The Power of a Moment and a Stupid Guy

A study says that it takes only a moment to transform the gloomy and sad faces of ours into gleaming and beaming ones, that can keep us up for the rest of the day. That’s the power of a moment.

I was beyond grief. I was leaving my daughter, who became my partner-in-crime and playmate for the last one month; and my wife, whose claim to be immaculate and matured was repeatedly rubbished by me and proved to be true. She actually was no better than her two & half years old daughter.

At airport, I paid 250 Mauritian bucks just for a glass of beer and a tiny bottle of water and sat across a trendy counter. I opened a Sashi Tharoor book and started browsing its pages, until the time came to proceed towards boarding gate. A long queue already formed. I could see people everywhere - happy from wonderful vacations in a wonderful land – chatting, laughing and holding hands. I was the single most down face in an ocean of cheering crowd.

And then it started.

My economy seat got upgraded to business class, and when I entered the plane - euphoretic, stowed my trolley in the upper cabin, and looked at my seat, oh my my!! The moment. There was a girl at the window seat.  It took me a while to realize what was happening. The stunning creature, who sat there was no less than an angel. She wore a deep blue jeans and black shirt. Little dark complexion. Sharp face. A strong presence.

A smile popped up from nowhere on my lips. She smiled back. I couldn’t believe that I was going to spend a whole seven hours’ journey with a gorgeous woman in a business class, several kilometers up from rugged surface of earth! I settled down, adjusted soft back-cushion, took out my cell and texted Taniya, ‘seated in business class & got a beautiful girl beside’ and typed a winky. Sent. Taniya wished me luck in no time. She too loved beautiful girls.

A hostess came along with a tray of welcome drinks. The girl at window seat chose a glass of juice. I hesitated. Beer would be too cheap or a glass of wine would be too early. I followed her. Orange juice. I took the glass in hand and turned around with an eerie smile hanging on face and asked the first stupid question among many to be followed. ‘Hi. I was wondering, are you from Mauritius or India?’

Her smile was sunny with a pack of perfect teeth. She twitched her eyes and questioned back, ‘Well. What do you think?’

‘Indian. I know you’re an Indian.’

‘And why so?’ Her eyes convulsed more with head little tilted.

‘You have an Indian face. Black eyes, black hair.’

She had an instant outburst. With all that giggles, I heard her saying, ‘Oh wow. What a description? Black eyes, black hair, Indian face. Ha..ha..ha.’ And when she stopped laughing, she said, ‘No mister. I’m a Mauritian’.

‘Oh. I am so sorry. I just thought that…’, my voice broke, out of a sudden stammering.

‘No it’s fine. But in a certain way you’re right. My great grandparent were from India. So you know’, she said in still an amused voice.

I was amused by myself too. No limit of stupidity. 60% inhabitants of Mauritius were of Indian origin, and they naturally looked and dressed like Indians. Sometimes better than them. I knew that. But even then, what was I thinking?

The airhostess brought a Menu Card and refreshing towel. I took that hurriedly and soaked my hands and pretended to be busy with the card. Frankly, I knew shit about the etiquettes of business class and the embarrassing fact that she was so confident and privy to the minutest details of the class, was putting me in discomfiture and a dead wish to hide under the yellow blanket, till my journey ended. After a cup of tea, I opened the book I was reading before. I stole a quick glance at the girl, she was watching a movie.

Few minutes passed away, and I heard her saying. It was actually a question. ‘So how was your Mauritius trip? Was it a vacation or business?’

‘Pure holidaying. One month.’

‘That’s great. Are you from Delhi?’

‘Well. I am from Kolkata, eastern India, but at present posted at Delhi,’ I said.

The girl seemed excited. ‘Then you may help me on something’.

I nodded. Yes, sure I can.

She said, ‘Can you tell me some places in Delhi, which I can visit during my stay there?’

‘How many days you’re gonna stay in Delhi?’

‘3 to 4 days’, she answered. ‘I’ll be staying at ITC Mourya hotel.’

