The Mahārajā Rides Into the Sunset!

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆 

I have not followed the irreverent escapades of the iconic, burly turbaned Air India Mahārajā with an impressive 'stache for nearly four decades now. The recent news of his impending retirement brought old memories gushing forth like the proverbial floodwaters flushing the dirt and debris down that narrow galli of my childhood home. Much of the accumulated junk hidden in the nooks and corners of this noggin seems to have gotten washed away but some puddles remain, luring me back to jump in, splash around and get muddy.

I have actully been a guest of the mustachioed Mahārajā once - only once. It was my very first trip across the ponds. A veteran of many other modes of transportation (including a bone-rattling ride atop the back of a truck following the NSS camp, with a bunch of other freshers, sampling the goodies from a jute sack of jaggery), this was also the first time I was flying! It was going to be phenomenal. 

There was so much anticipation for the entire family. My dad had made several trips abroad in his life starting with his two plus year stay for his PhD in the UK (by the Cunard Lines steam-ship, though.) That was followed by a stint in the North Americas and later, a six-month research/teaching stint in the UK in the late sixties. There were various international conferences during the seventies. He had been planning much of my upcoming journey carefully over several months. In our younger days, we had pored over the many glossy brochures he had accumulated over time that showcased the portly Mahārajā's exploits in exotic locations. There he was, bumping bellies with sumo wrestlers in Tokyo, playing bagpipes in Edinburgh, tapping the tabla with the moptops twanging sitar strings in London, hoisting a bier stein in Geneva after a skiing accident, dressed like a Playboy bunny in New York, snake charming in Rome with a been flute, rescuing a mermaid in Sydney, laying on a bed of nails next to a bikini clad sunbathing beauty in India, etc. etc. That ever-charming man of mystery had even taken off his red achkan and laid it on the ground, for a red-carpet welcome to a lady boarding a plane. There was no question as to which airlines I would choose for my travels. 

Unfortunately, as luck would have it, my dad had to travel for a two-month assignment out of the country a week before I was departing the native shores. He worried... like so many of our dads, looking for 10 sides of the problem that may have had only two, wanting to make my journey smooth. Perhaps he did not have as much faith in my abilities as I did. To him, I was probably still the same toddler that he got acquainted with two decades ago. 

The trip was to start with an Indian Airlines flight that came from Calcutta (it had not become Kolkatā yet). It would make a hop, skip and jump going to New Delhi with stops in Patna and Lucknow on the way. From New Delhi, I was to be the guest on the potbellied Mahārajā's big chariot with a stopover in London and onto the Big Apple.

Like all well-laid plans o' mice and men, this one started to fall apart pretty much the moment I set foot outside the home that day. The entire family had traveled with me for about an hour in a crowded Ambassador to the sleepy hometown aerodrome, only to find that the one and the only flight that day had not yet left Calcutta. Increasingly hungry, tired and anxious, they all waited out the ordeal with me for several agonizing hours at this minimalist location with uncomfortable seats and a total lack of amenities. It felt like a lifetime. I will never forget the monumental patience of my mom and her unshakable faith reassuring me that it would all would work out eventually. My older sister, who knew all my emotional hot-buttons, kept a steady stream of casual chit-chat going with me, to calm me down. My younger sister joined her effort whole-heartedly trying to keep me from coming unglued. Even my much younger brother wisely used the time, just wandering around the airport, getting on and off the giant weighing machine for entertainment, in wide-eyed wonder and mostly stayed out of trouble. The Indian Airlines ground staff was tight-lipped and totally unhelpful. Customer Service was not a familiar phrase during those days for a public sector concern without any competition.

The plane, a rickety Boeing 737 much in need of maintenance, finally arrived about six hours later than scheduled. No explanation or information about the delay was offered not solicited as the anxious travelers started the boarding process. The entire family would walk across the tarmac to bid me adieu near the plane in those days. I finally went up the stairs to board, there was no concept of a jetway. The plane eventually arrived in New Delhi at the domestic terminal which was far away from where I needed to be. My BiL, who was posted in New Delhi at that time, was pacing up and down at the Arrivals waiting for me, as anxious as the rest of the family, having wasted the entire day waiting. He may not remember but nearly all the tension I had felt up to that point drained out almost visibly upon meeting him there. Much relieved, I actually started to breathe again. We grabbed some food some place and chatted about the adventures that lay ahead. He must have sensed that I was highly stressed and tried to get my mind off the near-disaster earlier in the day. He stayed with me till we got to the International terminal and eventually through the security as I deposited my one suitcase at the Air India counter. To my family, if I have not expressed my gratitude ever before, a deep and humble bow. I could not have made it without you. 

