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