“Yours is metal, mine is plastic.” Then I noticed. My spoon was metal indeed. Stainless steel. Usually, airlines pack a plastic spoon inside the meal packet but I had managed to break mine and so the airhostess had handed me a replacement. As it turned out, it was a steel one.
“Hmmm. Okay. You can have it but why do you want it for?”
“Am going to put it inside my panty.”
“WTF? I think you should stop chatting with me.”
“No wait. It came out wrong. Please allow me to explain.” But I was a bit apprehensive now. There was no way to know if she was under age and given the hysteria throughout the world over child sex abuse, I’ d be in jail by the time I landed. This wasn’t India where a call to a local politician who was friends with my father would save me. Who was to say this mother-daughter duo weren’t a team? Maybe this is how they extracted money from unsuspecting passengers. And I didn’t have any money so they would throw me into jail. Didn’t the immigration form say that for any crimes committed in the country, one could be prosecuted? And I didn’t even know if Bluetooth messages could be traced back or not. I immediately deleted all her messages and pretended to fall asleep.
“Please sir.” And she’d added a sad face icon this time.
“Hmmm,” I deliberated.
“Carry on,” I typed. Curiosity killed the cat Piyush, my mind reminded me. But wasn’t I being more paranoid than was necessary? Perhaps there was a logical explanation why this girl had just told me that she was going to put this spoon inside her panty. Fuck! How could there be any logical explanation for it? Who was I kidding! But wait, she couldn’t possibly be interested in me so there had to be some sort of explanation. I had invisible biceps and a slight protruding tummy and in addition, I was terribly ugly. Which girl would ever be attracted to me? She was definitely not interested that way. So having thus convinced my paranoid mind, I braced myself for whatever was coming.
“They are taking me away because I don’t want to get married. I am just sixteen and I like a guy, he’s from my school. My parents found out so now sending me here to this foreign country. They’ll marry me off to some Sikh fellow as soon as I turn eighteen,” she typed.
“Hmmm. You are too young to fall in love dude,” I replied.
“Am a dudette, not a dude and he is a very nice guy.”
“I bet you dear, five years down the line you won’t even remember his name; if your parents throw you out, there is not a single friend who will take you in, not even your lover…”
“HUH?” she typed in caps locks. I realised she was angry. In the world of chatting, caps locks is the equivalent of a shout, it denotes anger but I hated it when people used it because it is a strain on the eyes to read the capitalised letters.
“I just stated the truth…”
“What the fuck! I find it strange that a guy who has dreams of becoming a writer doesn’t believe in love,” she typed, and five seconds later, there was a, “LOL!”
“You don’t know nothing about me...” I typed.
“I do know that all writers lead terribly sorry lives,” she typed and again followed it up with a, “Lol! That’s two in a row.”
“It’s not a competition,” I typed, “and we do not lead a hard life, we choose to live a horrible life, there is a difference.”
“Sorry, but I need your help, the airport is my only chance, there is too much security there and I am sure they will help me. Otherwise, once we reach home, it’s like being back in India, I will be put under house arrest before I can be married off.”
“Child, you know nothing. You should do what your parents want. They want the best for you,” I tried to reason with her.
“So did your parents wanted you to be a writer? Did you listen to them?”
“Well, they did support it afterwards although initially they were hesitant…”
“So just because you are a guy, you get to decide your future but since am a girl I don’t get that choice. TYPICAL INDIAN CHAUVINIST,” she typed again in caps.
“Stop typing in caps. It is a strain on the eye,” I typed.
“Sorry,” she fidgeted with her index finger and took a fragment of her hair and curled it, and she did it again. “Well, we all fall in love just once, don’t we? Then its just for sex the second time round or for companionship but love, it doesn’t happen twice. And I have fallen in love once, that’s my guy. If I end up marrying somebody else, it’d be pointless.”
“Hmmm,” I wondered how this childish girl was coming up with such wisecracks when it should have been the other way round. I sighed and began to type, “How did you get this idea? Of using the spoon I mean?”
“Ummm. I read about it in some news story I think. And since you can’t carry any metal on an aeroplane, I thought a cutlery item was my best bet and spoon seemed the best, I can’t put a plate in there, now can I?”
“Hmmm. But what if you hadn’t met me? What then?”
“There would be other ways. Would have tried getting one from some restaurant in the airport when we switch planes at Heathrow or something else but you’re here and you have that spoon. It is gonna be my redemption,” she typed in a smiley again.
“But why didn’t you just complain to the authorities in India, there must be ways they could have helped you?”
“He he he. You do know you are talking about India Mr. Mishra. A mere one thousand rupees from my dad and the policeman would have closed the case.”
“Yeah, guess your right.”
“Did you ever love anybody Piyush?”
“Not really, am not really into girls…”
“So are you into boys? Your gay?”
“Don’t know.”
