What flying Air India and ANA reveals about India and Japan
An airline tells you much about the character of its country. It’s the first or the last thing you encounter about the destination.
Recently, I flew from Tokyo to Delhi on Air India (AI) and returned via ANA. One smells, and comes with all the desi warmth of extreme laxity, while the other reeks of cleaning chemicals and precision. We all know the trouble AI is in. It has a Rs 50,000 crore debt underwritten by the government. Why it hasn’t been privatised is beyond me, but that’s not a topic I intend to delve into here.
I hardly ever fly Air India. Apart from the obvious reasons of wanting a pleasant journey, I have been forbidden by the husband who knows about mundane lifesaving stuff like quality of maintenance and how often an aircraft is serviced. High on defying him and ignoring his protests, I bought my AI ticket — after all how bad could it be?
The aroma of stale curry mixed with toe jam and an unflushed toilet that greeted me even before I entered the Dreamliner was familiar and did not require comment. When I stepped on chewing gum as I boarded, it didn’t really bother me either because it was too old and mouldy to be sticky.
The floor was a peculiar colour of snot and the seat had disturbing patches of unexplained grossness, but I wasn’t going to touch it with any bare body part, so, who cared?
As I gingerly sat, slipping on my gloves and using baby wipes to clean my surroundings, I marvelled at the impossibility of how they (the AI cleaning staff) had won and managed to leave their unique stamp even on a flight that was originating from the incomparably dirtless city of Tokyo. They had succeeded in making the four-year-old Dreamliner look at least half a century old.
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| An airline tells you much about the character of its country. (Photo: PTI) |
I settled in and scanned the Hindi movies I would catch up on, but that darned white cloth with hair oil stains that’s meant to be velcroed to the headrest fell each time I stuck it on. The culprits were thread, hair and unidentifiable muck that had gotten embedded into the sticky bit. Without the cloth, the velcro kept eating my hair and sweater.
The sweet moustached steward did some quick thinking and cello-taped the white cloth to the seat. When that failed, his colleague outsmarted him and brought out the stapler. Indians always have a solution.
I thought I’d get some shut eye before eating but the eye mask wouldn't go around my head. I have a considerably small head (physically speaking) so it was a total mystery. When I finally managed to get it around and velcroed (yes that darn thing again) the strap, it cut off my circulation and I passed out.
Hurrah! Only to be woken up by that sniffling, coughing, belching, snoring man that I had successfully blocked thus far.
Once you let that sound in it’s all you can hear. Question — why do all snorers fall asleep first on flights?
Gulping my wine, hoping the static on the headphones was not going to electrocute me, I ordered my meal. The zip lock bag holding the cutlery (I’m sure they used super glue) challenged my fine motor skills to the point of screaming till I found solace in camaraderie.
A nimblefingered fellow sitting in the next row ripped open the bag cursing as his fork went flying across the aisle, almost stabbing a terrified Japanese lady. I secretly sniggered and eagerly waited for the Indian meal I’d been smelling long before boarding.
The overweight air hostess aunty plodded towards me with a strange looking box and conspiratorially said, “I’m afraid we’ve run out of food in business class but I have some delicious dinner from home that I don’t mind sharing.”
Air India had heart even if they didn’t have the food I’d already paid for. Nothing worked, everything reeked, everyone was either comfortably lazy or resigned and somehow we all simply made do. If this is not a window to India what is? Maybe next time before take-off and landing, we will be Up in the air asked to stand and sing the national anthem.
On the ANA return flight, the petite air hostess bowed low and immediately placed my hand bag in the overhead bin, even though I wasn’t done taking out my book. She repeated this every time I brought the bag down and took an item out. I couldn’t hack her efficiency. Once I had all my tidbits, my clean, compact seat looked like an explosion.
Was this business class? The narrow seat hardly reclined and had this funny W-shape.
I asked to eat my meal after a nap but the baffled staff couldn’t cope with my unexpected request. There is no room for individuality in Japan. I almost missed the AI aunty. The Japanese businessman next to me was on a regimen — he slurped his ramen, wiped his mouth, removed his shoes, crossed his arms and slept without a twitch making the W look incredibly comfortable.
I tried hard to emulate him but kept sliding off. Then he woke with a start as if some loud internal alarm went off. He put the socks and the eye mask precisely and gently back into its paper envelope. He folded the duvet into the smallest, neatest pile and placed the pillow and headphones on top of it. He had no rubbish.
Well, nor did I, except for random pieces of crumpled paper, lozenge wrappers, dirty tissues, ripped up disembarkation forms and a leaking nail polish bottle (don’t ask).
We arrived five minutes before time, everything worked and smelt sterile.
The eager hostess came to get my bag down, making a point not to notice the trash, and I felt like a misfit stifled by etiquette even before landing.
(Courtesy of Mail Today.)