Rise of a Doomed Soul (Second Part)

I frantically searched one more time, now in pockets - both of my jacket and jeans, again through the small luggage - now literally rummaging it, and then the pockets of other spinners. I looked down to the floor and scanned the surrounding, hoping to find a piece of paper and a small white hardback, lying somewhere unruffled. I could feel an enormous hole inside, moving up, sliding down, as if it was bouncing against stomach. 

I quit the line and parked the cart at a side. I called the young cab driver, in a faint hope that the folder would be still on the roof of cab or somehow, by any miracle, he kept that with him. After a few rings, he picked up. My voice shivered. “Hello. Hello brother. I am the guy you just dropped at airport.”

He recognised me at once. “Yes sir. I remember. Is everything fine?”

“I can’t find my passport yaar. Is it in your car?”

For the next few moments, which in particular felt like millions of years, I didn’t hear his voice. All I heard was some static white noise. It was more than ten minutes till he took away his cab. He could be anywhere by now. I pressed the phone tighter against my ear and fervently prayed for his voice, which came in shortly. “Sorry sir. I just searched whole vehicle. It is not here.”

My heart nosedived straight into a gaping bore well. I didn’t know what to ask for anymore. “Can you just check your roof please? Just once.”

“Sir. How…”

“Please brother. Just for once”, my voice twitched to the point that it resembled begging.

I could hear him stop his car and then go out. I could feel his scrabbling around the roof and then hoarse arrogant sound of a police personnel. ‘Don’t stop here’, he barked. ‘I’m just searching passport of a passenger’, the driver meekly explained. ‘I don’t care. Just move from here. Now’.

I absolutely knew what the driver was going to tell me, but I waited for him. And once he confirmed my worst, I thanked him. He risked a challan for a stranger. Nobody does that.

Flashes of the last fifteen months stroked my memory. So many hurdles. So many questions. So many uncertainties. And then the waiT, the waIT, the wAIT and more WAIT, until it became harsher than my flesh and blood could withstand. A few moments ago, it appeared to be a dream that I was here, and in few hours, I could turn into a regular father and a husband, like millions of lucky men. I feared then to wake up on a lonely bed and then sinking my face onto pillow, so that even I couldn’t see my tears. And now I woke up, and it was worse. 

My mouth went dry, and the solid sphere inside me bounced harder. I felt screaming, or perhaps, I was already screaming in my head. For I heard nothing but sound of zillions of bees, flying in unison. Suddenly, I gasped for air, and the airport looked dark, and then, in that horrible moment, I remembered, it was my first official panic attack. I leaned against the nearest pillar, and closed my eyes.

There were LIGHTS everywhere.

I put the phone in pocket and looked around. My office colleagues and seniors often say that I have a remarkable ability to keep my head calm during emergency and get the work done. Well, they couldn’t be more wrong! My heart pumped fast and rose up through my throat. My legs began to quiver, first tiny jerks, then large spasms, which soon spread all over body like a contagion. There were more sparkles everywhere, and I lost time.

‘What should I do now?’ The thought cropped up and pierced me bland. There was Taniya, who could never forgive me for this. How daft a person could be? Keeping your passport on a roof of a public cab? And my kids. I was hoping to meet with them first thing tomorrow and quench my years long craving. Now again those gruelling waiting, maybe for months. Police report. New passport. New visa. New ticket, from own expenses. And I had to rearrange a place to stay in Delhi too, as I vacated my old one. Then there were numerous people. Friends, colleagues, relatives. Parents. How could I explain them that I missed my flight for the stupidest and dumbest thing ever!

My legs moved and feet glided forward, as if they were on a travelator. Maybe I needed to be faraway from this toxic happy place, where all the happy faces were bumping against each other unapologetically, and my brain exactly knew what to do. My cart bumped against a divider and a spinner thumped on floor. I, like a lifeless creature, picked that up and moved again. I crossed the lane, where I got down from cab. I glanced around impassively, already succumbed to the fact that there was nothing I could do anymore and I fucked up really big. No folder nor any paper was to be seen. I didn’t stop. I walked away towards the private lane, towards the police post, where I needed to file a lost report of official passport. Tomorrow would be not only my day of embarrassment, but also a day of immense work. 

