In the summer of 1985, my father had to
take an unexpected journey; one that only he could take, despite it
being a very difficult one. He packed a few of his things and left,
hiding his grief behind a pair of dark glasses. He barely looked back
at us, as he drove away. There was no promise of calls or letters.
The family merely prayed that he would accomplish what he had set out
to do.
The journey had been a painful one,
though not a lonely one. Far away from family, he forged
relationships with others who shared his grief. They set out
together, sharing stories,praying and hoping, that they would find
survivors. In his private moments, my father reminisced about his
beloved sister, who had been on that flight with her family. The
quintessential drama queen, she'd written home in true filmi
style, saying she wanted to see her entire family at the airport,
when she landed. With much of the family already in Kerala, we had
traveled from Assam. We got there days before her arrival, to a
household bubbling with excitement. My grandmother was packing to
return with her daughter, and she was promising us all gifts.
Meanwhile, my other aunts were in the kitchen, churning out all of my
aunt's favorites. Amidst the cutting and chopping, they spoke fondly
about my aunt. The light banter continued, while my grandmother
joined in, to check on the laddoos and acchapams. She
then settled the bills with all the vendors, reminding them that she
needed the best produce when her daughter arrived.
One morning, all this excitement came
crashing down.The radio had been turned on, and we heard references
to the “Kanishka” crash. It brought about loud gasps followed by
loud heartwrenching sobs. The mood of celebration was taken over by
one of intense sorrow. My grandmother took to her bed weeping, while
the men watched the news, looking for any information about
survivors. Finally, my father took on the task of getting answers.
Despite all the journeys he'd
previously undertaken, this was the most difficult one yet. Wearing a
brave face, he set out with the hope that perhaps his sister and
family had survived the crash. On reaching London, he met other
people, who were just as hopeful. Prayers were being quietly
muttered, as they waited for information. They were first led to a
room, where they were shown pictures of the bodies that were found.
With a lump in his heart, my father moved from picture to picture.
With every fearful step that he took, he prayed. He barely heard the
loud sobs from someone who'd just discovered a loved one. There was
one man who'd discovered his wife's hand because of the ring she'd
been wearing. Another man who'd seen off his wife and kids, was now
looking at the stuffed teddy his daughter had been carrying. Blocking
out these tragic scenes, my father inched forward slowly. The journey
to this country had been a long tedious one, but this walk across the
room filled with pictures felt much worse. This walk ended with him
discovering only his brother-in-law. What followed was a blur. He was
shown into a room, where he had to identify the body that seemed
intact and lifelike. On enquiring about the rest of the family, he
was told that if they hadnt yet been found, there was little hope. He
listened, his face barely betraying his grief he felt.
The formalities were completed, and
days later, my father returned. The funeral was chaotic, with the
press crowding in for pictures and reactions. My grandmother spent
much of that time in bed, never finding closure till the time of her
own death.
For the rest of us, life continued.
Noone mentioned the Kanishka crash anymore, even though my aunt and
her family were sorely missed. Then two decades later, my father
undertook another trip to London. This time though, he arrived to the
news of my pregnancy. Seeing him thrilled, I then realized that only
this announcement, would erase all memory of that painful walk across
a room of mangled bodies.