Surge pricing, an alien concept during my 10’s, is now applied to all sorts of transport from cabs, flights and even the good ol’ aam Aadmi ka Indian Railways. It has truly democratised pricing and democracy is chaotic, accept it or go.
Over the years I have stopped reaching the airport a decade in advance as my over cautious friends and relatives religiously do, because there is no point, I believe.
The alternative to pre-booking seats, and the only one, is to accept your fate of middle or ‘last row’ seat that the straight faced executive just assigned to you because Karma, and partly because the google-smart consumer in you refused to buy her ‘premium’ sales pitch. This is about all those , and mostly so unlucky times when you didn’t magically get a window seat or someone gave it to you.
But, but, aren’t we all just countless lost souls swimming in the capitalist bowl trying to touch all the 200+ countries in the world and make Facebook richer and here we go, at the airport queuing to get our premium cost economy class boarding passes and happily waiting to strip and spend hours because some brainy guy just decided to give security a run for their jobs by announcing he’s gonna blow up the plane.
I am travelling in one such Low cost carrier in India. The brand has always baffled me by its not so hidden reference to carefree and sexy fun. I mean, was it supposed to be an airline or a ketchup – red, hot, spicy? Jet (my favourite airline, but just went bankrupt) at least provided nicer seats, the extinct feature called leg space and the service of air hostesses wearing normal, comfortable uniforms.
‘Spice’jet, ironically and suddenly so true to its name, is enjoying a major shot in the arm with Jet’s downfall, just the way free market works. Just the way free market works, I feel it commodifies women. During landing, the poor young air-hostess struggled to keep her legs folded ladylike because that’s what she’s taught to do by temporarily freezing in her crew seat, facing half a dozen men staring straight at her super short ‘uniform’, in which she’s clearly uncomfortable, but still keeping a polite face.
Finally the moment has come. I walk on to ‘my seat for the next three hours’ and discover there is no room for my bag in the overhead compartment. Shoving it under the seat, I settle into 32C. Like a cheap bra, it is smaller in size than it professes. The fit is not so good, like when you shop online. But I am lean, my row-mates — not necessarily.
Awkwardly crafted on what is basically the toilet wall with not even an inch to recline even though the person in the seat in front can, if they want. Just as I was ready to close my eyes hoping for a little nap, and ‘have a moment’, some of us are served food. Great, until the person in front of me decides to recline his seat completely oblivious of a tiny human being behind (obviously because the toilet row seat – that’s what I call it now — is pretty inhuman) trying to eat her overpriced sandwich while folding her legs into a new kind of miniaturising yoga pose but also trying not to puke because of sudden bouts of ammonia.
The toilet row isn’t forgiving. Everyone suddenly wants to use the loo, I wonder what were they doing before boarding and why didn’t they prefer to use the bigger and better airport loos, or as if everyone suddenly got diabetes. I also wonder why do they take so long. Some people I read about in Quora had ‘to have sex in the airplane toilet’ as part of their bucket lists. Like isn’t it hygienic as heck. But then Quora is where people regularly dump their unverified brain poop.
Life is unfair but this is a point of no return. I kept wishing I actually had accepted the middle seat offer. Not quite ideal as you literally pay to receive mutual squeezing — if they are awake — and drool on both of your co-passengers — if they’re asleep. Not to mention the angry side looks like parents with an useless child in between. But at least it would have reclined and I would have exercised my right to scare the guy behind by frequently shaking my seat and his mini table with the little white cup of watery tea. Oh heck, there is no ‘behind’ behind me. Its poop world. And I’m too emancipated to plot such mini disasters. I cannot afford to ruin my flyer credit rating, can I?
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P.S: I might sound like a fussy traveller but mind you I wrote the draft months before I took my first (and rare) business class flights, so no nouveau rich comparison here.
Third Bracket 
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