I couldn’t spot the police post. It was not where it was supposed to be. Like my passport and ticket - straight vanished from the face of Earth. I looked around and noticed a moving patch of blue - kind of shaky first and blurry then, may be due to the muslined curtain of tears, or distance. I walked towards the patch and found it to be a Traffic Controller with blue uniform of a city based security agency. On a normal day, everywhere in Delhi I met with hundreds of these uniforms, some crumbled and worn from overuse, but most of them clean. Some rode bicycles, some walked hurriedly for impending shift, others seated or snoozing on faded broken chairs, in front of colossal buildings or swanky shops. I passed away sometimes with a feeble smile or a slight nod, but mostly with indifference. I asked the traffic man where the police post was. He momentarily paused his perpetual whistling and clearing the flow of private vehicles from stopping unnecessarily at the lane and looked over his shoulder. “Its over there”, he pointed towards the other end of the Airport, where the number of entry gates started from 1. “Why? Why do you need police?”

“I lost my passport and ticket”. The words soughed my ears exactly like a gush of cool wind does with a young naive branch. As if an icy cold piece of metal was plugged into my ear and it slipped through my throat and stuck at heart. I never knew that one’s own words could hurt so much. I managed a murmur - a sort of thank you and took a turn, and I heard him speaking.

“I have seen a small diary kind of thing and a piece of paper lying somewhere”.

Now pause. Take ample years to realise that I am not a person who remotely believes in godly things or any miracles, nor in the last few minutes of sheer panic, I even prayed for a single time. But as those words were thrown at me and they entered into my brain through gully of earholes, I felt a sudden bulge in my heart, as if something extraordinary happened, and as my thick brain was yet to process it, the heart pumped up some extra oxygen rich blood, destined for boosting the cells. 

“Is it white? The diary you saw?”, I eagerly asked.

“Maybe it is”, he was unsure. “Hmm, I think so. It was lying on the road.” He pointed a stout brown stick, which he was using to control the unruly drivers, towards the other end of the Airport.

“That way”?

“Yes. I noticed it some time back. But I don’t know it is still there or not?” He glanced at me intently, as if to minutely measure my reaction. “Come with me”, he said.

Involuntarily, my whole self moved in that way. The cacophony of people around was deafening but in some way was meditative, as my legs followed the bluish uniform in silence, which moved gracefully and confidently. I carried my large cart and we passed the taxi lane, where the dreadful incident happened. My mind was now empty like that of a lost child, who blindly follows any stranger, after being promised to be reunited with worried parents. I faithfully followed the blue uniform through bustles of people and rustles of vehicles. He led me like Moses, and the ocean of crowd bifurcated to pass us away. And in that trance alike situation, I only saw a bluish thing, and nothing else. Later I heard, it had a name. Tunnel Vision.

The whole thing was only for a couple of minutes, though every bits of it are carved in stone in my mind and can be summoned up in a moment’s notice. I remembered walking and passing through the lights, my cart tripping over, bouncing against the elevated side of the lane, the Traffic Controller clearing path and yelling to the unmindful flock of people for not being mindful in a public place. I followed him airily, like a bird does in a flock, and I thought it might be for ages.

Like every other prolonged hypnotisms in life, this too ended. He stopped near the fag end of the massive building of airport and pointed his fingers to the ground. And as my tranced eyes followed them, they noticed two vagrant bits of paper, one lying two inches away from the open mouth of a drain and the other stuck under a thick tyre of an SUV. I released the cart at once in the middle of lane and jumped forward to pick the whitish thingy up. I felt the soft fuzzy texture of the passport covers and the embedded Lion Heads of Ashoka Pillars on top of it. They were known to me like my pillow lumps, but even then, just to be sure or maybe to make peace with the stupefied brain, I opened the first page and saw my picture. Science still can’t decode brain fully, but I learned a thing or two about brain on that night. Brain functions overtime during the unprecedented danger or uncertainty, but if that unprecedented danger goes away unprecedentedly, like in this case, brain turns out as daft as a brush. I kept looking at the picture of mine - unkempt hair, camera conscious smile and signature goatee, and even then it was hard to grasp that it was real me.

“Is it yours? Sir?”

