाजाने सांगितलं. परत परत लावून तो एकच मेसेज ऐकू येत होता. मग मी इंटरनेटमध्ये पुण्याची फोन डिरेक्टरी शोधली. इथे तुम्ही पत्ता टाकून फोन मिळवू शकता, किंवा फोन नंबर टाकून पत्ता. तिथे कळलं की रामचा इंटरनेटमध्ये सापडलेला फोन काढून टाकण्यात आला होता.

मग मी त्याच्या सोसायटीत (कुमार क्षितीज, साखर नगर, पुणे) आणखी कुणी गोखले राहतात का हे डिरेक्टरीत शोधायला सुरुवात केली. कदाचित रामचे कुणी नातेवाईक त्याच सोसायटीत राहत असतील. तसेही पुण्याच्या कुठल्याही मोठ्या सोसायटीत एखादे गोखले असायला हरकत नाही. प्रयत्नांती मला कुमार क्षितीजमधले आणखी एक गोखले सापडले. हा फोन कुणीतरी उचलला. तरुण स्त्रीचा आवाज होता.

मी माझं नाव सांगितलं. “मी राम गोखलेंना शोधतोय.” मी म्हणालो.

“राम गोखले माझ्या सासऱ्यांचं नाव.”

मी मनातल्या मनात गणितं केली. म्हणजे रामने बऱ्याच लवकर लग्न केलं, पहिला मुलगा झाला, आणि आता मुलाचं लग्नही झालं, झपाट्याने काम करणारा दिसतोय राम.  

“सासरे? आहेत का घरी?” मी विचारलं.

“ते... ते दीड वर्षांपूर्वी वारले.”

मी फोनवर बोलताना बाजूच्या कॉम्प्यूटर स्क्रीनवर रामचा मोठेपणीचा फोटो होता. मी त्या फोटोकडे खिन्नपणे पाहिलं.

“कशाने गेला.... गेले... तुमचे सासरे...?” मी विचारलं. (हार्ट? कॅन्सर? की काही अप्रचलित?)

“तसे शेवटी आजारी असायचे. वयाचा परिणाम. गेले तेव्हा ८३ वर्षांचे होते.”

मी निधनाचा खुलासा ऐकून खुश झालो. पण ते दाखवू न देता म्हणालो, “मी ज्याला शोधतोय तो राम गोखले ५७ वर्षांचा आहे. आपण अर्थातच वेगवेगळ्या व्यक्तींबद्दल बोलतो आहोत. तुम्हाला ५७ वर्षांचा राम गोखले माहिती आहे का?”

“नाही.” ती बाई म्हणाली. “पण कदाचित माझ्या सासूबाईंना माहित असेल. पण त्या आंघोळीला गेल्या आहेत.”

सासूबाई बऱ्याच वेळ आंघोळ करत होत्या. तिसऱ्यांदा फोन केला तेव्हा फोनवर आल्या. त्यांनाही कुणी ५७ वर्षांचा राम गोखले माहिती नव्हता. मग मी त्यांना पार्श्वभूमी सांगितली. हा मुलगा माझा वर्गमित्र होता, पन्नास वर्षांपूर्वी अमेरिकेला गेला, आणि इंटरनेटमध्ये डी-१०२ कुमार क्षितीज हा त्याचा पत्ता आहे, मी म्हणालो.

“अच्छा. आता कळलं. आम्ही दहाव्या मजल्यावरचे गोखले, ते दुसऱ्या मजल्यावरचे गोखले. पण त्यांनी अनेक वर्षांपूर्वी घर सोडलं. औरंगाबादला गेले. तुम्ही म्हणताय तो उषाताईंचा मुलगा असणार. अनेक वर्षं ते सगळे अमेरिकेत होते.”

“त्यांचा औरंगाबादचा पत्ता? फोन? तुमच्याकडे....”

“तुम्ही उद्या फोन करा. माझ्याकडे उषाताईंचा मोबाईल नंबर आहे कुठेतरी. शोधून देते तुम्हाला.”

काही दिवसांत नंबर मिळाला, पण उषाताई गोखले बहुधा आंतरराष्ट्रीय रोमिंग न घेता परदेशी गेल्या असाव्यात. त्यांचा नंबर शेवटी एका महिन्यानंतर लागला.

“मी रामला... तुमच्या मुलाला शोधतोय.” मी त्यांना सगळं सविस्तर सांगितलं. राम पुण्यातच आहे हे त्यांच्याकडून कळलं. कृपा करून त्याला ह्या फोनबद्दल काही सांगू नका. मला त्याला धक्का देऊ दे, मी विनंती केली.

