I had met Amarjeet Kaur on a flight to London. She was sitting on the vacant seat next to me along with her mother. I was fumbling with the earphones and couldn’t locate the hole that was supposed to be located somewhere on the arm rest. Her name was stitched onto her sweater which was a bright pink. Who wears hand-knitten sweaters these days?
“Ummm, what?” I asked. But before she could reply, her mother made a stern gesture with her finger asking her to shut up. Punjabi girls are usually pretty and Amarjeet did not disappoint. I have the habit of staring unconsciously at people. I don’t do it because I lust after girls or I take fancy for a particular boy but I do it because I like to observe. You can’t write if you don’t observe. And I was also a bit shaken at her mother’s outburst so naturally the stare was a bit prolonged on this occasion. However, Amarjeet’s mother thought that I was stalking her daughter so she shifted seats and made her take the window seat. So the 120 kgs of motherly wall now separated us. Amarjeet seemed a bit diffident and would only reply in quick nods to her mother.
“Puttar, I need to went,” her mother said in her manly voice.
“Huh?” I asked.
“She means she needs to go to the loo,” helped Amarjeet. Her mother shook her head as if I was dumb.
“No knowledge of English and going to Britain,” murmured Amarjeet’s mother loudly enough so I would hear.
I immediately stood up to let her pass. She moved slowly, probably the result of old age osteoporosis. I sat down again and removed the earphones and used the touch screen to navigate to the map section so I could locate where we were. Pakistan, it showed.
Amarjeet turned around and faced me directly now. She smiled cheerfully at me now that her mother had gone to the loo.
“What is your name Mister? What do you do?” she asked. At first I pretended not to hear. I didn’t want her mother to catch me talking to her when she’d just minutes ago strongly expressed her displeasure at it. But she was quite young and reckless I guess for she tugged at my arm.
“Am a writer, or more correctly trying to be one, Piyush Mishra,” I replied.
“Wow! You are so lucky. You must really have understanding parents,” she said.
“They don’t really have a choice. They are my parents and they love me so they can’t kick me out. But I feel terribly ashamed sometimes to be living off a retired father’s income for so long and not being able to do anything for either of them.”
She fell silent and I gazed at the rest of the passengers. Right next to me was seated a very attractive lady, her bra strap peeked through her blouse and in the middle seat was seated a man, her husband I think. Beyond these two, I couldn’t see. The air hostess appeared and pointed at me-
“Sir, please wear your seat belt,” she said.
“Ummm, sorry,” I fumbled for the belt and strapped myself. Human beings are such an interesting species. We device ridiculous ways to convince our minds that we are safe. As if a belt is going to protect us if a mishap occurs at such a high altitude! I glanced at Amarjeet again and she opened her lips; I realised she wanted to start a conversation again. I hate it when fellow passengers talk to me. Why the fuck would I wish to engage in meaningless conversation with a stranger who I’d never meet again. I’d rather read a book. Just ahead of me, a loud mouthed man argued with his Indian counterpart on politics.
“Hmmm. But I think I need your help,” said Amarjeet looking at me expectantly.
I drew a long sigh hoping she’d get the hint and leave me alone but she kept looking at me and so I replied, “as in?”
“Switch on your phone’s bluetooth please,” she said, “we can message each other then. Ma will be back soon.”
“Huh? Is that possible? Didn’t she just announce that we have to switch off our handsets,” I said pointing at the air hostess.
“That’s only for the landing and take off. And that’s the only way I can chat with you. My mother will think I am listening to music or playing games.”
“But will our phones be compatible?” I asked. She looked at me as if I was from the Mughal period.
“Dude, you use an HTC but ask such silly questions. What do you use to type your manuscript? A typewriter?” and she burst into laughter.
I decided it was time to return to my chess game. I had downloaded a free chess gaming software and I couldn’t get past the fourth difficulty level. I had been a good player as a child but just like my life had gone all awry, perhaps my skills had also forsaken me.
“Busy?” she typed when I did not reply for some time.
“Just a minute. Am playing chess and it looks like I might win this time.”
“But why? Chess is such a racist game,” she typed.
“Racist? And why is that?”
“Think about it. The King is well protected all the time. The poor pawns die first and can get promoted to everything except the King who is all mighty and white makes the first move always.”
“Ha ha. Never really thought of it but then if you look at it that way, then it’s also sexist as a King can have more than one Queen but not vice versa. A queen does all the work while King doesn’t. And come to think of it, in the end it’s all about sex. Mating ends the game right?”
“Just like life I guess. But in the end, even a pawn can topple a mighty King,” she typed. But I had hooked on by now and had forgotten my chess game.
“Well, it’s better than life. In life, one party needs to lose for the other to win while in chess there is an option for a draw, nobody wins,” I added.
I couldn’t help smiling. But just then her mother reappeared and again looked at me as if I was a paedophile or something. I hushed up and fiddled with my jeans front pocket in order to extricate my phone.
“Get up or not?” her mother barked.
“Oh, sorry, sorry madam,” I apologised and gave way.
I realised that Amarjeet wasn’t some silly old girl and a conversation might stimulate my dormant grey cells. So I switched on my Bluetooth and searched for nearby devices. I wasn’t really sure if it was allowed and wasn’t even sure if Bluetooth would work so high up in the sky but there was no harm in trying. Amarjeet’s mother meanwhile tried to switch on the screen. Amarjeet helped her out and she zeroed in on some Hindi movie but she soon lost interest and soon dozed off.
But it worked. It showed virus 32 as a device. I wasn’t sure if that was Amarjeet. She showed me four fingers. Ummm. Now what was she trying to tell me? And then it dawned on me. The passcode. For ensuring security, Bluetooth devices need to punch in the same pass code, otherwise the connection is not approved. But what did four fingers mean? I knew that a code had to be at least four numbers, or was it more than one numerical? I couldn’t be sure. I typed 4 but it rejected. I tried 1234 in succession and this time it worked.
“Hi, am your window seat girl, Amarjeet,” she had typed.
“Hello, am the writer who cannot get published.”
“Will you tell my story?”
“Surely if it is interesting enough…but I cannot guarantee that it will see the light of day or people would even read it but I’ll definitely write it…”
“You are so pessimistic Mister…And I need your help too,” she said almost laughing out realising the irony. To ask for help from a pessimist. You’d rather ask Satan for redemption!
“That is not always possible,” I typed carefully.
“I just want the spoon that you are using,” she said.
“What?”
“You can use it to eat, just go to the bathroom and clean it and pass it to me but only after my ma falls asleep. That’s all you need to do. And I will tell you my screwed up life story if you can do this for me.” She added a smiley.
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