“How can a guy not know? One is either straight or gay. I would know if I was a lesbian.”
“You don’t know the half of it. There is another category, bisexual, one who likes both.”
“So you are bi?”
“Nope. Didn’t say that. And it’s not about me. We are talking about you.”
“Hmmm, yes, I know but I do believe I should get the right to decide how I live my life,” she typed, “and I have always thought of myself as a feminist…”
“Yeah I know. All women become feminists. That is their tragedy. No man is. That’s his.”
“Ha ha. Right.”
The flight attendant poked at my shoulder. I looked up and she asked, “What will you have Sir?”
“Veg for me,” I replied.
“No, I mean for drinks, we are serving drinks first, dinner will come later,” she said.
“Some orange juice then,” I said.
“What will you have madam?” She asked the mom who shook her head to signal that she didn’t want anything.
Amarjeet got up to leave for the loo and this time her mother shifted to her seat. When she returned, she sat directly next to me. Maybe my not taking alcohol had redeemed me in the eyes of Amarjeet’s mother and she no longer thought of me as a road side Romeo.
“I sleep there,” said Amarjeet’s mother pointing to the three empty seats next to us. She covered herself in a blanket and was busy snoring after a few minutes.
The seatbelt sign went on signalling we were about to land. I double checked just to be sure that I’d filled up the immigration form. The pilot announced that we were to land in five minutes.
“You are yet to give me that spoon,” typed Amarjeet.
“Oops, sorry,” I typed and handed it over to her. For me, it was just a spoon. For her, it was freedom, her last chance at having a life of her own.
“Thanks,” she typed.
“Good luck to you,” I typed. Amarjeet mother woke and returned to the seat. After, we landed, I fished for my backpack and followed the queue outside.
“Purpose of visit?” asked the burly lady at the immigration counter.
“Tourist.”
“Where will you stay?”
“With my sister.”
“Okay,” she said and stamped my visa.
From Heathrow, the easiest transport option is to take a bus. I had to catch another flight for Newcastle. The bus service is also free so I promptly boarded it. There were only two passengers on board, me and another Indian who made a face on seeing me. Am British, not Indian, his look seemed to say.
After reaching Heathrow, I waited at a nearby lounge. My sister called me up on the number that she’d bought for me when she’d last visited.
“Did you face any problems at the immigration?” she asked.
“Nope, very friendly lot, these British folks,” I replied.
“Good. Don’t go around saving money. Have something at the café. And some coffee, if you like,” she said.
“Not very hungry,” I replied.
“No, no. Have something. The connecting flight will also take around an hour and you won’t get any food on it. Just some snacks. So eat something. We will be there to pick you up at the airport,” she said.
My sister had recently got married to a Canadian citizen and I couldn’t attend the wedding. The rotten luck of mine had ensured that while my parents were in Britain, I had to remain in India with a friend, nursing my fractured leg. But I would be meeting them now, after about three months of their wedding.
As I sat eating my sandwich and sipping my expensive coffee, I chanced upon Amarjeet and her parents again. She was about to check in at the counter. Curious, I followed them to see if she’d succeed in her little plan. A part of me rooted for her to succeed. I said a silent prayer hoping she’d be rescued. Whether she’d connect with her lover or not was beside the point. I believed in free will and if she did not want marriage, then she had a right to not get into an alliance. Indians still hadn’t overcome their fascination with marriages. For us, the very purpose of life revolved around a marriage. What else was a man brought into this world for if not to procreate and leave behind a legacy?
Amarjeet’s family was now at the security check point. Oh! Fuck, maybe they won’t frisk her, I realised. Security checks in Britain are unlike India where they manually frisk every passenger and make them pass through a metal detector. Here, they only checked those who they thought were suspicious. I hadn’t been frisked till now even though many white faces were. In fact, a burly white woman behind me had made a face when they saw me being let go and she and her husband being frisked. Ah! But then I realised. She didn’t need the frisking. This wasn’t India where the metal detectors rarely worked. Metal detectors were more for show than anything else in India. But here they would obviously be working, I thought.
The father went first and his turban meant that he’d be frisked thoroughly which the British did. Next up was Amarjeet. She stepped forward after being nudged by her mother.
“Please step aside,” said the lady officer to Amarjeet. The metal detector had blinked and beeped, signalling that something was amiss. Her parents promptly intervened but she was taken aside. The lady officer now had the spoon in her hand and a curious expression on her face. She was now joined by a team of three more male officers. Amarjeet’s mother was busy mouthing her Punjabi abuses.
As Amarjeet was led away escorted by the team of security guards, her parents started crying. They would figure it out soon enough that it was all a deliberate ruse on part of their daughter.
Amarjeet disappeared into a neighbouring building. I knew she was safe. It had worked. She would decide her future now.
If you like this story, Let us know by commenting below..!!!!
If you like this story, Let us know by commenting below..!!!!
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