In a development that has opticians and chiropractors rubbing their hands with barely concealed glee, Air India has reported that a significant chunk of its clientele now refuses to glance skyward. Not because of some existential dread concerning the infinite cosmos or a sudden allergy to cumulonimbus clouds, but because the last time they did, they were plummeting towards the tarmac at a velocity that rather ruins the in-flight movie.
Sources close to the carrier have leaked the transcript of a survivor, one Mr. Pradeep Nair, a man whose nerve endings are now frayed to the consistency of a cheap shoelace. 'We don't look at the sky anymore,' he confessed, his voice a shaky whisper that sounded like it had been run through a blender with a splash of regret. 'The sky is a liar. It promised us clouds and peanuts, but delivered fire and screaming.'
This sudden collective aversion to the celestial ceiling presents a peculiar problem for the aviation industry. How do you sell tickets to a demographic that would rather travel by way of subterranean mole-cart? Virgin Galactic is apoplectic. The Meteorological Department is distraught. Even the seagulls look confused.
I put it to you that this is merely the logical endpoint of a society that has spent the last two decades staring at its shoes. We have been conditioned to look down, to scroll, to swipe at the glowing rectangles of doom in our palms. The sky is an alien concept, a forgotten tab in the browser of our lives. Air India’s mishap simply confirmed what we already suspected: the sky is not a friend. It is a vast, indifferent blue void that occasionally throws a metal tube at the ground.
The survivors’ testimony is a haunting litany of 'whys' and 'what ifs' that Parliament will no doubt dissect with all the urgency of a sloth on sedatives. Expect a commission. Expect a report. Expect a solemn promise that ‘this will never happen again’ delivered with a straight face by a man in a suit who probably thought the whole ordeal was bad for brand image.
Meanwhile, I propose a radical solution: horizontal travel. Let us all migrate laterally. The world is round, so if you keep walking, you’ll get there eventually. Yes, it’s slower, but you eliminate the risk of falling. Unless you’re on a cliff. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Which we will, because we’re walking.
In the meantime, I raise a glass of aviation-grade gin (the only thing that flies straight in this country) to Mr. Nair and his fellow survivors. May your necks remain unbent, your eyes firmly fixed on the pavement, and may you never again have to hear a pilot say, 'We’ve encountered a spot of bother.'
