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When Two Psychiatrists Took on the Atlantic… and the Atlantic Fought Back

A memoir-style note by Dr. P.K. Gupta, Dehradun

People think psychiatrists are calm all the time. That we sip chai, nod wisely, and nothing ever rattles us. Let me tell you about the one week in May 2012 when Dr Sumit Khatri and I proved that theory completely wrong.

Sumit bhai (yes, that’s what we call him , and now I do too) is the kind of man who enters a room and the blood pressure of everyone in it drops ten points just by his smile. Tall, soft-spoken, always in crisp kurtas, he has been practicing psychiatry in Dehradun for decades who somehow got invited to present a paper at the American Psychiatric Association’s annual meet in New York.

So off we went –Sumit and me, and a few others.

New York was everything they show in movies and more. We attended sessions at the Javits Center, argued about DSM-5 (which was still being finalised), and in the evenings Mrugesh bhai turned tour guide.

“Arre Guptaji, Eiffel Tower dekha nahi life mein? Chalo, statue of Liberty boat pe!” he announced one free afternoon.

Sumit bhai, Eiffel Tower to Paris mein hai na?” I asked, confused.

He laughed so hard people on the ferry turned around. “Haan yaar, but Empire State bhi to mini-Eiffel lagta hai! Top pe chalte hain!”

So up we went – 102nd floor, wind slapping our faces, the whole city glittering below us. Sumit clicked selfies, Sumit bhai stood quietly gazing at the Hudson, probably diagnosing the city’s collective anxiety.

The real drama, however, was reserved for the journey back.

We boarded a Delta flight from JFK to Delhi via Paris. Middle of the night, somewhere over the Atlantic, half the passengers asleep. Suddenly the plane does a sharp, stomach-dropping turn. No announcement. Nothing. Just the feeling that someone pressed the wrong button.

Ten minutes later the captain finally comes on the intercom, voice tight: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve had an indication in one of the engines. As a precaution we are returning to New York.”

Precaution? We were halfway across the bloody ocean!

Sumit bhai looked at me calmly and said, “Guptaji, statistically speaking…”

“Sumit bhai, aaj statistics chhod do please,” I whispered, clutching the armrest.

Sumit, sitting across the aisle, leaned over. “Sir, agar crash hua to main aap dono ka joint paper complete kar dunga, promise!”

The plane limped back to JFK. When we touched down – rather hard – the aircraft gave up completely. Engines dead. We sat on the tarmac like a wounded bird. Finally a tractor came and towed us to the gate like a bullock cart bringing marriage guests home.

The pilot, an American gentleman with the face of a man who had aged ten years in three hours, stood at the door shaking every passenger’s hand.

“I am so sorry, folks. Ground staff in Paris put the wrong fuel or something – total stupidity,” he kept repeating.

Sumit bhai shook his hand warmly. “Captain saheb, you brought us back alive. Stupid staff to roz milte hain, aap to hero ho.”

Delta put us up in a brand-new apartment hotel near the airport – full kitchen, fancy pots and pans, welcome basket groaning with food.

We reached at 4 a.m., exhausted. Sumit and I were room-mates. We opened our suitcases.

Sumit: “Sir, khana banaye?”

Me: “Beta, mere paas Dehradun ka aata bhi nahi hai.”

Mrugesh bhai knocked, entered with his trademark smile, carrying a giant dabba. “Khakra, fafda, chevdo, muthiya, thepla… Gujarat ne New York conquer kar liya!”

Within ten minutes the entire Indian contingent had gathered in the corridor – ten psychiatrists sitting cross-legged on the carpet, passing around khakra and fafda like it was a picnic on the Sabarmati. Nobody touched the fancy American kitchen. Someone put on old Kishore Kumar songs on a phone. We laughed till we cried about our near-death experience.

Next morning Delta told us: no direct flight for three days. So they routed us JFK → Atlanta → Paris → Delhi.

Atlanta airport – beautiful. Live piano in the atrium, some soldier in uniform playing jazz. We Gujarati–Uttarakhandi gang stood mesmerised. Mrugesh bhai quietly dropped a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar. The pianist played “Yeh mera dil yaar ka diwana” as a thank-you – I swear I’m not making this up.

Paris stopover was only two hours. We just about managed to wave at the real Eiffel Tower from the runway.

Finally reached Delhi… and I discovered my Dehradun flight had left an hour ago.

Mrugesh bhai patted my back. “Guptaji, bus se chalenge. Psychiatrist logon ka dil strong hota hai.”

Fourteen hours on a Volvo, sharing more thepla and gathiya, telling the same engine-failure story to every co-passenger who asked why we looked like we’d survived a war.

I reached Dehradun at dawn, smelling of fafda and Atlantic aviation fuel.

That trip taught me two things:

1. Never fly with Mrugesh Vaishnav if you want a boring journey.
2. When the world literally turns you around in mid-air, there’s no one you’d rather have next to you than a Gujarati psychiatrist carrying emergency khakra.

Years later, whenever we meet at conferences, Mrugesh bhai still greets me with the same line:

“Guptaji, engine phir kharab ho gaya kya? Khakra laaye ho?”

And I still check my bag to make sure I do.