The Eleventh Indian

(1930 hrs, 10 December 2015. Mumbai)

I stood in the balcony admiring the calmness of the sea even as a light breeze wafted across my face. Staying on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise apartment in Mumbai, so close to the coast, had its advantages and I smiled to myself before scanning the horizon. The ships at anchorage appeared as distant specks and I longed to be back on board.

'Rohan, do you want a drink?' shouted my Uncle from inside and I put my thoughts aside.

'Not today,' I answered and a familiar grunt followed.

'A guy who can't drink...can't think,' he snorted as he joined me in the balcony and settled himself in the comfort of his rocking chair.

His silvery hair glistened under the moonlight, and I gave him a closer look. My uncle, Captain Ritesh Shah was a legend, having flown every possible commercial airliner to have entered the Indian air space. I, on the other hand, happened to be a young rookie finding his sea legs. That, however, did not stop me from defending the might of the merchant navy in front of him.

‘Rohan, my boy...the joy of living is up in the sky,’ he often repeated, his piercing blue eyes daring me to take up the challenge.

‘The wide expanse of the sea is better,’ I would parrot in defence. Today was no different.

‘A pilot bears the responsibility of hundreds of lives every day,’ he proclaimed, sipping his single malt as was the practice every Saturday evening. As this was the only vice he ever indulged in, it was easy to forgive and my answer was on predicted lines.

‘A merchant ship bears an equal responsibility.’

‘Hrumph...’ he grunted. His bushy eyebrows contorted as he gave his verdict. ‘I love the freedom of the skies.’

‘The independence at sea is better,’ I retaliated.

‘Food is ready, if you have finished fighting,’ called my aunt, Radha, from the kitchen and as was the practice, he hurried to gulp his drink.

No one wanted to be late for her famous Gujarati thali. The khatti mithi dal on today’s menu was our favourite, and I reached ahead of my uncle.

Sitting across the table, I marvelled at her dignified calmness in the blue sari and red bindi until she started the conversation that I feared most.

‘Rohan, Suman is a nice girl,’ she said, and I groaned. Her efforts to find a matrimonial alliance for me had just been re-initiated.

‘Well educated,’ she continued, and I concentrated on the food, maintaining a dignified silence.

‘What about Ishika?’ she persisted, serving me a double helping.

‘Leave Rohan alone,’ objected the gruff voice of my saviour, and there was silence from the other end before she rose to the challenge.

‘A Gujarati boy unmarried at this age is sacrilegious,’ she snapped. As Uncle searched for a suitable retort, the shrill bell of the phone provided relief, and he grabbed the handset, happy to have escaped his wife’s wrath.

The cryptic conversation that followed did not interest me, and I continued to eat until Uncle ended the call and tapped the spoon against his glass. He had our undivided attention.

‘The airline has appointed me as the Executive Test Pilot for the Presidential Fleet,’ he announced, his grey eyes sparkling against the backdrop of his rugged face. ‘That means I will also be on the Board of Directors,’ he added and I forgot the food for an instant. So did my aunt as she jumped up to hug him and I smiled, happy for both of them.

It was time to share the news that I had received an hour ago by email, and I rehearsed it in my mind.

‘I am now a Junior Officer, assigned to the Elizabeth, a swanky merchant ship traversing the busy sea lanes of Europe.’

I repeated it to myself, but it sounded trivial in comparison to what I had just heard. My news was no news, I decided.

‘Rohan, stop dreaming,’ chided my aunt as she returned to her chair, and I hastened to gorge the delicious spread laid on the table, with a contented smile. Life could not be better.

The bubble burst the next week when Captain Ritesh Shah was returning from a trial sortie of an overhauled Boeing 747-400.

‘Victor Tango 11, requesting landing clearance,’ he reported to the air traffic controller, knowing well enough that the Presidential aircraft, returning from a trial sortie got precedence.

‘Victor Tango 11 proceed to runaway two-zero. Romeo Shah can report to me later,’ responded the duty officer with a chuckle.

Ritesh Shah smiled as he recognised the voice. His childhood buddy had no intention of letting him forget the wild escapades of his youth.

‘Copied, Mike,’ he said and pulled back the throttle to ease himself for a copybook landing.

Mike ignored his response as a nightmare presented itself. A corporate jet flouting every rule in the book entered the busy air space and announced his decision to land.

‘Clear the area now,’ barked Mike.

‘After landing, mate,’ responded the pilot and for a moment Mike froze.

‘Rich guys don’t wait,’ added the pilot and this time Mike reacted.

‘Maintain altitude at 10,000 feet,’ he screamed, furious with the turn of events.

‘I am landing now. Medical emergency...’ replied the pilot as he pushed the lever to lower the landing gear and turned the nose of the aircraft towards runaway two-zero.

Sweat ran through Mike’s eyebrows, and he closed his eyes, not wanting to see his friend die.

The staff told him much later that Captain Ritesh Shah had pulled up in time but the pilot of the corporate jet had no such experience. The rookie crashed into the runway killing all twenty businessmen on board.

Rumours buzzed that their accumulated wealth stood over a billion dollars. No wonder, the Government lawyers could not match their corporate brethren, who charged a filthy amount by the hour. As a result, Uncle stood before a Board of Inquiry within five days, and a barrage of accusations followed.

‘Captain, you did not have authorisation to land.’

‘A man with your experience should have exercised caution.’

‘A Director assigned to the Presidential Fleet cannot make such mistakes.’

None of the allegations hurt as he stood in his pilot’s uniform waiting for a chance to justify his stand. The Flight Recorder, also known as the ‘Black Box’, contained the cockpit voice recorder that would prove his innocence.

Mike came next and his statement changed everything. ‘There was no clearance for the Presidential Aircraft to land,’ he said, eyes downcast. The million dollars that rested in his new offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands had proved irresistible.

Captain Ritesh Shah converted to Romeo Shah that instant. He maintained a dignified silence. He did not want to prove his friend of over twenty years a liar in front of the jury.

‘Well, there is nothing else to prove,’ ordered the distinguished pilot who headed the inquiry, still mourning the loss of a relative in the crash.

‘The inquiry will not need the aircraft Flight Recorder and the Air Traffic Control recorder,’ he declared and the other members nodded their head in unison. They had also received their compensation in advance.

Captain Ritesh Shah’s lawyer tried in vain but the inquiry members refused to budge. He then tried a different tack playing on the human angle but met with little success.

The members ignored the Captain’s record and experience. Multiple flights flown by him into war-torn Iraq and Kuwait to evacuate Indian nationals did not interest them. The inquiry proved him guilty, and I carried home three important lessons amidst the palpable tension.

I hated the first lesson the most. As the inquiry began, Captain Ritesh Shah bore the complete responsibility, absolving Mike.

The second gained my admiration. He was on the squash court at 5.30 pm the same evening after the inquiry found him guilty, oblivious to the whispers and the gossip...or so I thought.

I would never forget the third lesson. Captain Ritesh Shah hung himself at midnight in his pilot’s uniform.

We did not find a suicide note. Not that anyone required it. We knew that he had desired to resign with honour.

Aunt lay shattered, her tears refusing to stop. My attempts to console her did not help either. Helpless, I took her to our ancestral home, located on the eastern bank of the Sabarmati River, in Ahmedabad.