*****

फोन रामनेच उचलला.

“राम, आपली ओळख नाही अशा शब्दांनी मी सुरुवात करणार होतो.” मी म्हणालो.  “मात्र ते अगदी खरं नाहीये. आपण मित्र होतो – पन्नास वर्षांपूर्वी.”

त्यानंतर आम्ही अर्धा तास बोललो. एकमेकांच्या न भेटलेल्या काळातल्या आयुष्याचा आढावा घेतला. पहिली संधी मिळताच पुण्याला किंवा मुंबईला भेटायचं ठरवलं.

*****

राम गोखले खराच होता, माझा भ्रम नव्हता.

रवी

What does your child want to become?

My teenage daughter is now in Grade 11. Friends have begun asking me what she plans to do after school. I reply that I would like her to do what she likes. In my time, if your academic intelligence was well established, you were given three or four choices: an Engineer, doctor, Chartered Accountant or architect. During our school days, without knowing much about any of them, we picked one of them, and as a consequence spent our remaining life first studying and then practicing it. In my case, I had realized I didn’t wish to become an engineer or an architect, I found machines incredibly boring. Medicine was rejected; I looked away at the sight of blood. By process of elimination I qualified as a Chartered Accountant.

Only years later, I realized the world was too big to be squeezed into a handful of professions. In this week’s diary, I will tell two stories that illustrate this.

*****

Dada Rege was the founder of my school. He didn’t have a PhD or DLitt after his name, but he was a passionate educator. Though the school grew to have a couple of thousand children, he knew most of them. Once a teacher complained to him about a 12-year old boy. This boy, the teacher said, sits at the back and keeps scribbling in the notebook.

“That boy, “Dada Rege told the teacher, “is a mathematics wizard. He knows Maths better than you or me. Let him keep scribbling, please don’t distract him.”

That boy is now a renowned mathematician in the USA, a professor at the Rochester University, an expert in the number theory.

Of course, not all children in our school were as bright as the math wizard. Once a mother, a very worried looking mother, came to meet Dada Rege. Her son hated all school subjects. There was a tamarind tree in the school’s courtyard. This boy would, at a whim, leave the classroom, climb the tree and sit at its top. Sulking. As a sign of protest. Teachers grew tired of complaining.

“What should I do to improve his grades? Should I send him to a coaching class?” Asked the worried mother.

“Listen, that’s not going to help.” Said Dada. “If he so passionately hates studying, no amount of schooling or coaching is going to change him. Please do me one favour. Observe what he likes. There must be something he enjoys. Anything… not necessarily to do with the school. Take your time, and please let me know.”

In a month’s time, the mother came back. “It’s nothing to do with academics. My son loves water. In the monsoons, he is happy to roam around without an umbrella. Since he was one or two years old, he liked splashing water.”

“Good, good.” Said dada. “Now you focus on that, focus on what he loves. Forget his school grades. We won’t be able to do much about it. But let him learn swimming. Let him do in life what he enjoys.”

*****

This conversation took place more than fifty years ago. Dada Rege passed away long ago. Now his grandson is my neighbour. In fact, I heard this story from the grandson. That boy, the boy who was a duffer in school, came to meet him recently. He lives in Australia. The boy who loved water now heads an international team of scuba drivers in charge of special assignments. Assignments such as debris’ search of a missing plane require his expertise. He recalled the conversation between his mother and the school founder.

*****

This second story is about my classmate Sanjay and his daughter.

Across Shivaji Park, our local park, is a small lane leading to the beach. A pony moved up and down in that lane carrying children on her back. Sanjay’s five year old daughter took a ride. Sanjay took out his wallet to pay the ponyowner.

“How much?” He asked.

“No, nothing, sahib” said the man.

“But my daughter was riding your pony.”

“Look, I allow her to ride whenever there is no other customer. So I don’t want to charge her. But I can tell you one thing. Your daughter is what, five… right? I’ve never seen a five-year old who can control a horse by herself. True it’s a pony, but when your daughter is riding, I don’t need to give her any support.”

Sanjay heard this and within a few months registered his daughter for horse-riding at the Bombay racecourse club.

*****

When Sanjay’s daughter, Sanjay and I sat in a coffee-house she was 12 or 13 years old. Already a proficient horse-rider, she was competing in the relevant age categories. (A few years later, she would start taking part in European equestrian championships. The family would move to Bangalore, a city with the best hippodrome and horse riding facilities in India. But all this had not happened yet when I talked to Sanjay’s teenage daughter).