I must say this first international flight disabused me of any romantic notions I had about the marvelous Mahārajā's hospitality. I seated myself in my assigned aisle seat in the front section of Cattle Class after a bit of squabble with a squatter who claimed severe physical disabilities ailing his wife, needing my aisle seat. The mysterious "health" issues cleared up fast as everyone took their original assigned seats. The Air Hostess (before they all became Flight Attendants) in that section stayed a tactful distance away, letting the crowd conduct several such ongoing territorial negotiations without her intervention. 

The plane, an early generation Jumbo 747, had apparently seen many better days before getting re-re-deployed on the mighty Mahārajā's not-so-secret service. Most mechanical issues like seat reclining, armrests, seat-belts, tray tables, etc. would get resolved during the flight with repeated application of Newton's second law - either a prolonged, steady "push/tug" or in other cases, rapid "bang/hit" mode. It was unbearably hot inside the belly of the beast on the tarmac during the sweltering New Delhi August night. I am not sure why the A/C was not switched on but the throng around me was getting increasingly restless, irritable and it's mood was turning ugly. Finally, around 2am, bleary-eyed & numb, I and the other guests of the macho Mahārajā got in the air. The need for deodorant, lots of it, was quite apparent. The lavatories were starting to reveal the shape of things to come.

The in-flight entertainment was limited to a pair of sticky headphones that worked intermittently and required frequent plugging and unplugging during the flight. The only movie choice was previous year's Oh, God! Book II with George Burns which had not been a roaring commercial success during it's theatrical release. It was shown on a large screen; one could enjoy it by craning their necks in an unnatural and uncomfortable position. There was Hindi music, Jazz and light western instrumental called World Synfonia on the audio. I remember this last one well as there seemed to be a large number of rather small human beings traveling on that flight, most in adjacent seats across the aisle from me. They seemed needing mid-air refueling from their moms or diaper changes or whatever continuously, demanding everyone's attention loudly. They vocalized alone but often triggered a chain reaction, and at times all these younglings appeared to be bawling in unison as their hapless parents tried to shush them. This impromptu live musical performance that I called the World Cacofonia was quite sensational. 

The food was insipid and it did not live up to the glossy brochures of my memories. I remember a tough, leathery chicken breast with some brown glop glaze on top and what was described as bhuné hué āloo in Hindi version of the menu card and "salted" potatoes in English instead of sautéed. Oh, a cup of congealed lumpy custard completed the culinary offerings. 

The flight reached London eventually. Heathrow was a mess and there was mass confusion. We found out that the tough-guy Prez of the Anointed States had just fired 30,000 air-traffic controllers while we were in the air and all flights, specially inbound international flights to the Ewe Essay were grounded. The Mahārajā's tight-lipped minions at Heathrow handed out vouchers for £10 to the unwashed and the ungrateful huddled masses of our previous flight. The "No further information available" phrase continued a la the earlier domestic flight. The mighty Mahārajā's staff seemed exceptionally well trained on the omerta code. The voucher was barely enough for a can of Coke and a turkey sandwich at Heathrow prices. This was also the very first time I ate the tasteless, cold, reprocessed, shapeless turkey bits slapped between two slices of soggy white bread, which reminded me of the dire summation of the western palate by a nosy know-it-all neighborhood Auntie ji who had dropped by casually with her very eligible niece earlier in the week.

After the unscheduled layover spanning most of that hellish day in the Heathrow holding tank international lounge with fellow travelers riding a roller-coaster of emotions, our journey eventually resumed. We landed in the late afternoon to the utter chaos at JFK which was still reeling from the ATC situation. The onward adventures from JFK is a topic for another day. 

I was saddened when I saw the populist yojana a while back enabling those supposedly wearing  hawāi chappal to be able to travel in hawāi jahāz ... while nothing against the uplifting of the aām aādmi, it was deeply disappointing as it seemed to be aimed at achieving that goal by cheapening the brand instead, by throwing gobar on the impeccable Mahārajā's red achkan, dragging him down into the ubiquitous desi mud along with the hoi polloi. No longer a status symbol, he would not be joining the Capuchin friars in Rome, selling risqué postcards surreptitiously in the gay Paree or collecting coins from the fountain in Florence. This idea stank, in my opinion, similar to the formation of the McIIT's and McIIM's. This newer, younger, the imposter mahārajā (without the capital M) seemed to have lost his mojo and his brightly colored turban, had spiky hair, a shorter 'stache and sans his traditional wardrobe. He had donned jeans that could not conceal his paunch gracefully. Even wrapped a lunghi in some version (oh, the horror!) like WhatsCrapp unkills!

The icon of our childhood is now in his 8th decade, a dinosaur and way past his prime. Maybe I am looking at myself in the mirror, however garden variety my life may have been compared to the legend, this mythical man with the diamond tip 'stache that could scratch glass. Am I am taking The Mahārajā's impending retirement too personally? Rumors are that he may be replaced with a Mahārāni!?

The Mahārajā is dead retiring! Long live... the Mahārāni?

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