No, I wasn’t on that Air-India flight that crashed, thank God. But yes, I’ve flown Air-India often enough to feel I’ve earned honorary wings — and maybe even a seatbelt buckle that doesn’t work.

For years, I remained a loyal flier. Not out of love, mind you, but out of that strange emotion we Indians reserve for childhood sweets and black-and-white Doordarshan — nostalgia.

“The Maharaja is back!” we all cheered when the Tatas returned to the cockpit.

I too joined the chorus, picturing JRD Tata somewhere in the clouds, nodding with approval. But alas, what we got was less Maharaja, not even cattle class but slave ship with no oars.

Let me take you back a few flights.

My video console didn’t work.

My reading light flickered like a haunted house bulb.

The seat reclined into the lap of the poor man behind me, who I’m sure prayed for an exorcist, not a steward.

I told a senior air-hostess, who told me she lived in Powai, — God bless her weary soul, nodded like a therapist, pulled out a little notepad and scribbled furiously. I hoped she was forwarding it to headquarters. I suspect it was her grocery list, because nothing changed.

But all this was just inside stuff, right? A little bad service, bad seats, a tray table that opened with a prayer and a wrench. One could brush it off — maybe the real solid stuff, the wings, the flaps, the engine — were still top-notch. But that’s just it. The rot inside often reflects the rot outside. And it’s only after a crash that anyone bothers to look deeper.

Now 241 lives are lost. And while we await the black box findings— which, as we all know, is the airline industry’s version of a post-mortem — I can’t help but shudder.

Because this isn’t just about Air-India. This is about My-India.

Our politicians — oh sorry, leaders — wear spotless white clothes, flash holy beads, and mouth moralities on prime-time TV. But beneath all that — bad service. A flickering conscience. A cockpit of corruption. Like that plane, the switches of integrity don’t match the buttons they’re labelled with. And the engine? It’s running on fake nationalism and PR, not performance.

We citizens, much like Air-India passengers, keep adjusting our broken seats, thinking, maybe the next flight will be better. But guess what? Sometimes the crash comes before the change.

What happened with Air-India was not sudden. The signs were always there — neglected maintenance, profit-over-people policies, and a general “adjust karo” attitude. The same signs stare at us in My-India too. Shoddy infrastructure, broken promises, and ministers who fly high while we sit on broken seats.

So here’s hoping My-India doesn’t need a black box to wake up. Because by then, we may not be around to read the transcript.

And oh yes, dear Air-India, next time you give me a seat, please don’t let it be in heaven. I’d much rather arrive late — but arrive…!

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