Adventures in anxiety class

There was a time when "business class" meant champagne before take-off, noise-cancelling headphones, and pretending to understand what truffle oil was doing in your omelette. Now, it means turbulence that rattles your soul and cabin crew duct-taping the aircraft together like your nani fixes a cracked pressure cooker—practical, endearing, and definitely a fire hazard.

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These days, flying anywhere feels less like travel and more like a high-stakes audition for Survivor: 30,000 Feet Edition. Just last week, a friend boarded an Air India flight that made an unscheduled stop in Iceland after something apparently stopped working mid-air. Was it an engine? A wing? The pilot's will to live? We may never know. Meanwhile, the airline issued an apologetic press release that read like a Tinder bio: vague, defensive, and suspiciously lacking in detail.

Then there was the Air India flight with a vibrating cabin door. And no, that's not a euphemism. Instead of, I don't know, grounding the plane, they shoved some paper napkins in the doorframe and carried on like it was a leaky tiffin box. I can only assume they were saving the duct tape for First Class.

And if that's not enough to make you say your last rites mid-air, allow me to introduce the latest airline trend: Mayday landings. They're the new black. This month alone, multiple flights have declared Mayday because of low fuel, malfunctioning engines, or the general existential dread of flying in 2025. It's gotten so bad, even pilots are asking for therapy mid-descent. I don't blame them—last week, I hyperventilated so hard during turbulence, I nearly resuscitated myself.

But perhaps the most amusing (read: horrifying) aspect of this airborne apocalypse is how airlines now treat safety like a garnish—nice to have, but not necessary if the biryani is spicy enough.

I recently flew a budget carrier where the seatbelt didn't buckle, the oxygen mask panel looked suspiciously taped shut, and the life jacket under my seat was…a slightly deflated pool float. When I pointed it out to the flight attendant, she gave me a smile so dead inside, it should have been wearing a toe tag.

And don't get me started on the in-flight announcements. Gone are the days of calm, measured tones that inspired confidence. Now it's either a mumbled panic-whisper ("…ladies and gentlemen we are going to May Day mode…") or the sort of overly chipper voice that sounds like it's about to burst into tears right after telling you to "sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight."

Meanwhile, geopolitical tensions are sky-high, literally. With Israel and Iran exchanging missile-shaped love letters, airlines are rerouting flights as if the skies were one giant Minesweeper grid. One wrong square and boom—you're not landing in Dubai, you're descending into "undisclosed safe airspace" which, last time, turned out to be a glorified potato field somewhere near Eastern Europe.

So now, every time I board a flight, I perform a sacred ritual: touch the plane thrice, whisper a quick dua, update my will via WhatsApp, and remind my husband not to pick my funeral outfit because that man once wore neon to a condolence meet.

And yet we keep flying. Because wanderlust is stronger than wisdom. Because home is always too close and escape is always too far. Because some part of us still believes the sky belongs to everyone—even if it occasionally drops you into Reykjavík with no explanation.

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But here's my proposal: if airlines are going to offer a terrifying experience anyway, they might as well be honest about it. Let's stop pretending this is about class or comfort. These days, every seat is Anxiety Class. In Denial Class, you pretend this turbulence is "normal." In Acceptance Class, you've made peace with mortality. If you've paid extra, you might get Panic Premium—just enough legroom to stretch out while hyperventilating. And the rest of us? We're in Trauma Economy, where your seat reclines just enough to let you watch your life flash before your eyes.

Because let's be honest: if we're going down, I want the truth—and a complimentary drink that's stronger than apple juice.

Until then, may your planes fly straight, your seatbelts click, and your cabin crew carry more than napkins.

Happy flying, if you dare.

Barrister Noshin Nawal is an activist, feminist, and a columnist for The Daily Star. She can be reached at [email protected].

Views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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