Cattail Class
Like the horns of a bovine creature rose the wing tips of the Boeing 787 Dreamliner, and I sat inside the ruminant securely fastened to my seat. It was an elegant sight outside the window, but not so much inside. No offence, but my journey from London to New Delhi on Air India had a mood of riding a tractor ploughing through a dusty farm during the harvesting season. I can’t quite explain the whirlpool of emotions I felt during those eight hours, but I did feel like they were being tumbled in a washing machine. As I sat exasperated, I observed that the atmosphere of the plane was alien to my fellow travellers who were being served with gourmet food, wine and reclining seats, while all they wanted was a heap of rice and a flat surface to sit on and spread their limbs. Everywhere I looked, I found proud Indian sons of the soil. They were the grass-root simpletons who looked like they loved the smell of the earth more than the recycled air of the plane. They were the v...