When upgrades are downgrades

Last year, I was flying from London to Kolkata when I got an unexpected upgrade. The London to Dubai flight was not as full and thankfully, I got not one or two, but three extra seats. With four seats to myself, I was horizontal as soon as the airplane reached cruising altitude and the seatbelt signs were off. Over the years, my prayers to the airplane gods have evolved so much, from wanting interesting male company next to me to not wanting any company at all, and from gluing my nose to the window panes and tracking every cloud and mountain to now only wanting aisle seats for ease of mobility. I skipped watching movies, ate a little bit while trying to prop myself on my elbows and continue staying horizontal (a very weird pose you should not try), and spent most of those seven hours sleeping. I was not counting on a similar windfall from Dubai to Kolkata, but hoped that I would have at least one more seat to myself. 

And then, I got downgraded. I realized this only when the agent at the B6 gate in DXB exclaimed with feigned enthusiasm, "You must be really tired, so congrats, you have been upgraded to premium economy!" I guess this was the rich step-sibling of the poor economy class, a compromise between a business and an economy. I know enough about the airline world to know that these upgrades are not as random, they are meant to lure people like me (frequent flyers, can possibly afford premium economy but will need a serious nudge to cough up the extra money) with a free sample of comfort and luxury for a few hours, so much so that one would repeatedly question oneself after that, "Do I really need to fly economy again? Don't I deserve better in life?" 

For me, being able to fly Emirates as frequently as I do is a luxury. And where flying is concerned, I try to keep myself grounded (pun unintended). For me, a good flying experience is where my flight doesn't get cancelled (happened for Addis Ababa recently), I do not experience xenophobia or feel violated after a brutal pat down (happened many times in the US), I do not miss or lose my bags (happened in Dresden), don't sit next to a sexual harasser (happened on an Indigo flight), don't get an overbooked flight where they elbow me out and emotionally manipulate me into taking the next flight (happened many times while flying United Airlines), get grounded due to bad weather (happened many times in Nebraska/Denver), and don't have to deal with loud, entitled passengers who do not use headphones and ask me to exchange seats with them (happens all the time). My last (and first) business class upgrade was in 2018, and I know that this seven-year wait is not random either. 

So what happens in the premium economy? Since this is Emirates Airlines, there was a lot of good food in fine china. The recliner seats were spacious. They gave hot towels, assuming that I was getting tired while doing nothing and needed periodic rejuvenation, and served juice in sleek glasses. Multiple rounds of gourmet chocolates found their way to my tummy. The toilets were not any different. I got priority boarding with people who documented and relayed in real time, through selfies and Facetime, their momentary opulence from all angles and in painstaking detail. The Dubai to Kolkata flight had a lot of blue-collar workers, and it is no coincidence that none of them got upgraded.

And then, there were switches and buttons. Lots of them. One, to pull out my TV's neck closer to me. One, to raise my feet. One, to recline. One, to make my arse more comfortable. One, to find my foot rest. Adding to my first world problems, they offered me a front row seat, which meant that my television needed to be turned off during take off and landing. I experienced complete cognitive overload and wasted precious minutes trying to figure out where to charge my phone and how to use the TV screen. The menu card was a tad longer, the alcohol list was completely wasted on me (pun unintended again), and there was thankfully no "krimi chicken" this time (the economy class had it, I'd checked earlier while waiting in DXB). No plastic, but heavy, high quality china. The headphones were nicer, the pillow was softer, and the space was child-free. No food trolleys unceremoniously hit my knees. They served everyone individually. Even the window panes were automated.

Was it nice? Yes. Was it an upgrade? Did not feel like one. For I could no longer sprawl across multiple seats (there were seat dividers; I was on the right in a 2-4-2 seating) and put my feet up. I was hoping for no company, but the man next to me (who was relaying in real time) used no headphones when speaking and constantly farted away (his arse was as loud as his mouth). I wasted useful time having to put my screen away during take off and landing. And a voice in my head constantly reminded me to stay in my aukaat and not, for once, have any illusion that this is my reality, taking up more space and more resources, eating gourmet chocolates and luxuriating. Neetu Kapoor and Zeenat Aman kept me company for a while, and I was eventually relieved to come home after many months and enjoy a good night's sleep in a proper bed. 

