THE CATTLE CLASS

 

Do you remember Shashi Tharoor renaming the Economy class of a flight as cattle class? I have news for you, he might be right! It is just possible for a human being to magically mutate into a cow. It usually happens high in the sky, around the 10-hour mark of a long-haul economy class flight. Try flying Delhi to Vancouver in an Air Canada flight and you will know what I mean

Those ‘just a few’ glasses of free booze, which seemed so clever at take-off time, soon show their true colour in the form of an early-stage hangover. When the whiff of the second meal heating up triggers salivary glands your nose however is smelling something truly offensive emanating from the bottom of the passenger in from of you or his neighbour, you can’t be sure! You are also agonizingly reminded that you still have to endure at least three more feature-length films heard through crackling headphones. Believe me, the cattle instinct in you is slowly raising.

Subjecting yourself to the equivalent of two full working days trapped in a space the size of concertinaed coffin sounds like one of those 'experiments' the Soviets did while choosing their cosmonauts in early 60s. Fifteen-plus hours in economy class is indeed a litmus test of humanity. Increasingly, a test that many fail!

For me, it's not necessarily the food, space or service standards that give economy its "cattle class" brand, but the fact that some of us turn into angry, selfish and clueless cows. And, yes, that "us" now officially includes me. Unable to sleep on long-haul flights because of a crying baby or a snoring co-passenger, I would endlessly people-watch, silently judging foibles and failures, and waiting for God to strike down on all that hurt my sensibilities. I am quite sure some of my co-passengers must have put me on their God strike down list by now..

The first few hours were calm – schmaltzy comedies binged and book chapters devoured – but as darkness replaced daylight and soothing clouds, it all went pear-shaped, fittingly at the Last Supper. By the time the big steel trolley reached my tail-end seat, they had run out of my preferred choice – for the second time on the flight.

"Wouldn't it be fair to start service from the back for the second meal?" I bellowed like a selfish idiot, loud enough to swing heads. "I'm sorry, sir, this is what we have left," came the practiced, polite, rhetorical reply.

I could offer plenty of vacuous excuses for my attitude; I boarded the plane already tired, irritable and had to rush through traffic. And I had accidentally booked the non-window window-seat (with more plastic wall than porthole) so my claustrophobia was stratospheric. And I had to fight a battle for overhead-bin space which I felt was legitimately mine. Yet while reluctantly consuming that second-choice meal, seemingly rationed by an army accountant, it dawned on me that I had simply been a silly, supercilious and just a plain-rude cow.

After trays were cleared, I found the steward, who by this stage looked almost out on her three-inch heels, and apologized. To her credit, she did her best to reassure me that I wasn't a scumbag, explaining that she and her colleagues regularly copped worse. She also conceded that she felt sorry for sleep deprived guys like me, because at least she gets to catch a few hours vertical shut-eye in the secret sleep pods above us. I walked back to my observation cell to study the final few hours of the descent of both plane and humans in this cattle world.

Right on cue, the giraffe behind me began kneeing me in the back, intermittently, depriving me of any chance of a snooze. My row buddies continued to grunt, tut and sigh for armrest rights. A woman angrily voiced her opinion about toilets and roughness of toilet papers. Really! What a bum!!

A few rows ahead, an ignoramus waged a running squabble with cabin crew about why he had to wear a mask; after they had politely reminded him to put it back on for the fourth time. He must have missed the news of Corona for the past two years, and the unambiguous explanation at check-in, and the pre-flight announcement.

I am certainly no defender of airlines, especially given their recent performances, impersonal attitude and baggage black-holes, but venting frustrations at front-line staff is ignorant and churlish. If you don't know that mask-mandates and/or any safety regulations cannot be solved by talking loudly and rudely to cabin crew. It only shows you are still an immature calf and should be flying with a guardian cow.

Similarly, complaints about meals, leg room et al should be stored up to fire at number-crunching airline executives, who are rewarded when they work out a way to give you less for more, and are happy to slurp up bonuses when their companies are metaphorically spiralling out of control. If we don't channel our red-eyed rage correctly, perhaps economy class could degenerate even further, into a true cattle shed. Currently, there is zero motivation for airlines to make this anxiety-breeding space more liveable.

The most bovine cattle-class manoeuvre surfaces during the Great De-planing. If you have a tight connection, tell the cabin crew, who'll do their best to ensure you'll make it. But please, for heaven’s sake don’t hold them responsible, you booked a tight connection, remember! Those who stampede past the rows in front are the very embodiment of cattle-class cows.

Surely the past few forsaken years has taught us that flying is a privilege, even in cattle class, and that we need to be most human in the face of trying circumstances. After all, we can only control ourselves and our reactions. So next time, pack patience, empathy and self-awareness, and just like mum said: "Treat people how you want to be treated."

If we expect pleasant flight experience, we have to learn to be pleasant despite being tired and fatigue. Perhaps a little mirror on economy seat-backs might be helpful, so we can keep an eye on ourselves, just in case we are turning bovine!