Thirst: an endemic destitution

We all strive to believe that positive attitude makes one invincible. Nothing can defeat one's morale so long as he keeps his cool and smile. So was the mindset that many of us junior crew carry on board, only to find this massively skewed theory readily debunked on any flight to India.

Let's just call it a contest in seeing how quickly one's patience disintegrates and one's smile erodes into a burnt out scowl. Starting from the moment passengers board, requests for water go wild. After operating so many flights with Indians on board, I unwillingly begin suspecting that dire thirst is an inherent ethnic issue (from personal experience, 8 out of 10 passengers who ever requested for water before take-off and/or a second or even third drink after meal service is South Asian).

Poking your body out into a cabin equals sending yourself into a gas room packed with thirsty predators. As I entertain one passenger, ten others around flail their arms and break into a vexing chorus of "Excuse me! Ello! Excuse me!" that creeps into the very ends of your nerves. Couldn't you see that I am attending to others? Can you not wait?

Torture goes up a notch once meal service begins. "May I get you something to drink?" I ask as I lower the meal tray. They joggle their heads in tandem, the Indian way, their faces void of any expression. Experience tells me that's a "yes." "Would you like Orange Juice, Apple Juice, soft drinks, wine?" Their heads tilt from side to side, so still it's almost zen-like. I hold up the jug, "Some water?" More joggling. Alright, that's it. These are the times when you decide for the passengers. I hand over the glasses, but before I even unbrake my cart and move on to the next row, a passenger hands me his empty glass.

"Some moorre waturr." He says, tilting his head slightly side to side. "Here you go," I pour him another glass and unbrake my cart. "Ello!" another other passenger anxiously calls out - he too wants a top-up. I take a glance at my water jug - only serving two rows down it has nearly been emptied. How the hell will I get replenishment so soon? Then finally as I am about to start with the next row, another passenger decides to have another drink as well. This is how meal service to India becomes an endless and time-consuming repetition of reaching for a jug, pouring, handing over, replacing the jug, then reaching for the jug again, then again and again, all the while with an irritating soundtrack of "Excuse me! Ello! Excuse me!" and the overwhelming aroma blend of curry and body odour. You take a look down the aisle with hundreds more passengers awaiting and seizing you, then you turn around and longingly see the emergency exit. Which way would you go?

Bombay Dreams turn sour: the Mumbai Nightmare

Two weeks after my quest to Mumbai, a fear for anyone of Indian appearance persists so much that I run for cover even if one approaches on a street. Arms flailing, voices nagging, thirsty heads joggling - the nightmare from Resident Evil - becomes reality on a Bombay flight.

Minutes before boarding in Bombay commenced, I took a deep breath. This would be the last bit of fresh air I inhaled for the next n hours. Before even the passengers came in sight - local women in colorful saris, working class men, Arabs in all-black hijab - a pungent waft of signature body odor flooded into the cabin. "Here they come," a dejected colleague grumbled. Just imagine, three hundred sweaty Indians packed into a claustrophobic concealed tube.

Minutes later, the Economy class officially turned into a refugee camp. Oversized bags pouring out of overhead compartments, babies shrieking, aisles congested, and inadequate ventilation (it was 31 degree Celsius outside) marked the beginning of a legendary flight. Passenger call lights went rampant. "Excuse me! Excuse me! E-llo!" Every other passenger tried to grab our attention as we painstakingly pulled the meal cart up the aisle. I being responsible for the cabin forefront, exactly two zones away from the galley, meant my capture rate doubled.

"Excuse me! E-llo!" These were the words that ring through my ears till today. "I will be starting from the front," I explained without stopping, shunning the impatient, glaring, thirsty eyes. If I had stopped for one passenger, I would never make it to the front.

"Good evening, would you like veg or non-veg?" Of all things, the only thing that seems slightly easier on an Indian flight is meal distribution. The meal options are always either vegetarian or non-vegetarian. Curry obligatory. But that doesn't mean tray collection is any easier. With the abundant curry sauces and extras like yoghurt and red pickled objects, tray collection turns into a ghastly ordeal trying to keep our bare hands clean. Regardless, when passing over drinks one is bound to come in direct contact with the right hands that the passengers customarily ate with and the left hands that they customarily wipe... with.

Prelude to the Legendary Flight from Hell

Within four hours' time I will be getting up and ready to embark on the "Legendary Flight from Hell." Since I am having a difficult time falling asleep, I decide to write a prelude.

This noteworthy flight - to Bombay, India that is - is a flight both much feared and revered. Revered by a relatively few because one who is in charge of Duty Free Sales will pocket loads of commission (Indians have astronomical inflight buying power, comparable to the Koreans and Taiwanese); loathed and eschewed by the majority because the passengers, with all due respect, are infamous for squeezing the cabin crew dry with their incessant, and impatient, demand for alcohol and attention - and their proclivity to nag. One simply cannot make it alive from the cabin forefront back to the galley without living through a scene in Resident Evil. Whiskey wata, whiskey wata... where's my whiskey wata... One colleague once warned me: the passengers literally cleared out all alcohol on her recent Bombay flight.

Aside from extraordinary EQ, exceptional olfactory tolerance as well as creative body language interpretation skills are said to be prerequisites for operating, and surviving, a Bombay or Delhi flight. As these seem to be crude generalizations, my flight will hopefully serve as a testament, if not a trial for my level of tolerance. Remember to breathe... oh, wait.