I'm flying Emirates again in a few days. And I hope that I get those coveted empty seats next to me, also knowing that such a miracle will not happen again. The Kolkata to Dubai and Dubai to any-major-US-city route is usually very busy, and the crowd is a different kind of monster I am bracing myself for. I will try not to write about that crowd because many will be cross with me. But hey, I finally found the Emirates boarding music on YouTube. I have a long emotional history with this jingle, and this music always makes me teary-eyed for many reasons. 

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The king's tomb

Ma and I sometimes have long, reflective talks. Ma does most of the talking while I do the reflecting, wondering about her quips and the funny, (un)scientific theories she comes up with all the time. But let me digress and give you a little bit of background first.

I was diagnosed with a lot of unexplained health issues a few years ago. A lot of my readings were already problematic or borderline problematic. I was on medication, and it didn’t seem right at my age. Something my physician told me that I had known all along but not fully acknowledged is-- a lot of these issues would go away if I lost some weight. My health issues were a result of weighing more than what I should for the past 13 years, and the bad effects were finally starting to show.

I wasn’t willing to be on pills for the rest of my life. I needed to do something. I had to fix what I eat. You cannot out-exercise a bad diet, and my bone health was so poor that the only workout I was allowed was an hour-long walk daily. No lifting weights, no squatting, no gymming.

The good thing my Ma did was connect me with a nutritionist. I had seen another nutritionist many years ago, but she was a celebrity nutritionist, charged a lot, and her methods showed zero results. She had tie-ups with companies whose (expensive) products she endorsed, it was hard to get an appointment, and she barely gave me any time. She asked me to eat things I didn’t want to eat, including starting the day with a cream cracker biscuit. I wasn’t going back to her.

However, the nutritionist this time was amazing. She spent hours listening to me and gave me a plan that was sustainable, workable, and based on my lifestyle. She was kind, patient, not only gave me exact measurements of what and how much I should eat, but also explained the science behind it. Her plan was based more on nourishing than deprivation. It included so many things I love to eat, including eggs (with the yolk), mangoes in the summer, and plenty of meat.  

My Ma also got a consultation for herself while we were there. I think she wanted to support me and be my accountability buddy in this journey, losing weight and gaining health together. She even photocopied my diet chart.

That was 2019. Then came 2020. A year was over, and it was time for my follow-up visit. My nutritionist was pleased with my progress. She wanted me to lose not more than one kilogram a month, which is exactly what I did. Everything in moderation, nothing drastic. She gave me a new chart for the following year.

That was the background behind the actual post, which is a reflective conversation Ma and I were having, sitting in a sunny park one wintry afternoon and enjoying oranges.

Ma: “I love how you achieved your target, lost so much of the unwanted weight and fixed your health.”

Me: “Yeah, it was a great journey for me too. I learnt so much about food, health, and the best thing is she didn’t make me do anything drastic, like chug juice or chew on salad all day. No keto, bullet coffee, and other deprivation fads. It’s like I’ve found my relationship with my food again.”

Ma: “Too bad it didn’t work for me. I lost 5 kilograms, gained back 4 during the pandemic, and never moved from there.”

I am really intrigued now, since that was not my experience at all. I religiously followed about 70% of what was told to me and it worked wonders.

Me: “That’s so odd. Why do you think it did not work for you?”

Ma: “Aar bolishna! (don’t ask!). I thought I would get better results if I used my brains too.”

(I think I knew where this was going now. I mean, I just know Ma. I didn’t know what did she do when she talked about using her brains, but I intuitively knew she did something she was not supposed to!).

Me: “So what did you do?”

