It was with more than a slight spring in the step and twinkle in the eye that we scooted up the ladder to the little bird soon to soar in the sky. A half-hearted greeting at the door made for no pause in our upbeat mood and it was a benign eye that inspected our transport's relatively modest confines. Indeed, a token Club Class row (we were in the next) elicited but a friendly chuckle from W as we belted up. My throat was being a tad rebellious though and cabin crew intervention had to be requested. A stewardess appeared soon enough in response to the call button, promptly noting the request for a glass of warm water. Almost on cue, the pilot initiated runway formalities and, moments later, we were airborne.
Debating whether to attend to the companion paperback or grab a shuteye, my reminder for that glass of water to the in-flight hospitality team commencing snack service, was affable, to say the least. Be that as it may, the glass remained elusive as we devoted ourselves to contents of the breakfast tray. My demurral of surprise to W at not being asked for choice of cuisine was but a murmur (my partiality to meat not being a shared inclination in any case). Yet, despite her vote for things vegetarian, she could not suppress a crinkling of the nose at the quality of food on offer. She did educate me though as to why my lofty morning-omelette ambitions were thwarted, pointing to piece of misdirected evangelism from the airline's promoter-chairman in a tacky seat-pocket brochure. Seemingly, Mr Goenka was doing his zealous duty to spread satvik vibes in airspace by denying minor gastronomic pleasures to us lesser mortals.
Vexing as this presumption of choice may be, but my poise was severely tested by the sustained refusal for that fugitive glass of water to materialize. At this tug of the bell, the first crew-member made a repeat appearance, only to inform me on this occasion that no provision for warm water existed in flight (perhaps some satvik postulate was violated), turning nonchalantly away before one could ask as to why the last two requests had met assent promising future fulfillment. Bias for sustained civility forbore me from pursuing matters, though it was beyond my fuddled mind to fathom what was perverse about such beverage being in service. Indeed, likely things could get worse, given all that had transpired since the morning.
It did not take long for that piece of rhetoric to meet its answer. The indifferent fare on offer needed a strong garnishing in any case. The airline's choice of dessert dressing was dead mosquitoes, two in number, as revealed by a cursory inspection of what W had in front of her. Perhaps a mosquito or two was par for the course in screens for vegetarian staple per Mr Goenka's specifications. The cabin crew next summoned did certainly indicate that the proceedings were of routine nature: her blasé shrug of disinterest had an aura of finality, utterly dismissing any hint of corrective action.
A soul far braver may have persisted, not me. The airline had spared no effort in staging these intricate manouevers and consecutive nadirs in service benchmarks (Chhoo Lo Aasman, ha): an eminently reasonable explanation for the ticket price tag. Thus grounded, we slept. No more happened: much could have. Or perhaps they ran out of ideas. Or budget.
Debating whether to attend to the companion paperback or grab a shuteye, my reminder for that glass of water to the in-flight hospitality team commencing snack service, was affable, to say the least. Be that as it may, the glass remained elusive as we devoted ourselves to contents of the breakfast tray. My demurral of surprise to W at not being asked for choice of cuisine was but a murmur (my partiality to meat not being a shared inclination in any case). Yet, despite her vote for things vegetarian, she could not suppress a crinkling of the nose at the quality of food on offer. She did educate me though as to why my lofty morning-omelette ambitions were thwarted, pointing to piece of misdirected evangelism from the airline's promoter-chairman in a tacky seat-pocket brochure. Seemingly, Mr Goenka was doing his zealous duty to spread satvik vibes in airspace by denying minor gastronomic pleasures to us lesser mortals.
Vexing as this presumption of choice may be, but my poise was severely tested by the sustained refusal for that fugitive glass of water to materialize. At this tug of the bell, the first crew-member made a repeat appearance, only to inform me on this occasion that no provision for warm water existed in flight (perhaps some satvik postulate was violated), turning nonchalantly away before one could ask as to why the last two requests had met assent promising future fulfillment. Bias for sustained civility forbore me from pursuing matters, though it was beyond my fuddled mind to fathom what was perverse about such beverage being in service. Indeed, likely things could get worse, given all that had transpired since the morning.
It did not take long for that piece of rhetoric to meet its answer. The indifferent fare on offer needed a strong garnishing in any case. The airline's choice of dessert dressing was dead mosquitoes, two in number, as revealed by a cursory inspection of what W had in front of her. Perhaps a mosquito or two was par for the course in screens for vegetarian staple per Mr Goenka's specifications. The cabin crew next summoned did certainly indicate that the proceedings were of routine nature: her blasé shrug of disinterest had an aura of finality, utterly dismissing any hint of corrective action.
A soul far braver may have persisted, not me. The airline had spared no effort in staging these intricate manouevers and consecutive nadirs in service benchmarks (Chhoo Lo Aasman, ha): an eminently reasonable explanation for the ticket price tag. Thus grounded, we slept. No more happened: much could have. Or perhaps they ran out of ideas. Or budget.
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