I looked up. The person in blue uniform was beside me, with a question on his face. I nodded. “Yes. It is mine. Thank you brother”.

“And there is the paper. Is it also yours?”

I nodded again. It is the original paper ticket, the mid-aged manager of Air India handed me over yesterday with a wish for safe journey. I bent forward to snatch up the stuck piece of paper from the tyre, which moved the moment I touched it. The security man bellowed at the driver, thumping his wooden rod over the roof of the SUV, asking him to immediately stop the vehicle. The driver understood otherwise and instead pressed his accelerator, and sped away. Before my fingers came under the wheel, I managed to snatch away the ticket.

“Are you hurt sir? Chu**a driver! If I could catch him…”, the messiah told in a soft but worried voice.

I noticed that he was holding my cart, as if protecting it and already pushed it aside, from the middle of the lane. I showed him the piece of paper, waving it in front of him. “Yes I am okay. It is the ticket. I’ve got it.”

The security man in blue uniform smiled. He moved away from his position and released his hands from the handle of the cart and said, “Okay sir. Here’s your trolley. Now I have to go. There are heavy congestion at this time in these lanes.”

I stood where he was seconds ago. I felt the inner chest pocket of my Jacket, and felt the soothed presence of a nearly square book, and the allayed heartbeats. My brain retrieved its wits and I searched words - appropriate words to thank my messiah, before he vanished.

“Please one minute brother”, I requested. I pulled up my purse from the back pocket of jeans and took out four notes of five hundreds, the last Indian cash I had, and said, “Brother, I really don’t have any words to thank you. I still can’t believe that it just happened. I really had lost all hopes.” I paused and then offered him the money. “I know, it's little, but it's all the Indian cash I have right now. Please brother, accept it. I will be really happy.”

The man vigorously nodded his head sidewise and firmly said, “No I can’t take it. Absolutely no. I am just doing my duty. You go sir.” He turned away to leave. I pleaded again.

“Please brother. You don’t know what you have done for me. I will feel real bad, if I can’t help you somehow. I don’t actually need these cash, where I’m going. Or, if you just come with me to the ATM, I can take out more money. You can give me your account number or Paytm too. I will send money right way.” And then as if remembering something disturbingly stupid, I chuckled, “I even didn’t ask your name brother!”

He stopped and turned away to face me. Now there was a couple of feet distance between us. In the bright light of the adjacent lamp post, I noticed his face for the first time. An unimpressive daily common man look. A faded blue baseball cap on his head covering the rough brownish hair. Clean shaven face, but uneven gorges everywhere. Few parallel lines on forehead, and a sharp nose rose like a mound. And the eyes, rested in deep deep sockets. When he opened his mouth, his rustic voice clanked. “What will you do by knowing my name sir? I am sorry that I can’t take your money. I am just doing my duty. But if you really want to help, then help someone else, just like I helped you.” And then he turned away and left.

I watched his lean figure coalescing with thick crowd, transforming into another faceless nameless common man, a true self, prioritising his duties above and all. I didn’t realise my own teardrops, until they splashed on hand and spattered my  orange jacket. I put the cash notes back in my purse and pushed the leather into bum-pocket. I glanced at the watch - only one and half hours left till flight. Better be hurry.

On the way back to the entrance, just after producing the passport and ticket to the ‘mannequin’ CISF man and before stepping into the horizon, the land of ‘goers’, I looked back over my shoulder. Just a turn. Nothing to see, except hundreds of heads having zillion of emotions and legion of vehicles. The angel was gone. I turned back. On my front, there was the glass door, beyond which awaited the polished floor and shiny lights. 

I moved ahead. I already knew that something extraordinary just happened. But if I was to pause and think about it, my brain would explode with all the improbabilities and absurdities. It was not to be happened. I was meant to find a cheap hotel today and enshroud my ass there for days and nights till people forget about my face. But here was I! As if nothing happened!

As the automated door swooshed open, I searched for a God to thank for. Any God. I fervently tried to imagine. Blue or black, ash or fair skin, four or ten hands, elephant head or no head. But nothing came. As if they abandoned me, or they were never there. On contrary, the long hardened face of the security man jacked up, like those slow motion stylish videos, flooded in social media.

I thanked the beautiful divine face. And now I knew, the origin of Gods.