Ma: “I took her diet chart, punched it with the diet charts of other nutritionists I had seen before, and created my own, customized diet plan. To that, I added some tadka (tempering) of my YouTube knowledge, all that I learnt by watching YouTube videos about losing weight. And I created my own, unique diet plan. But looks like it does not work that way.”

(I really do not know what to say at this point, so I say the only thing I could say).

Me: “And what made you think this would work?”

Ma: “Arrey when I was in school, I loved to study. I would be done studying from the textbook and got bored. So I made my own notes by studying multiple textbooks, adding some information from here and some information from there. Once in my history exam, I even wrote down the dimensions of the king’s tomb. The teacher was really surprised since nowhere in the book, the dimensions of the king’s tomb was mentioned. She was so happy, she appreciated me in front of the entire class.”

Me: “And where did you find the dimensions of the king’s tomb?”

Ma: “I was in the sixth grade and Shanti di (her older cousin) was in the ninth grade. So after I was done studying my textbook, I studied her textbooks too. I found the dimensions there. I got the highest marks in my class that time. But looks like compiling and punching information only works for exams, not for losing weight.”

I must say, ever since, Ma has re-defined my perception of “normal” behavior.  

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The Danger of a Single Story

Somnath bhai is happy to see me after many months. While splitting a green coconut, he asks me multiple times if I no longer live here and why have I stopped visiting him. I have grown so used to the little favors, like how he taps individual coconuts to find the best ones for me, with sweet water and a thin layer of flesh. I am very hungry today. I have had no lunch, and this is all that I am going to get. So I stand there for some time as he splits multiple coconuts, some to drink and some to take home. In between, he tells me that he has spent most of his life in the city. He shares that he is 24 years old and has been married for three years now. I find that a little surprising, since he does not look a day past his teens. I jokingly tell him that but he takes my comment seriously. So he starts browsing his phone to show me pictures of his wife. He shares that his wife is a nurse whose family lives in a nearby city. 

What's your wife's name? I ask him. He smiles sheepishly while showing me her pics but says nothing. I drink some more water while he browses some more. He finds a picture of their wedding card where their names are written. He points to her name. 

Don't you take your wife's name? He nods shyly, telling me that he has never taken her name. It's a sign of love and respect. He is blushing profusely, to my utter surprise. So what do you call her?, I ask. He shares that his niece's name is Aarushi, so he calls his wife Aaroo ki chachi (Aaroo's aunt). He reinstates that till date, he has never called her by her name. 

I remind him that there was a time when he was addicted to playing PUBG on his phone all day. One could steal a few coconuts from his rickshaw and he would not even notice. He nods in agreement and tells me that all that has changed now. He is married and takes his responsibilities seriously. True, I no longer see him on his phone. 

As I walk back reflecting on this dissonance, I am reminded of a beautiful TED Talk about the danger of a single story by the Nigerian writer, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. All these years, I had pictured Somnath bhai's life based on the little I saw. He sold coconuts in a trolley rickshaw all day, come rain and sun. His clothes were sometimes dirty. He is really thin. Once, he had accidentally cut his hand while splitting coconuts and the memory of all the blood he lost has scarred me more than him. 

I once asked him if I could donate some old tee shirts to him and he readily agreed. He had told me that he suffered a huge loss during COVID-19, and once, the local goons and a competitor coconut seller ganged up against him, beat him up, and damaged his earlier rickshaw, so he had to change spots where he did business. I had always imagined him having an impoverished life, a difficult life full of lacking. And that single story biased me and made it so hard for me to believe that he could have a life of plenty too, that he could have a family and people he loved. That he could get really shy talking about his wife and had values that made him not take her name. Perhaps they went to the riverside on the weekends and hung out. Perhaps they ate falooda and paani puri at the chowk on special occasions. There was a possibility of such endless stories and all of them could be true. I looked at his clothes closely. He wore a smart shirt buttoned up all the way. Maybe his clothes being dirty and stained had been a figment of my imagination too based on that single story I had of him in my mind. 

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