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In the late fifties or early sixties, my aunt and uncle came home one evening to say they were off to Darjeeling the next day to visit my cousins at boarding school; did I want to go with them? I, who had never stayed away from my parents, nodded yes, and Ma cried but I was determined. Those days, skipping school was not a criminal offence, but there was no seat in the aircraft. My forceful aunt ensured I boarded my first flight ever as category ‘cargo.’ It seemed cargo had residue allowance that would hold my equivalent in weight many times over. The Dakota (I think that’s what it was,) made a terrible racket but I remember the captain calling me into the cockpit, which rather compensated for the constant drone. While I was looking at the instrument panel, he slid a small side window open, asking me to put my palm outside. The wind snatched my hand away; I pulled back, scared, thinking I may be bodily sucked out! The captain only smiled. If you have never put your hand out of a flying plane, and never known that thrilling fear or felt that whoosh, well, I don’t know what much you have done in life.