Good lord, I thought. ‘Okay. You must visit Lodhi Garden, that’s my favourite. And Humayun’s Tomb. That’s wonderful. Qutub Complex is quite charming. And oh! Red Fort.’

She simpered with a little frown on her face. ‘Please not all historical places. Tell me ‘bout foods and malls too’.

‘Sorry. Some big malls are here. Ambience, Pacific and GIP. And for food I’ll suggest you Delhi Haat. It’s really good and all kinds of foods are available.’

She was writing down the names on a paper, and I had a creepy thought popping up in my mind like a stubborn bubble adamant to see the surface of water.

I stay in Delhi alone, I can be her guide.

She finished her writing and kept the pad in her brown purse. I thought it was the time. Let’s take the chance. But before I opened my mouth, she said, ‘Isn’t a little surprising that a single woman like me is going for a vacation to a foreign city only for three days? Don’t you think so?’

It was a spontaneous retraction for me. The question was surely obvious. But it didn’t occur. Words cheated me. I couldn’t find what to say. I did a shrug as if I wasn’t sure. And then it hit me. She must be having a boyfriend back in Delhi and she was going to meet him. It was the plausible-most explanation. So, I asked with a crooked smile, ‘You must be meeting somebody special in Delhi?’

She gave a tiny pause. ‘No’. Her tone was light, but she didn’t smile. ‘My husband is with me. Now in this flight. I’m going with him.’

Now it was my turn to pause, and it was awkwardly longer. I didn’t understand. If she’s going with her husband, where was he? Maybe he got a different seat, or maybe she just playing with me. I said, ‘Okay. Then I can exchange my seat with your husband. I’m travelling alone, so I’ve no problem, you see.’

Her lips stretched further, as if she was enjoying the show, the show of a stupid guy who had a shitty comprehensive ability. She nodded her head. ‘No. He can’t come.’

I didn’t question further. It was beyond awkwardness. It was better to be mum for the rest of flight than to feel utterly clumsy. She was obviously much smarter with an overloaded sense of wit.

Pilot announced a cloudy weather outside and a bumpy ride, and requested the passengers to tighten seatbelts. I complied immediately, and I heard her saying, ‘Don’t you think that the pilot is way too overreacting?’

Oh God! Is she real? Is she serious? I like funny and mysterious girls, but not weird ones. I replied on a serious tone. ‘They should be. They’re meant to be’. 

‘You know? You speak like my husband’, she said all of a sudden. And without waiting for my surprised and gawked response, she continued. ‘How do you think about his voice?’

‘Whose voice?’ I shot back.

‘The pilot’s?’

‘Good. Why?’ I was genuinely irritated.

‘Nothing. He’s always that serious. Always’, she snickered, as if she was totally helpless with that.

I was getting little sense of what was happening. Shit. I blurted, ‘Is he your…?’

‘Husband. Yeah’.

Now here, at this moment, I was supposed to laugh. I was supposed to enjoy my foolishness, and apologize to her. That was the formal thing to do. But no words came through my locked lips. Only I shifted my eyes towards the book in hand and nodded. It didn’t mean anything.

I knew she was smiling. She was perfect, and she played perfect. She made a fool out of me. And a little bubble of mirth was trying to get out from my stomach. It was shaking. I gave up, and a burst of cackled laughter popped out. I heard her laughing too.

I then told her about my wife and daughter and about my vacation. She told me that she was a doctor and she was married only for six months. She loved India. She had been there twice. We spoke for long till we slept in our respective seats, and then resumed when we awake. The plane was supposed to land in Delhi in minutes. I asked her name. It meant ‘immorality’. My name meant ‘brave’. We walked to the immigration. She had to wait for her husband to come. I told her that it was nice to meet her. She nodded. She smiled.

The diplomatic channel was empty and I left through it. There was no point of looking back. The moment muscled its power and it worked. There wasn’t a single pinch of sorrow on my face. I was from a wonderful vacation in a wonderful land. And there was nothing to be sad about.