As a matter of formality, I asked her what she planned to become when she grew older. As expected, she said, horse riding was her love. She planned to become a full-time jockey.

“But,” she added, “Jockeys can professionally work until 30, maybe 35. I would like to pursue another career at the same time.

I want to become a horses’ dentist.”

She said India had only three qualified horses’ dentists. All three were in high demand. The visit fee for a horse’s dentist was Rs 25,000 (about USD 400). Once she ceased to be a jockey, she would be dealing with horses’ mouths for living.  

I congratulated her on the clarity of her thoughts. I offered my best wishes.

*****

Horse’s dentist. Before that meeting I didn’t know such a profession existed. And that it was lucrative to be one.

The world is full of such esoteric professions. If you love something exceedingly, like this girl loves horse riding, you will discover careers most people know nothing about. Rather than getting trapped into the quadrant of doctor-engineer-CA-architect, it is important the child pursues what she likes. Some unknown career will be waiting for her at the other end.

Ravi

Diplomatic Hit and Run

On Tues. 27 August, Anne Sacoolas, 42, a mother of three, drove out of her residence in Croughton, Northamptonshire, UK. She drove a beautiful luxury SVU Volvo XC90. As to where she was headed is not known, because a subsequent event prevented her from reaching her destination.

Soon after her Volvo gathered speed, she noticed a motorcycle coming in her direction. Strangely, it was riding on the wrong side of the road. In a civilized nation that UK is, road discipline is high, drivers are polite. Surely, the speeding bike rider must move to the other side of the road to avoid colliding with her Volvo. This chain of thoughts occurred in a few microseconds.

At that time, she didn’t know the name of the bike rider. He was a 19-year old English boy, Harry Dunn. As he came out of a curve, he noticed the big car, for some reason driving on the wrong side of the road. This was his side. The car should move to the other side, making way for him to continue without breaking. This was the last ever thought the boy had. The super sturdy Volvo killed him instantly.

Diplomatic shield  

It later transpired Anna Sacoolas was a wife of an American CIA operative. Their family had moved to the UK only three weeks before that. They lived at a US military base. After the fatal accident, from the same base, in a private plane, the family was flown back to the USA. Americans claimed Anna Sacoolas had diplomatic immunity, which meant she couldn’t be charged or prosecuted in the UK. Everyone was sorry for the tragic death of the English boy, but USA couldn’t send the Volvo driver back to the UK to face justice. USA rarely (read never) waives diplomatic immunity.

Why are diplomats immune?

Diplomatic immunity is an ancient concept. In Ramayana, the Indian epic, Seeta is kidnapped by the Sri Lankan king, Ravana. Lord Rama, Seeta’s husband, sends his emissary, Hanuman, the supermonkey to Ravana. Ravana wishes to kill him, but his advisors restrain him. Hanuman is a diplomatic guest, he must go back unharmed.

Diplomatic privilege, not immunity, benefited me when I was a student in Moscow. The Soviet postal system was notoriously slow. The State could open and read any letter, and did so fairly often. Indian embassy in Moscow had allowed us, the Indian citizens living in Moscow, to send and receive letters through the embassy’s ‘diplomatic bag’. This bag would travel both ways between Moscow and Delhi. Throughout my stay in Russia, none of my letters was ever intercepted.

Embassies, consulates and certain other premises enjoy the legal fiction of being a foreign territory. That is the reason Julian Assange could hide himself for years in central London, enjoying the diplomatic protection offered by the Ecuadorian embassy.

Such global understanding is essential when the standards of justice are different in the sending and the receiving country. An American or a European diplomat wouldn’t like to be tried in a court of Saudi Arabia or North Korea. UK and USA may appear to have similar standards, but don’t. USA has a death sentence, UK doesn’t.

Is driving on the wrong side of a road a crime?

Donald Trump offered mitigation saying Americans can be confused when driving in the UK. Trump himself has driven on the wrong side. (Though didn’t kill anyone).

I have extensively driven in Right-hand-traffic (RHT) countries (Russia, Poland), and Left-Hand-Traffic (LHT) countries (India and UK). No matter which country, you as a driver, must always be closer to the middle of the road, not to the curb. (Except in Myanmar, where traffic is like in the USA, but cars are like in the UK). Turns and roundabouts can be a nightmare. On an empty road, one can get really confused. I know at least two British gentlemen who took a clockwise turn at the roundabouts in Warsaw, one of them causing an accident. When you go from RHT to LHT, a driver needs to be extra cautious when driving. That’s the rule of Defence driving. You will be extra careful while crossing the road, why not when driving?

