BaloneyGeek's Place

BaloneyGeek's Place

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Akademy

As I write this post, I'm peering out of the window of a long pressurised metal tube hurtling through the air 39,000 feet above sea level, watching a mesmerising sunset as the plane passes over Baku. The sky has turned from bright blue to deep red to deep purple to pitch black in a matter of ten minutes. It is yet another 4 hours before the plane lands in New Delhi and the officials stamp my little travel diary signalling the end of the events of the last 7 days.

I'm still trying to make sense of the last week.

Perhaps writing this post will help me figure out how I almost made it without crying for a decade only to have to let the floodgates open on the flight back.

On the 31st of August, I left India for the very first time in my life, for Berlin, to attend QtCon and Akademy, the annual world conference of the KDE Community. I had expectations from the trip. I expected to finally put a face and a voice to all the IRC nicks I geeked out with over the last 2 years. I expected to attend talks that would blow my mind. I expected to eat some really good food. I expected to see a few things around the city.

All of that happened. And then some more. A lot more. I fell in love. With so many things.

The city. The cars. The roads. The public transport. The complete strangers who would always make eye contact, smile and say hello. The one time I was travelling on the U-Bahn well past midnight and ended up singing the cup song with two people whom I had never seen before and never will see again. The architecture. The sleepless nights spent walking all around the city exploring because we'd have events during the daytime.

Spending a week four thousand miles away from your daily life does make you think.

Is it just the first Akademy that turns you upside down, or is it every Akademy? Does it make a bigger impact on me than on others because as she put it, very emphatically, "You're still such a child!"?

I wonder what it will be like 10 years later. I may have a completely different life, a completely different career. KDE may be a distant memory for me. I may not even remember QtCon 2016 as a whole. But the first KDE e.V. AGM, the first time I stepped into the BCC and spent the entire day in the back office trying to get video recording to work. The time we dressed up and walked in the freezing cold to Checkpoint Charlie just because we felt so crazy. The last night before I left when she wouldn't let me sleep - "It's your last night in Berlin! It needs to be special!" - and then we went down to the East Side Gallery and couldn't get back because it was well past 2 AM and neither the normal buses nor the U- and S-Bahns were running. These will be permanently etched in my memory.

Thank you everyone who made this week so memorable for me. All these go out to different people - thank you for taking us to the Russian restaurant, thank you for grabbing hold of me one night when I had lost my phone and making me justify to myself why I even am in KDE, thank you for making it financially feasible for me to be there, thank you for dragging me down to the hotel with the aquarium, thank you for giving me so many reasons to be so incredibly happy to be there. Thank you for being so gosh darn energetic, infecting me with said energy and making me get by with 3 hours of sleep a night.

And last but by far the most, this is for you. You, the eyelid-batting, compulsive hair-untangling, soft-talking little bundle of joy. I have so many things to express to and about you, but words fail me. Thank you for all that you did, and did not. Thank you for completely decimating my blocks and filters. Thank you for making the best part of this trip not the fact that I was in a different country for the first time in my life. Please don't get lost :-)

Auf wiedersehen Deutscheland, und danke für alles!

Six Hundred Kilometres

It's dark outside, although for not much longer. My eyelids open, my head peeks out from under the blanket, and adjusts to the dim light coming in from the giant window right beside me. I begin to make out the dark outline of trees and bushes whizzing past me, interrupted every second by a dark line that is one of the gantries that hold up the electric catenary. The cold air from the air conditioning hits my bare forehead, and I open my eyes fully. My mind is strangely tranquil; I have not a care in the world.

It is not often that I wake up at a hundred and thirty kilometres per hour. It is, in fact, two mornings roughly every two months, that I begin my day halfway towards enlightenment.

The Linke-Hoffman-Busch coaches rumble along, gently, very gently, rocking from side to side on the continuously welded rails as it thunders east towards the rising sun. Every now and then, it goes over a set of track switches that remind the riders that they are indeed travelling at great speeds, for the coaches suddenly oscillate wildly, and then almost as suddenly subside as it returns to a stable track.

The sky outside is now bright violet. The outlines turn into distinct trees with leaves and trunks, the fields outside are full of rice and paddy, the tracks are lined with bushes. Inside, it is still dark, the rumble interrupted occasionally by snores from a few of the other seventy-one occupants of the coach. There are bags hanging from hooks above window opposite mine, and there are two half-full bottles of water on the table. The water inside is barely moving.

I prop my pillow up, raise myself and lower the blanket, and stare outside. Daylight is upon us, the brightness rapidly increasing. The farmers are out with their tractors. Out in the distance, a forlorn little scarecrow. Further away, cellphone towers dot the skyline. I am suddenly reminded to look at the time. I take my phone out and look. It is almost six.

The train slows down. A station, which it will not stop at. Ah, it is Dehri-On-Sone. In a minute, the train will climb on top of the Upper Sone Bridge, the country's longest railway bridge over a river. It is so long that in the middle I will lose my cellphone signal.

As the train trundles along, I see that the river beneath has very little water. Wherever there is water though, the early morning sun makes the ripples glisten with golden light. I wonder if the farmer on the tractor has ever witnessed this sight. Then I wonder if the farmer has any inkling that a boy sitting on a train that passed in front of him a few minutes ago is right now crossing a bridge, looking at the sunlight glistening on the water, wondering if he has ever seen such a sight. The balance of probability suggests he does not.

An attendant comes up, with a carrier full of red cups and red flasks full of hot water. He sees that I am awake and asks me if I would like some tea. I ask if he has any coffee. He hands me a cup, a flask, and sachets of powdered milk, granulated sugar and instant coffee powder, with a small stirrer. He goes away, looking for other passengers who might want some tea. I am left to preparing my coffee.

