A Flight, A Stranger, and a Story That Stays

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On a recent flight from Bhubaneswar to Delhi, after a divine visit to Jagannath Puri, Nisha (my *bhabhi*) and I slumped into our seats. She put in her earphones, and I was ready to immerse myself in my book when a dusky, dainty, smallish girl plopped into the aisle seat next to me.  

Her beauty caught my attention, and we exchanged a smile. Outfitted in a skimpy, snazzy denim dress, with dangling flip-flops on her delicate feet and a phone and tablet in her petite hands, she had eloquently expressive, gazelle-like eyes. In her dulcet Bihari-accented voice, she requested to sit by the window at the time of landing. I figured she was eager to capture aerial pictures of dazzling Delhi at night, just like my daughter does. Nisha, generous as always, swapped her window seat with her at the outset of the journey.  

Striking up a conversation with routine topics, our unfamiliarity quickly dissolved into a casual and warm exchange. She was curious about me and my family and asked, *"Sir bhi doctor hain kya?"* I replied, *"Yes, he was."* Upon hearing about my loss, her interest in my life deepened. And there I was—opening up to an utter stranger, someone almost three decades younger than me.  

She wanted to see his photo, and I frantically scoured my gallery to find one. Looking at the picture, she softly said, *"Kitne sundar the Sir."* In her endearing voice, she asked about my hobbies, whether I believed in God, whom I opened my heart to, and if I had reconciled with fate or simply resigned myself to destiny running its course.  

Then, suddenly, she cursed the hideous year 2020—the same year that had snatched her mother away at just fifty, succumbing to a sudden heart attack. Srishti had been just fifteen at the time. Seeing the photos of her mother melted my heart, for she was a spitting image of her.  

Life’s unaccountable cruelty was palpable in her sublime, limpid eyes. She unloaded the emotional weight she had been carrying, venting out the pain of losing her mother—the one who had been her emotional adviser, her source of comfort, and her most intimate confidante.  

Despite having two siblings and a father, she felt lonely, helpless, and hopeless. Life seemed banal and insipid. She struck me as someone wise beyond her years, her misfortunes having aged her prematurely. She felt as though life had become a black hole, never to brighten again. Yet, something in her demeanor hinted at the peppy, feisty girl she must have once been.  

The petite, exquisite, unblemished exterior concealed a mature and sensitive mind. As she spoke, her luxuriant, long black tresses cascaded down to her hips. With practiced ease, she twisted them into a bun, a small but striking act of effortless artistry.  

It seemed as though time, too, had grown wings. In our soulful *tête-à-tête* of two hours, we both expressed our vulnerabilities, admitted our struggles, and poured out our myriad swirling emotions. We spoke of how our lives had altered in the strangest of ways. Neither of us tried to hide our heavy burdens of sadness, but we carried them with an elegance rather than a grimace.  

She took my words as gospel, while I, like a mother hen, tried to mollify her grief. The entire flight passed without a single lull in conversation. Our bottled-up wrath, pain, and anger found an outlet. Yet, we did not gloat over our misfortunes, drown in grief, or succumb to tears. Instead, we bonded over our losses. Our sorrows intertwined, and in each other’s words, we found solace.  

It was a fleeting moment but an experience that will remain etched in my heart forever. The story we shared no longer left us as strangers.  

As we parted ways after claiming our luggage at the carousel, she hugged me tightly—a silent expression of gratitude and warmth. Then, in a gesture that took me by surprise, she bent down and touched my feet—a sign of deep respect. I was moved beyond words.  

A soulful conversation, suspended between heaven and earth—questioning both.  

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