In Anne Sacoolas’s case, she had come to the UK only three weeks ago. It is possible she was not made aware traffic in the UK is on the other side. Or her instinct had taken over. It’s also possible her car was left-hand-drive, and not English. Whatever the reason, a 19-year old boy is dead. A victim suggests a perpetrator.

Wrong legal advice

The threat of having to go to jail is an overpowering one. When your car on the wrong side of the road has killed someone, you have no idea how the judges would interpret that act. In the UK, dangerous drivers under the influence of alcohol or drugs can be imprisoned for up to 14 years. Reckless, inconsiderate driving can attract up to five years. In this case, Anne Sacoolas’ act was not intentional. Her being in the UK for three weeks was indeed a mitigating factor. Unlikely she would have gone to jail. But who wants to take that chance?

Paradoxically, by fleeing the country and going into hiding, the diplomat’s wife has incriminated herself. Her fleeing, seeking immunity and silence are deliberate. Lawyers work on technicalities, try to defend the indefensible. In cases like O.J. Simpson’s, they occasionally succeed. (If the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit). But the punishment of the conscience is equally severe. It can ruin a life without going to jail.

Crime and Punishment

In Dostoevsky’s best-known novel, Crime and Punishment, a young student Raskolnikov ends up killing two old women for ideological reasons. In this 600-page book, the murders happen in the first fifty pages or so. Porfiry Petrovich, the detective investigating the murder, meets Raskolnikov, discusses a variety of issues, but never charges him.

“Who do you think has murdered the two women?” Raskolnikov asks him.

“Of course, you,” says the detective.

“Why don’t you arrest me then?” Says the shocked Raskolnikov.

“Why should I do that?” Says Porfiry. “It means wasting police and state resources, trying to collect evidence… lawyers and their fees on both sides. And at the end of it, for want of enough evidence, you may be set free. Instead, I will rely on your conscience. You will one day turn yourself in. For an intellectual like you, the punishment of the conscience is intolerable.”

Though Raskolnikov dismisses that notion as absurd, by the end of the book, he voluntarily surrenders himself to the police and confesses. I don’t know about the level of conscience of Anne Sacoolas. But she must act as per her conscience, rather than legal advice.

Justice, retribution and closure

At the time of writing this article, the parents of the dead boy plan to go to the USA, and persuade the US government to send the culprit back to the UK. She must undergo the UK judicial process, and suffer whatever verdict the judges deliver. Why are they intent on going through such a painful and expensive fight? Their son is already dead. No matter how heavy the punishment is for Anne Sacoolas, their son will not come back to life.

It seems that retribution is an integral part of justice. We all know the expression, life for life, tooth for tooth, and eye for eye. Though the parents don’t expect the lady driver to be hanged, a court adjudicating the entire mishap will offer them a sense of justice. It will offer them closure. In the USA, relatives of victims often attend the execution of the murderer. It gives them a sense of release. Similarly, Osama Bin Laden’s killing offered closure to the families of the nearly 3000 victims of the 9/11 attacks.

What should Anne Sacoolas do now?

She should come out in the open. Forget immunity, forget the lawyers. It is so easy in the age of twitter to speak directly to anyone. She should apologise for the death, admit she had panicked. Apologise for fleeing, and hiding. She should offer to meet the parents of the killed boy, and express sincere remorse. Take immunity out of the equation, and offer to return to the UK. The trial is likely to be brief, and since this was an accident rather than a deliberate act, she will likely be released with a reprimand and possibly a few months of community service in America at worst. She is a mother of three, and judges will make sure her children don’t get punished along with her. The diplomat’s family should also offer to compensate the Dunn family. For their expenses and more. In criminal cases, this is called ‘blood money’, money paid to avoid the vengeance of the injured family. Although no deliberate crime was committed, such set of actions will offer the victim’s family justice and closure. If Anne Sacoolas is lucky, the English parents may forgive her and allow her to not return to the UK. For that to happen, she must show courage, and let her conscience and not the lawyers dictate her actions.

Ravi

The Offloaded Girl

                                 

Some short stories are local, some international. This story, true to the last detail, is an international story about a local girl. Gauri Godse belonged to my community and locality. Her mother and my mother were neighbours in Lokmanya Nagar, a well known housing society in Bombay.  

In her early twenties, Gauri left for the USA. This is not unusual. Most well-educated Indians choose that country for education, then employment and finally permanent residence. Her second serious job in the US took her to Austin, Texas. She was employed as a business analyst with Freescale Semiconductor. You may not have heard this name, but USA is full of giant multinationals that are not Apple or Microsoft. Freescale was one of the pioneer semiconductor companies. It employed more than 17,000 people worldwide. It operated in nearly twenty countries. But this story is about Gauri Godse and not her employer.

