Curiosity is the seed of knowledge!

By Sanman Thapa | 8/6/2024|7:15 am

Trauma lingers in the minds of the scarred, leaving indelible marks from moments witnessed and the “what ifs” that follow. This story carries that weight.

After saying farewell to my family, my son and I left home at 8:45 am, preparing for our journey back to the US from Nepal. As we rode in a taxi toward the airport, a sense of anxiety churned in my gut. I chalked it up to a possible stomach bug from our daily rice, vegetables, daal, and goat curry diet.

After my final goodbyes with my brothers at the airport, I was stopped during the luggage screening. An agent asked, “What’s in the jumbo bottles, sir?” With a nervous grin, I replied, “It’s wine.” The judgment was palpable as three officers approached, asking me to open the luggage. They inquired further, “What kind of wine?” I admitted it was moonshine, and they immediately confiscated it, explaining, “Sorry, sir, you can’t take homemade alcohol.” I was confused and disappointed since I had brought similar bottles the previous year without issue. My son chuckled, “They saved Kathmandu from exporting moonshine!” His sarcasm was a slight relief amid the tension.

Already feeling off, the confiscation put me in a foul mood. We proceeded through a lengthy immigration process and were shuttled to the plane. As the bus door opened and people began to disembark, we heard screams. Looking up, I saw a small plane wobbling about 100 feet above the runway. It seemed unclear whether it was landing or taking off, but it suddenly veered off a cliff, nose-diving. A booming noise followed as the plane crashed, sending a black cloud billowing into the sky.

The bus was filled with shocked passengers, including my 15-year-old son, Aiden. He didn’t see the plane fall but heard the screams and looked horrified as he pushed to the front of the bus. As the dark smoke from the crash clouded the atmosphere, I tried to reassure him, though he could see through my attempts. “Did that just happen, or am I dreaming?” he asked, bewildered. At a loss for words, I nodded as we watched emergency vehicles race toward the scene.

Airport security hurried us onto the plane, asking for calm. We were stuck there for two hours as the airport was locked down. It was an eerie silence, broken only by passengers calling loved ones, some in tears. My mind was a whirl of confusion and fear, replaying the accident like a broken record. This event triggered my suppressed memory of witnessing a second plane crashing into the World Trade Center. My son, sensing my anxiety, asked, “Are we going to die? Are we going to crash? Should we call Mom?” I felt trapped in a bubble of helplessness and dread.

After what felt like an eternity, the plane’s engines roared to life, and we prepared for takeoff. Aiden gripped his wrist anxiously as we ascended, and the tension in the cabin was palpable. Once in the air, my concern shifted to our connecting flight in Doha, Qatar, which we ultimately missed by 15 minutes.

A representative met us at the gate, informing us we had missed our connection to JFK, New York. He informed us that the next direct flight wouldn’t be until the next day but arranged an alternative route through Europe. We were given new boarding passes, hotel accommodations, and meal vouchers.

As we waited, Aiden and I connected to the airport WiFi and learned more about the crash: a Bombardier CRJ200ER operated by Saurya Airlines, bound for Pokhara from Kathmandu, carrying mainly mechanics and engineers. Out of 19 people onboard, only the pilot survived. The news felt surreal.

We had about 6 hours in Doha, so we took the opportunity to explore Old Doha briefly despite the heat. The vibrant, colorful buildings and landmarks were captivating, but exhaustion soon led us back to the hotel to rest before our next flight.

At midnight, we returned to the airport in Doha. Some confusion over gate numbers almost caused us to miss our flight, but we made it just in time. After a six-and-a-half-hour flight, we arrived in Rome around 7:30 a.m., had about three hours of layover, and had breakfast. Even for airport food, the breakfast tasted like farm-to-table fresh, and the coffee was rich and delicious.  Jokingly, Aiden said, “It would be a crime not to have a gelato in Rome, Italy,” so we stopped for gelato and some chocolates to bring home as we made our way to the next flight from Rome to New York.  

After our arrival, my wife picked us up at the airport and informed us that we had to go to a party for her father.  Despite our exhaustion, we attended my father-in-law’s 80th birthday party. Ironically, he and I share the same birthday. Reflecting on the journey, it was a surreal experience. My 49th birthday spanned three continents: a celebration in Nepal, breakfast in Rome, and dinner in New York. What was supposed to be a 19-hour flight turned into a three-day odyssey. The memory of the plane crash stayed with me, an event that underscored the fragility of life and the power of a single moment to change everything.

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