By VIMAL KAPOOROn the evening of June 11, Shayam Suri sat quietly in his swanky Ahmedabad apartment, sipping tea and going over his checklist for the next day’s business trip to London. He had packed everything—documents, clothes, even the small Ganesh idol his mother insisted he must carry during travel. His ticket for AI Boeing 787, scheduled to depart from Ahmedabad the next afternoon, was safely tucked into the front pocket of his suitcase. He had even booked a cab to pick him up at 10:30 a.m.
His wife, Meena, moved around the kitchen, preparing a simple dinner. They had fought earlier in the day over his frequent travel, her concern barely masked beneath her anger. Shayam had responded with irritation, brushing off her worries as preposterous.
Later that night, as the house settled into silence, a presence hovered invisibly near their window. It was Yamdoot, the celestial messenger of death, scanning the divine ledger. His eyes narrowed when he found Shayam Suri’s name on the list of Flight 787 passengers.
“Impossible,” he muttered. “His time is not now.”
Frowning, Yamdoot leafed through the Karmic records. According to his ledger, Shayam was to live until 2031. But this human was about to board a doomed flight.
He rose through the clouds and approached Yama, the god of death.
“Lord, there is an error,” Yamdoot said solemnly. “Shayam Suri is scheduled to die tomorrow, but his fate shows six more years of life.”
Yama looked into the Book of Life. “You’re right. This fellow must be prevented from boarding.”
“But we cannot interfere openly,” Yamdoot replied.
Yama stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Then alter the circumstances. Nudge the world gently.”
At 1:37 a.m., Meena Suri awoke with sharp chest pain, her breath shallow and eyes wide with terror. Shayam jumped from the bed, panic setting in.
“Meena? What’s happening?” he asked, cradling her trembling frame.
They rushed to the hospital, Shayam driving in frenzy, his heart thundering louder than the car’s engine. Once admitted, Meena was taken for tests. After hours of anxious waiting, the doctor emerged.
“She’s had a mild heart attack,” he said. “The next 48 hours are critical. She needs to be monitored closely.”
Shayam blinked. “But… my flight…”
The doctor raised an eyebrow. “She should not be left alone right now. Emotional support can mean everything in recovery.”
Shayam didn’t hesitate. He stepped outside, called the cab company, and canceled the ride. Then, he contacted the airline and informed them he wouldn’t be boarding. “Family emergency,” he said simply.
On the morning of June 12, Shayam sat beside Meena’s hospital bed, her hand curled weakly around his. The television in the corner played quietly. Then, just past 1:45 p.m.., the news broke. A plane had crashed into the Ahmedabad civic hospital building.
Shayam froze, his breath caught in his throat.
“Air India flight 787 to London…” the anchor announced.
The world turned to smoke and fire. People screamed. Phones rang. Somewhere, someone wept for a loved one they would never see again.
Shayam stared in disbelief. That had been his flight. The seat next to the window. 17A.
Meena stirred and opened her eyes, barely conscious.
“You didn’t go?” she whispered.
“No,” he choked. “I stayed.”
She smiled faintly and squeezed his hand.
Above the clouds, Yamdoot observed quietly. On the celestial balance sheet, death’s error had been corrected—not by force, but by love and fate. He bowed to Yama in reverence.
“The human heart,” Yama said, looking down upon the earth, “sometimes it needs only the smallest tremor to change the course of destiny.”
And in a quiet hospital room in Ahmedabad, Shayam Suri realized he hadn’t missed a flight. He had met a crossroad—and chosen life, love, and the hand of fate reaching out through crisis.
He would never forget the tragedy of that day, nor stop mourning the lives lost. Though for him, it was a new lease of life.
(Vimal Kapoor, a Dehradun resident, is passionate about literature, creating writing, cricket and exploration through travel)
