Flying is something which manages to captivate me every time I think of it despite whether I’m in mood for it or not. I’m still childish before boarding a flight. In case I procrastinate on doing a Web check-in, on A320s I normally do a ‘Can I have 20A or F please’ or ‘Has someone already scrambled for 9A or F….?’ depending on my interest at that point of time on the wing or the engine.
Boeings are boring. An exception – the 747, its aura tried, tested, loved and adored since decades, having tried numerous times to been won upon by its European rivals. Except that song, thankfully more Indian operators have opted for the Airbus.
The ground staff, sometimes rude and many a times they even can keep up with their silicon smiles. Wonder what their packages are smothered by their overdone black eyeliners hiding their unearthly morning puffy eyes.
But otherwise the ever smiling conditioned air hostesses, their silicone training still holding strong. I’m venting out this ire because drat, I missed my flight by practically a little more than three minutes last week. They didn’t even blame their helplessness on their computer like those pensioned sloths. And I didn’t dare argue with them doing their job in that fancy dress. Their prop was a leash around the neck. All the while I was thinking of my impending date with the flying contraption.
The voracious hungry engines savaging the runway and at the right moment with the calculated index, to its impending heist with the air above the ground. That’s the first half of the best part of any flight. Fast forwarding to – the dual play of the ailerons either side employing simple physics and the noisy extension of the flaps vying for the gradual descent of the flying metal craft. The touchdown of the Dunlop tyres releasing the accumulated static energy while the spoilers in tandem with the reverse thrust of the same CFM engines which surge forward brake the craft to half quarters of its speed under five seconds. And the final retraction of the flaps silently proving they’ve done their share of the job.
The fast passing taxiways where tired pilots long to take the immediate turn off to the docking bay. That the co-pilot trying to switch off the blinking warning lights in an effort to impress his captain and jump on to the shortestcut conveyor belt to hop onto his flagged five star hotel.
It’s amazing how people can herd themselves… the chain reaction of the people ever urgent to change their diapers making a beeline for the exits. The idiotic chorus of cell phones switching on and crouching for minutes altogether under the overhead bins not knowing their entire time gained from the time they start the hustle till the point when they receive their check-in luggage, are hardly few minutes. Their unread mails being reported by their mini OSes. Phew. Flying at one time was ecstatic without this melodrama. I’d rather be an infrequent flyer than a pompous or ignorant one claiming on the fat. Why aren’t humans more sociologically simple than flying. Go get an altitude to yourself.
On a more serious ‘lighter’ note, aircrafts manage to take me away from the mediocrity of the things around. It was exactly a decade ago that my friend and I articulately planned the model of the to-be designed single-seater flying craft with four Yamaha RX-100 engines. Their compression chambers negotiating and conversing in sync with the thin air around lifting our spirits while the other standing on the windy grass watched with bated breath alongside the long road. The beautiful symphony of all the carefully designed organs doing their job. Kept me wondering if we should be a part of the machine, or to try control it.
The nostalgic credence... 