The Flight of the Helpless

The plane began to lose height, and the voice of the flight attendant came over the loudspeaker. “We are approaching Dubai airport and we will be landing in about half an hour. Please fasten your seat belts and remain seated.” She repeated the same message in Sinhala, the language of most of the passengers, the official language of the airline, Air Ceylon. “අපි ඩුබායි ගුවන් තොටුපළට ළඟා වෙනවා, අපි පැය භාගයකින් ගොඩබසිනවා. කරුණාකර ඔබේ ආසන පටි සවි කර ගන්න හා ආසන තුල ඉඳන්න.” Denzil felt a jolt as the plane hit a patch of turbulence. He looked out of the window and saw nothing but the blue expanse of the sea. The plane seemed to sway from side to side as it descended. He wondered if the pilot could land safely in such weather.

A stewardess came down the aisle with a stack of arrival cards in her hand. She handed them out to the passengers, whispering, “Arrival cards, පැමිණීමේ කාඩ්පත්”. Denzil took one and searched for a pen in his pocket. He glanced at the people around him. He noticed a group of women, all older than him, sitting in the next rows. They looked poor and worn out, dressed in faded saris and colourful frocks. They had a look of resignation on their faces. Denzil took out his passport from his back pocket and filled out his arrival card with his pen.

Denzil had been lost in his own thoughts for most of the flight, thinking about his parents and kid brother, he was leaving behind after his short break in Sri Lanka. He had not paid much attention to his fellow travellers, except for the group of women who had trouble eating with the cutlery provided by the airline.

Before he could finish his card, a woman next to him tapped his shoulder. She held out her passport and her blank arrival card. She did not say anything, but her gesture was clear. She needed his help. Denzil realised that she did not know how to fill out the form in English. She did not speak, but her eyes pleaded with him. May be, she was afraid to speak with Denzil.

As Denzil was writing on her card, another woman handed him her passport and card. Then another, and another. Soon, he had eight passports and cards on his lap. He understood that he had to help these helpless women. He spent the rest of the flight, until it landed filling out forms and checking their details.

When the plane touched down in Dubai airport, Denzil had learned their names, names that sounded foreign to him, Lalitha, Soma, Kanthi, Banu, Ganga, Umma, Mariam, Mary. They were women without hope, without a voice, without a future. They could not express their gratitude to him, but their faces revealed their feelings.

Denzil felt awkward talking to them. He said little, but he did what he could. He filled out their forms quickly and accurately, hoping to spare them any trouble at the immigration desk. He wanted to help them, but he also wanted to leave them behind.

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