After Gauri worked for six months, the company sent her on a business trip to Kuala Lumpur. As a business analyst she was responsible for the global supply chain planning. She would attend a seminar for a week along with colleagues from different countries. After Kuala Lumpur, the delegation would fly to Tianjin in China, Freescale’s major chip making location.

Gauri’s colleagues were top class engineers. Though they were experts in chipmaking during day time, in the evening they were life-loving young men. When you are abroad on a business trip, your time entirely becomes company time. People working with you become your family. You eat three meals with them, drink with them, occasionally dance with them. Gauri, the only girl in the delegation, had bonded well with her colleagues. Days had flown quickly. On Friday night they all needed to be at the airport to fly back.

The multinational delegation was noisy when their bus reached Kuala Lumpur airport in the evening. Gauri had just about managed to pack her suitcase on time. She was still chatting with her colleagues and laughing loudly when her turn came at the airline counter. She pushed her Indian passport towards the girl, lifted the suitcase on wheels and though the company was paying for everything looked at its weight as a matter of habit. She hadn’t bought any gifts in Kuala Lumpur. Now the girl should wrap a tag around the suitcase’s handle, issue a boarding pass, show the direction in which Gauri should move; airlines the world over have become so predictable.

“Where is your Chinese visa?” The girl at the counter was flicking through the passport pages.

“Chinese visa?” Gauri said. “I live and work in the USA. I’ll be in China only for the next two days. Then I fly back to the US.”

“Your passport is Indian. You must have a visa to China.” The unsmiling girl at the counter said.

By now, Gauri’s colleagues had gathered around her. Someone mentioned a 72- hour rule.

“Yes, the 72-hour transit rule applies to certain nationalities.” The girl read from the computer. “Citizens from 51 countries are allowed to stay in China for 72 hours. But India is not included in that list.”

A senior executive from the delegation now came forward.

“Look. We are all together. Twenty-one of us. All of us work for the same company. I can vouch for this girl. We can give you a written undertaking it is our responsibility. You can see the company has booked a group ticket for all of us. If Americans can stay for 72 hours in China, she should be allowed. She is a resident in the USA.”

The airline girl handed Gauri’s passport back to her. She motioned her to remove the suitcase from the belt. Gauri’s Malaysian colleague intervened. He began talking to the airline girl in a local language. Though Gauri didn’t understand what he was saying, she could feel his anger. Everyone; Americans, Europeans, Chinese, Japanese, even Arabs had gone through smoothly. Only Gauri was stuck.

People in the queue were now complaining. They were keen to get on the flight. Suddenly, Gauri saw her suitcase at her feet. She was so tense she couldn’t properly absorb what her colleagues were saying to her. They were genuinely sorry to miss her. All of them had a wonderful time in Kuala Lumpur. A pity she couldn’t be at the Tianjin factory. But they surely would meet her again, in Texas perhaps. Suddenly all her twenty colleagues were gone.

Gauri dragged her suitcase. Between her fingers she held the blue Indian passport. At moments like this, even the most patriotic Indians wish they had some other passport, a normal passport that allows a smooth passage. The flight, not her flight anymore, was leaving on early Saturday morning. Which meant it was impossible to her to get a Chinese visa until next week. She wiped her tears, and decided to take the first available connection to Bombay. She would use the opportunity to meet her family, spend a couple of days with them. Then fly directly to the US.

*****

Gauri was fast asleep in her Bombay flat. Her fatigue, frustration and jet lag had combined to make her forget the world. Her parents’ first reaction was worry rather than happiness when they saw their daughter at the doorstep. She was not due in India until December, what happened? Gauri quickly explained she had missed her flight, and banged the Indian passport on the table. She ate very little before hitting the bed. She should have been in Beijing, her first time in China. Instead she found herself in the Bombay apartment. Once she slept, she would feel much better.

*****

It was Saturday, 8 March 2014. Gauri’s family hadn’t put the TV on earlier so that Gauri could sleep in peace. When Gauri woke up listening to her mother’s excited voice, it was late evening in Mumbai.

The TV channel was giving a Breaking News. A Malaysian flight MH 370 flying from Kuala Lumpur to Beijing this morning had disappeared. All its 227 passengers and 12 crew were missing.

Gauri’s suitcase stood in the corner, its lock intact. On top of the table next to it was her blue Indian passport.

Ravi