There’s a moment, right after you clear the security check and right before you cry in existential despair, when you realise India’s airports have quietly evolved into swanky, shimmering bastions of first-world fantasy. And by that, I mean you are now paying first-world prices for discomfort, wrapped in premium branding. Although a frequent international flyer might argue that we are not worse off, we are in sync with other airlines and airports when it comes to passenger discomfort.
Airports are no longer just terminals; they are retail-tainment complexes with Runway Access, equally obnoxiously priced, like the popcorn at PVR. From Adani to GMR, every billionaire wants to own your airport wait time, just as Mukesh owns WiFi.
You walk in to be greeted by polished marble floors, designer boutiques, and of course – that ₹150 tea that tastes like regret in a soaking wet paper cup. If you listen closely, you can hear your wallet softly weeping next to your boarding pass.
And the seating? Oh, the seats. Designed seemingly by someone who’s never met a human spine. If you’re over 5’5” or possess a waistline beyond the mythical 43 inches (basically, if you’re built like any functional Indian uncle), you’re in for a wild ride. You will spend your wait time contorting like a yoga instructor with a slipped disc, knees in collision with the stranger opposite you, as you both pretend not to be uncomfortable. It’s like two overinflated balloons trying to share a parking spot.
Food? Domestic flights aren’t long enough to demand meals – we agree. But when you’ve spent an hour in traffic, 45 minutes in a check-in line that moves at the speed of government file clearance, another 30 minutes in security (where you’re asked to remove everything short of your pancreas), and then you’re hit with a gate delay of “only 35 minutes,” your hunger becomes a fundamental human right.
So yes, Indian passengers – resourceful as ever – have started carrying dabba again. You’ll spot Aunties unpacking Theplas at Gate 21B like it’s a suburban picnic. And thank the aeronautical gods for vending machines that offer humble heroes like ₹40 cold drinks, Parle-G, and namkeen that haven’t been marked up like shares on listing day.
The air hostesses, long accused of smiling through clenched teeth, now present a dual personality: part cosmetically beautified, part overworked empathy coach. If you behave well and don’t demand why your window seat doesn’t come with an actual view, you might even get a bonus biscuit. And don’t forget – you’re flying on a ticket cheaper than your Uber to the airport- on per km basis, so let’s keep expectations in economy class.
Now let’s address the great social experiment unfolding at the departure gate: Middle Class Moksha.
Yes, for many of us, flying used to be the ultimate arrival in life. “He’s flying to see his chacha in Musirabad,” they whispered proudly in the mohalla WhatsApp group. Never mind that Musirabad doesn’t have an airport and the chacha is picking him up from the city an hour away. But flying meant something. It meant you’ve made it.
Nobody wants to admit anymore that they’re taking the Duronto to the next district – it is hardly brag-worthy. You can’t exactly announce over chai that your ticket included bedsheets and a thermos flask instead of legroom and turbulence.
We’ve wrongly given air travel the image of being sleek, sophisticated, and status-enhancing. When in truth, it’s become little more than a compressed metal tube experience where your knees are in your mouth and your neighbour’s elbows are in your ribs. The glamour? Gone. The joy? Lost somewhere in the cabin baggage.
But here’s the real surprise, the delicious irony. For a country obsessed with “Customer Experience,” why do airlines seem determined to make yours worse every year?
Everyone’s out there talking about “solutions,” “pain points,” and “delight metrics” while your tray table is still sticky from 2017. Do they not fear consumer backlash? Brand erosion? A shift? A switch-off? Turns out they don’t. Because until someone figures out how to teleport or build a high-speed rail that doesn’t take 20 years to approve, you’re stuck with them.
The airlines have realised that as long as they can take you from point A to point B in reasonably defined discomfort, you’re not going anywhere else. You are the mosquito, and just like them, you have no option. They are the spider’s web. And business class? That’s just a shinier section of the same web, with hot towels. And why would they worry? More destinations are opening, the customer number is on the rise, and bookings are skyrocketing.
So here’s the radical idea. If you genuinely want change, not just in ticket pricing, seats, or snacks, but in your soul, don’t take a flight.
No violent protests. No peeing in the aisle. No slapping the staff who just announced another 35-minute delay. Go full Gandhigiri. Stay home. Skip the flight. Let the ₹150 chai rot. Let the overpriced airport samosa grow mould. Let those marble-tiled airports echo in silence like a haunted mall with tarmac.
Choose the train again. It drops you off inside the city, provides food without a service charge, and allows you to stretch your legs without dislocating them.
And if your ego feels bruised, telling your neighbours you’re taking the train? Lie. Say you’re flying private. Or going “off-grid.” Or visiting a wellness retreat where they ask you to detox from aviation.
Because sometimes the most powerful act of protest is not to scream, but to stay away. And I, for one, am unable to resist the allure of the lounge and hence continue to fly and suffer the troubles. At the same time, I continue to blabber to no one in particular.
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