Flying makes me feel important. As much as I hate long lines, waiting, airports, in-flight food, lost baggage hungama, crying children and take off. I love the way I feel when I fly. When I look down from above, I feel like my existance is more purposeful as compared to those lesser mortals that I see. This silly sense of euphoria originates from the middle class upbringing that had me waving my hand off at any plane that I could barely even spot. Aeroplanes, I believed, were for people who were way too important to take a train. Like it was a sign of raising above humanity. A sign that cordoned off the special people from the normal haggard ones.
During my debut air travel, I did everything that my 12 year old brain could think of to act like I belonged there. With all these people I had been waving to, till then. The people I had strained my neck to catch a glimpse of and admired. It was going to be an important moment in my life. A moment that was going to mark my crossing over to the other side. When I entered the aircraft, I couldn’t help gaping at my fantasyland, inspite of all rehearsals in my head about acting cool. It was hard to accept that fact that everything was nice and classy. No gr ubby TTRs, no rusty window panes, nothing smelly or old. The cool carpet, the pretty attendants, the chocolates, the free kiddie goodies, even the small little toilet was just the way I thought it would be, impeccable. Then when your stomach stops churning after landing, your luggage even finds its way to you (mostly). To top all of this, when you see someone holding your name on a placard, announcing your glory to the rest of the world, not that any of the people you travel with would even care, the sense of accomplishment is just something else.
Talk about being narcissistic 🙂