Love Regained

BREAKING NEWS

Hasina looked up from the open laptop resting on her knees. ‘Breaking News’ never failed to get her attention no matter how trivial the news might be. One never knew when there would be something really important. And sitting for long hours at airports, one did welcome some distraction. She glanced at her watch, it read 5:00 am exactly. She had been waiting in the capacious transit lounge of Bahrain Airport for almost five hours and had had her fill of the brightly lit duty free shops that it was famous for. There were still three more hours before the scheduled departure of her connecting Gulf Air flight to Kathmandu.

“This is a CNN Breaking News special,” the craggy faced anchor spoke into the camera. “We have a confirmed report that in the last fifteen minutes - Paris time about 4:00 am - a plane went down over the English Channel with 75 people on board including a ten man crew.  The Air France Airbus 300 was on its way to Le Havre and circling over the channel in preparation for landing at the Le Havre Octeville Airport. Initial reports suspect a bomb explosion as the cause of the crash. We have got video footage coming in as we speak.”

The end section of the plane, the prominent colors of Air France clearly visible on the tail, came into view. It seemed only a matter of time before it too vanished into the deep blue waters of the English Channel. Flotsam of the wreckage was strewn about nearby. The TV announcer came back on screen, “Although this is a preliminary report, there are some indications that this terrible carnage was the work of a single individual. According to airline officials, 35 of the passengers were American students on a cultural tour of France. We will keep you posted as soon as our reporter on the ground reaches the scene.”

Hasina closed her laptop, and automatically a prayer came to her lips, “Lord, please keep Amir safe.” She stood up, a certain amount of concern clearly visible in her large kohl lined eyes, then immediately sat down again. Her long legs, sheathed in skin tight black jeans, were no more sure of themselves.  Her mind was racing, “What if? What if Amir was on that plane?” She opened her laptop and opened the file to reveal the photo they had taken just twelve hours ago at Charles De Gaulle International Airport in Paris. They were standing in front of a Mac Donald’s and had happy smiles on their faces. Amir’s even white teeth were in sharp contrast to his thick black eyebrows and neatly trimmed beard. His eyes, however, were a hazel brown. Hasina looked as attractive as she always did, her well proportioned body and youthful face belying her forty years, her all black outfit complementing her dusky complexion. Amir was dressed in a light brown checked shirt and blue jeans.

“Hasina, I’ll make sure that I reach Bahrain in time to catch your flight,” he had promised. Hasina believed him. It was but a continuation of the many promises made since the time they had first been introduced by a mutual friend a month ago at the Universal Studios City Walk in Orlando, Florida. It was obvious that Amir had been smitten at first sight. He was the spontaneous type who couldn’t hide his feelings. They had entered a few of the dance halls and listened to music side by side on big earphones at the enormous music store. He fancied himself a poet and loved lyrical songs. They had walked around a lot, the festive atmosphere aiding in making their conversation light and frothy. Then and there, even at their first meeting, Amir had declared impulsively, “Hasina, I’ll go back to Kathmandu with you. I haven’t seen my folks for a long time now.” Like Hasina, his home too was in Nepal and he had been in the States for the last two years working as a research scientist at the IT department of the University of Florida. She herself was at the end of a three month visit to her sister who worked as a nurse in Florida Hospital.

Some of the waiting passengers were now standing and looking up at the television screen, while those seated had their eyes glued on the news as well. ‘Breaking News’ flashed on the screen once more. Hasina looked up. “Our reporter is now on the scene.” A pretty woman in a brown skirt and white shirt holding a microphone came into view, her blonde hair blowing in the wind.  “Details are still sketchy but the police have determined with some certainty that the bomb could have been disguised skillfully as a laptop. Sadly, there seems to have been no survivors.”

Hasina froze, her heart seemed to have stopped beating.  Her mind raced back once again, this time to Orlando Airport. She and Amir had met at the Terminal 1 gate and checked in their luggage. They carried only their laptops with them. Amir had switched his on as soon as they sat down in the departure lounge, saying, “I have to confirm an appointment with a fellow researcher in Le Havre.” Hasina noticed that his laptop was not at all like her own Toshiba Satellite. It was bulkier and heavier. “What brand is it?” she had asked, observing the absence of any logo whatsoever.  “Oh it’s a prototype we designed at the university. Isn’t in the market yet,” he had replied shortly, before closing it shut and putting it inside a black leather case.  

While they waited to catch the American Airlines flight to Paris at their next stop in Chicago O’Hare International, she had asked, “Amir, is your appointment on?” Giving her a regretful look, he had replied, “Yes, unfortunately.” “That means you will be flying to Le Havre from Paris then?” she had asked.

