Flights are an event in themselves. A flight home, more so. So, sometime last month when I found out I had to go home to North Bengal, the airline of choice was undoubtedly Air India. The national carrier has been a personal favourite all these years, no matter how many air-conditioner vents leaked overhead or how many entertainment systems turned out faulty onboard. Air India is pride. Air India is also marked by a crew that’s superhuman.
Around noon on June 19, my cab dropped me off to Delhi Terminal 3, from where I was to board my Air India flight to Bagdogra. Digi Yatra recognised my face. I headed inside. Terminal 3 of the Delhi airport is normally marked by a steady hum of activity. Cackling noises, crying babies, smiling faces, and the sound of movement. This day was different. There was activity, but all of it quiet. No smiles. No noise. All of the mundanity but all from under a pall of gloom.
June 19 marked a week since the Ahmedabad plane crash. In this one week between that flight and mine, I had spent many a waking hour trying to reason out the reasons for cancelling the flight home: ‘It’s family, they won’t mind if you cancelled the ticket.’ I knew they wouldn’t mind if I cancelled the ticket. I also knew that cancelling my tickets would mean giving in to an irrational thought and letting fear win. I was the one who always told off my mom for holding on to her fears of never letting the entire family fly on the same plane. If all four of us had to fly, we had to book separate flights. One daughter would be assigned one parent; and the other, another. My mother would always circle back to the refrain: “What if”. She hadn’t grown up around airplanes. She had every reason to be sceptical of a metal tube that flew.
We used to laugh it off every time she brought it up. “Irrational” was the bottomline through all those discussions.
So, when that “irrational” something – fear – threatened to get the better of me last week, I firmly blocked it out. I had to fly. And I had to fly Air India.
It was easier thought than done. Perhaps it is age or the incessant stream of news and social media doomscrolling, I did have to put in effort to stop myself from pondering over that “what if”. The cab ride was uneventful; the walk to the Air India check-in counter was heavy. I was surrounded by people all of whom had the same look of resigned acceptance on their faces. That this was something they had to get over with.
At the counter, the Air India staff had smiles to offer. There were cheery greetings but none of them could really mask the weight of June 12 and the week in between. We exchanged pleasantries; have-a-safe-flight from her, have-a-good-day to her; and I made my way to the security check. The same silence. Everyone about their business but with their intestines in a knot. This was the scene all through the airport. From the stores to the food court, to the gates.
When the boarding call was announced, silent queues made it to the gate. It was routine.
On board, the Airbus 321 crew had their customary namastes, a little warmer this day. The stewardess, face lit up, tried her best to make people comfortable around her; helping with the bags, the seats, the seatbelt, et al. I made it to my window seat and buckled myself in, and took in every second of the flight safety briefing.
Slowly, the aircraft was readied for takeoff.
Through the window, it was any other sunny Delhi day. Inside the plane, it was another world as its inhabitants stayed suspended in a game of life and death, resigned to fate.
I picked up my book and traced my fingers to the page where the bookmark had been tucked in. In vain. There were flashbacks, maniacal screams, scenes of fire and soot, and half-eaten lunchplates in that hostel. There were images of twisted metal and charred bodies. The headlines came back in mammoth fonts. There was no shutting off the images in my mind. The book lay open on my lap.
Everyone around was part of this nervous dance that had just begun. No one spoke. Not one word. No crying kids. You could cut the silence inside with a pen knife.
The airplane had started taxiing. I counted the seconds. 36. That’s all it took that plane.
Our Airbus left the tarmac. I counted till 36 once again, as a spectacularly clear Delhi sky taunted me from outside the airplane window. What a day to be wasted on unfounded thoughts!
There wasn’t much turbulence on this flight. An hour after takeoff, life inside settled into seat-reclining fights and veg-nonveg choices. From the windows on the left, all of the Himalayas peeked out. The captain announced that we were to begin our descent shortly. Then, another note: all windows had to be closed. We were landing into a defence airport.
I could sense the atmosphere inside shift. There were no noises or objections, no, but there were people shuffling in their seats and exchanging glances, askance, as to why this, why now.
It is now mandatory to shut windows during takeoff and landing at defence airports in India. Photo: Author
The defence airport guidelines came into effect in May, after the Pahalgam attack. This was the first time since then that I was flying in to a defence airport. Admittedly, it wasn’t great news for a claustrophobic person. But there was nothing but admitting to do.
As we shut our windows, I missed the first sight of North Bengal from the air. The little game of spot-the-river that I do every time I fly home, was not to happen this time.
On the other window, I spotted an elderly man trying to catch a glimpse of the outside before submitting to the order. He then turned to his phone. On the screen was a photo of his family.
Twenty minutes of wondering when we were to land later, I could feel the wheels hit the runway. A child cried out. Seat belts were unbuckled and people around me stood up. The cabin crew asked them to sit down. The knot in my intestines relaxed. This was just another flight.
(The author is Editor, Entertainment & Lifestyle, NDTV)
Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author
