Thursday, 4 pm
“Truth or dare?”
The sealed mouth of the mineral water bottle faces me.
“Truth.”
“How did you get to know it?”
It, here, means the delay of our flight to Vadodara. We are a bunch of people who arrive on time to a party that has not yet begun. Our flight should have taken off two hours ago.
“The board at the entrance of the airport. I thought I was late for my flight and checked to see if boarding was already under way.”
“Same here.” The forty-something gentleman next to me wrings his fingers.
“No. You say that when it’s your turn. The question will be the same for everyone,” says the wiry Gen-Z kid, my only co-passenger with balanced chakras, as we await further announcements.
The ‘truth’, it turns out, comes as:
“My neighbour warned me.”
“I heard it while two policemen were arguing at the signal on the way to the airport.”
“My cab driver alerted me.”
“My dog nodded twice when I asked if my flight would be delayed.” Such a smart dog. “He nodded thrice when I asked if it would get cancelled,” adds the woman with green highlights in her hair. “But there was no communication from their end, so I presumed the flight was on time.”
“My panditji has predicted a series of delayed flights till my moon is in Sagittarius.”
“I think the flight itself is entirely in Sagittarius.”
“Please. No jokes.”
I sense an argument brewing and change tracks. “What would have been the dare?”
“To go back and ask the lady at the counter when our flight is scheduled.” Gen-Z rolls his eyes.
“I think she’s going to scream.”
“I think she’s going to cry.” Two raccoon-eyed uncles exchange grins.
My gaze shifts to the ground staff fending off questions from all directions. Her gel-slicked hair is immaculate in a tight bun, lips parched, voice hoarse. She repeats, over and over: We are waiting for further instructions. We will let you know soon. Apologies for the inconvenience.
A blanket apology to smother raised hands, pointing fingers, mumbled swear words, sizzling tempers.
Then the aunty with the oracle dog mutters, “Even the municipal hospital is less chaotic.”
That is when it hits me.
The hustling orderlies, bustling clerks, irksome nurses, dawdling medical officers — small fish fried in the hot oil of public ire over whatever the most recent crisis is. Healthcare or airline industry, the script barely changes.
As if on cue, my phone rings. I glance at the clock. Almost 5 pm. We are already three hours late.
“Madam, we have three appointments for you this evening. Have you landed?” It is my clinic receptionist.
Oh dear. I have completely forgotten about that.
“You’ll have to reschedule them. I’ll be late.”
“Might be?”
“Will be. Please don’t keep the patients waiting.”
“Should I shift them to tomorrow morning?”
“Yes. I should be back tonight by 8 pm at the latest.”
“Oh, so you are a doctor? I also have hernia for the past twelve years.” An elderly gentleman beams. Both of us clearly suffer from conditions that encourage awkward public disclosures.
Passengers for Vibgyor Airways flight VB 742 to Vadodara may now proceed to counters 18–21.
Cheers erupt. Passengers from other flights scowl at us in envy.
“Poor folks,” we purr. “The uncertainty of departure must be excruciating.”
The same purring I hear among patients — those allowed into the OPD for being ‘on time’ versus those who turn up late. Doctorsaab bas aate hi honge, Sisterji assures them.
We proceed for a security check. The queue is long, despite ours being the only flight scheduled. Fifteen minutes later, we realise security is not happening at all.
Doctorsaab thoda emergency mein hain. Bas aa rahe hain.
The emergency, I know, can range from a tantrum-throwing child to a bout of diarrhoea after a stale vada-pav on night duty to an actual surgery running over time. Sisterji has no details.
By 6:30 pm, security is done. We have established that none of us is a terrorist — and even if one were, hijacking this flight would be impossible due to lack of information on the time of departure. We laugh in perfect coordination.
Coffee appears. Seats are swapped. Flight friendships are formed. Based on probability alone, a hernia is likely to be seated beside me.
“Define soon,” a lady says, reenacting her conversation at the counter.
I have heard this outside MRI stations. Through glass partitions, one sees either frantic efficiency or leisurely apathy. Either way, delay is inevitable — understaffing, overworked machines, brittle patience. The MRI machine can break down at any moment, especially when you need it most.
I settle with my book.
An announcement arrives:
Flight VB 742 is scheduled for departure at 20:00 hours. Boarding will begin shortly.
Cheers. Calls are made.
Then another announcement, brief and brutal:
We regret to inform you that Vibgyor Airways flight VB 742 to Vadodara has been cancelled.
“This is worse than being hijacked,” someone mutters.
Lives unravel. Hernia-man will miss his college reunion. Oracle-dog lady will miss a literature festival lecture. A woman in a crisp bodycon suit will miss her son’s school annual function. My rescheduled appointments feel paltry.
Fists pound counters. Refunds are demanded. Train tickets are booked.
Where is our check-in luggage?
We want a refund now.
I remember patients doing the same while a clerk pleads for calm and tries arranging another MRI machine — the older one reserved for emergencies, which no night staff knows how to operate.
At 8:30pm, after grudging acceptance sets in, another announcement arrives. The longest yet.
Flight VB 742 is not cancelled. It will depart in fifteen minutes. We apologise for the confusion.
To my surprise, this triggers louder anger.
People scramble, cancelling cabs, explaining to suspicious spouses. It feels like an MRI machine sputtering back to life — and then discovering you have cancer. Or worse (specifically on the Indian subcontinent), discovering you do not have cancer. Not even a benign little mass. Just the most disappointing, clean MRI.
So we are wheeled into surgery (let us go with cancer). It is 21:00 hours.
Only, the surgery does not begin.
Nurses and orderlies mill about, avoiding eye contact. The surgeon is held up in another OT. He will be here soon. A friendly anaesthetist smiles and retreats for tea.
At 22:00 hours, the surgeon arrives. Sunken eyes. Sallow complexion. He apologises. He offers no reason. He says the surgery — the flight — will begin soon.
Exhausted, with or without anaesthesia, we are borne into the clouds. The surgery is uneventful. The landing smooth.
The next day, drowsy and numb, we will skim the newspaper headlines. About the Vibgyor fiasco. Understaffed flights. Pilots rushing between duties. Flouted rules. Endangered lives. Mandatory rest hours. Committees. Abused ground staff. Budget allocation. An acute airline crisis.
In a far corner of page twelve, a small article speaks of a doctor being mauled after a patient dies, ostensibly, due to delay in treatment. Of cough syrup killing children. Of oxygen shortages in ICUs. Of 1.6 beds per thousand patients. Fewer than two nurses per thousand. Of one doctor for eight hundred patients in urban areas — far worse in rural ones. Of budget allocation. Of chronic healthcare failure.
I will sigh and answer my phone.
The first carried-forward appointment from last evening has arrived.
I will fold the paper and say,
“Tell them, Doctorsaab bas aa rahe hain.”