“Well, that’s the plan, there are flights from Paris to Le Havre every hour or so.  But don’t worry I just have to hand over a few papers then I will fly to Bahrain and catch up with you. I know you have a long wait there to fly to Kathmandu,” he had said, his hands firmly on his strange laptop.

Now, as Hasina stared disbelievingly at the screen, her face a frozen mask, only the words ‘bomb’ and ‘laptop’ resounded through her numbed mind again and again. “Oh Amir, how could you? How could you?” she cried to herself. She recollected too the intensity in his hazel brown eyes when he had declared once during the flight to Paris, “America is going down the drain. It won’t be long before it becomes completely corrupt – both morally, which it already is, and economically, a process that has already begun.” His gruff voice sounded almost choked as he had gone on to relate a recent incidence at his university in which two Asian students had been shot dead. He had known them well and it was obvious that he had been deeply affected. “Such things are happening at other universities too. I tell you, America is no more what it was. It’s finished.” Hasina could clearly detect disdain in his voice.

 “Oh Amir,” she groaned inaudibly. “Why did you do it?” The other passengers were still staring at the screen, their faces mirroring each other’s consternation and concern. This was not the kind of news that one wanted to hear when waiting to fly. She put her face in her hands and closed her eyes. It was not only for Amir that she mourned, she grieved as well for herself. She was forty and still unmarried. It was not that she lacked in suitors, but she had never found someone who she thought she could respect enough to spend the rest of her life with. In Amir, she had thought that at last her wish had been granted. Amir with his sprightly good looks, his witty demeanor, his obvious intelligence and his spontaneous enthusiasm. She uncovered her face and looked up. A part of her mind refused to believe it. What if it wasn’t Amir? What if it was somebody else? She couldn’t be sure yet. “Oh Lord, let it not be Amir,” she implored.

Her eyes strayed to the TV screen again. The anchor was saying, “Well, Patty, what else have you got for us? Any breakthroughs?” The blonde reporter came back on screen, her voice crisp and sure, “Yes Greg, the police have identified a suspect.  Apparently, his first name is Kabir.” A wave of exultation swept through Hasina. It wasn’t Amir. It was somebody else. “Oh thank you Lord. Thank you.” It was as if a tremendous burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

The reporter went on, “The suspect evidently had an alias. The police think that he also went by the name of Amir.” The blond reporter’s words shattered her hopes like crystal glasses thrown into a storm. Her hands involuntarily went up to cover her face once again. Her shoulders sagged. She couldn’t breathe. Amir, Amir, Amir, his name reverberated in her ears like clarion calls. Everything was over. Her life was meaningless now. A lifetime planned together was finished before it had even begun. She wanted to cry and wail, yet the tears refused to come and the wailing was only that of her heart. Her chest heaved, she struggled for every breath. She stayed like this, her face covered, for many minutes. She lost track of time and all around her was a deathly silence that only she could experience.

Suddenly, as if from afar, a voice drifted into her remorse filled thoughts, “Hey Hasina, look who’s here!” She refused to look up, nothing mattered to her anymore. The voice, now seemingly nearer, repeated, “Hey, everything all right Hasina?” The gruffness in the tone was familiar. Slowly, she pried her hands away from her face. She looked up with wild eyes. “What? How?” she gasped, staring at the hazel eyes looking down at her with some concern.

“It’s me, Hasina. Promised you I would make it didn’t I?” She tried to stand up. Couldn’t. She continued to stare at him but the wildness in her eyes was now replaced by total incomprehension. She had practically lost her voice. “What? How?” was all she could squeak out. “Simple – I drove over to Le Havre, faster that way. It’s only 178 km. Told you all I had to was to hand over some papers. Took the flight from there and here I am. Why are you so surprised? I promised didn’t I?” he sounded a little aggrieved at having to explain in such detail.

He sat down next to her and opened his laptop, “Look, here’s a little poem I wrote for you while on the way. Have a look. Come on. I really think it’s one of my best.” She dropped her eyes on to his laptop screen and read, ‘Darling of my dreams, Pillow of my sleep, Cover me with your love, Wake me with your screams.’

Just then, a murmur went through the passengers watching the news. She looked up. A picture of a thickly bearded man in his late fifties was on the screen and the craggy faced anchor was saying, “We would like to correct a small mistake in our previous coverage. According to authorities, the alias of this man is not Amir as reported but rather, Jamir.”

Hasina’s eyes returned to the poem. She couldn’t stop the tears of relief and comprehension from flowing freely down her face. She looked up at Amir. His face shone with delight. His hazel brown eyes looked somewhat surprised, as he exclaimed, “Hey, I didn’t know it was that great!”