That day in 1947

Usha Wadhwa

ANYONE who has travelled in A380-800 is full of stories about the Airbus. “It is the ultimate in luxury”, they say with such pride, as if they are behind the new technology. Imagine, you can have a shower up above the clouds, have a proper bed to lie down. It is a double-decker and can seat 853 passengers — much more than a roadways bus. 

Travelling by air itself was considered a luxury till the 1960s. During the 50s, it was something to boast about. The entire family would go to the airport to see off the lucky one. Special prayers were said before departure. The recently turned VIP would be garlanded; sometimes marigolds alternated with currency notes.  

These days he is seen off at the door mostly, if the family is still awake. But most international flights slip out quietly during the wee hours, and so the flier often leaves home locking the door behind him. There is nothing to get excited about. There are pretty girls to take care of you in the flight, keeping you occupied with drinks and meals. You can watch a movie of your choice, or finish pending work on the laptop. 

I have flown many times, and yet the major part of my memory is still occupied with that very first flight. The year was 1947. The country had been cut into three parts. My ancestors had lived in the NWFP, generations after generations, owned land and houses — some had never ever stepped out of there. And suddenly, they were told the land didn’t belong to them! 

Due to my father’s frequent transfers, we happened to be in Karachi at that time. Being the hub of activity during those days, it was fully charged. We, now, were the enemy. And flee we must, or get killed. A land we had never seen — nor thought about it until then — was to be our new country.  Planes were limited and the families many to be shifted to safer destinations. After a long wait,  on September 13, our turn came to board the plane. We left home at midnight. My father was allowed two helpers to travel with him. It was a question of survival then, than of niceties, and so a known couple put on wornout clothes and accompanied us. 

All the tension and botheration was reserved for the adults. We kids were excited to sit in a real aeroplane — not a make-believe one from the toy collection of our brothers. It was a small Dakota plane. We were weighed together and made to sit on the right side of the plane. Equal weight in luggage was tied securely on the left. Our seat belts were fastened throughout the journey, with strict instructions to not stand till we landed. We were given thick paper bags in case we felt nauseated. 

Midway, it started drizzling and the Dakota was not supposed to go any higher. The pilot took a chance and rose above the clouds. “It’s risky,” he informed us, but flying in the rain was riskier (then). The elders began chanting prayers. 

We survived.