I savour every sip of the cheap coffee. The scenery outside changes every few minutes, from paddy fields to thick woods, and back again. Birds are flying out in great big flocks, the villagers are sending their children to school in cycle-vans. Two farmers argue, while a mustering of storks drink from the water meant to submerge the rice in. Everyone around me is still asleep, oblivious to the life happening outside. I'm not much better, I realise, for I merely observe from my safe and comfortable cocoon while the people outside toil.

Two hours have since passed and the train is slowly winding along through the hills and the tunnels just beyond Gaya. The sun is still fresh and golden, and as the train curves tightly, the light reflects off the red coaches, offering spectacular sights. A long way ahead, the white locomotive whines along as it pulls its twenty or so fully loaded coaches, as it has been since the previous evening. The drivers have changed twice since.

Dhanbad arrives, and breakfast is served - two slices of bread, two vegetable cutlets with four slivers of fried potato and boiled peas. There's some butter, sauce, and a small carton of mango juice. I spread butter on the bread, put a cutlet and roll the slice around it, and gobble it up. As I'm finishing, the attendant is here with another round of tea.

The train leaves Dhanbad with a new driver, the final change before I reach my destination. The mood has changed drastically. People are awake, and have descended from the upper berths. Some are calling up their families to report on their progress and telling them to be there at the station at such-o'clock. The blankets, pillows and sheets have all been thrown higgledy-piggledy on the top berth.

My coupe-mate engages me in idle chatter, I share a small joke. Then he goes back to reading the morning paper, I go back to looking outside. I report on my progress to my family. As Barddhaman passes by, my father reports that he's already at the station to pick me up. The last hour has begun.

The train nears Kolkata. We overtake local trains heading into the city, chock full of people taking their daily commute into the city to earn their livelihood. We're almost neck-and-neck with one such train. Just as it begins to slow down into the next station, I catch a glimpse of a couple standing at the door, laughing together. I am reminded of my time when I would return from my tutions by the local train, standing at the door, letting the cold wind batter my face into oblivion. Inexpensive happiness, but true happiness.

At noon, the Rajdhani Express from New Delhi has wound into the city and set itself into Platform 9B at Sealdah Railway Station. My father is on the platform, here to pick me up. I am happy to be home. A different happy from that which I was when I woke up this morning, more than six hundred kilometres away. I am sad that the journey is over.

It will happen again, I remind myself. Two weeks later, I will go back. On the train. There will be much to see outside, and even more to see and hear inside. Right now, the city beckons. There is much to enjoy.

Incredible India

The 12311 Up Howrah Delhi Kalka Mail for 22nd December was 12 and a half hours late. Yes, 12 and a half hours. It left at 8:10 AM on December 23rd. It was thus at 6:30 PM that it reached Mughalsarai Jn.

The train stopped for almost 45 minutes at Mughalsarai. They attached a Pantry Car and removed a couple of coaches. That was plenty of time to see some "this happens only in India" antics. What was more, we didn't even have to leave our seats.

We were booked on coach B2, an AC 3 Tier coach. We were on berths 1, 2 and 3, which is at one extreme end of the coach. About 30 minutes into the stop at Mughalsarai, we saw a beggar enter the coach from the other end, sitting on the floor and dragging himself from coupé to coupé.

Our coupé had a BSF administrator. Him and his friend was having dinner. When the beggar reached us and asked for alms, he said:

"Nahin denge. Hum logo ko bhi aise nahin milte paise, kich kaam na karke. Aap jao, chaye waye bana lo station pe."
"We won't give you any money. Even we don't get money without doing anything. Why don't you go and make tea at the station?" [People will buy that. On Indian trains, in a single journey, the average person will consume a week's worth of tea.]

The guy kept whining. Finally, the BSF guy said:

"Mere paas change nahin hai."
"I don't have any small change"

The guy replied:

"Aap do na. Mere paas change hai"
"Give me whatever you have. I have change."

Just to remind you, we're talking about a beggar who's dragging himself along the floor of the coach because he can't walk.

Anyway, the BSF dude gave him a few coins.

Then the beggar calmly stood up, brushed himself, opened the door to the vestibule and walked straight out.

The Travelogue

It's 1:53 AM here on Sunday, January 30 2011, and I have suddenly remembered that train journey that we went through during the Durga Puja holidays in 2006. I'm pretty sure that if I go off to sleep now, I'm not going to remember any of this so vividly as I'm recollecting right now, so I'm going to write it down right now. So let's begin.

We were supposed to visit my aunt, uncle and cousin, who at that time stayed at Hyderabad, in the Monsoon of 2006. Durga Puja was held early that year, with Saptami falling on Friday the 29th of September. Monsoon was also pretty late and quite heavy that year. We got booked on the 8645 East Coast Express from Howrah to Hyderabad departing Tuesday, 26th September 2006. Our school had just hired a new principal that academic year, and part of her "crackdown on leniency by the former principal", as she called it, involved refusing early holidays to students. We were leaving on the 26th, which involved missing the last two days of pre-puja vacation school. My parents approached the principal for permission for an early holiday, and got refused in a very strict manner. Nonetheless, we had to go, since our tickets had been booked.

Cut to Friday, 22nd September, and incessant rains began, flooding the front of our house and turning it into an island. The school declared a holiday, and I got myself an extended weekend. However, even when the rains subsided on Saturday, fresh spells on Sunday only increased the water level. The school refused to declare a holiday on Monday, but I could not attend due to the waterlogging. In fact, I vaguely remember a friend telling me the attendance in Class VI-C, which ha a strength of 35, being in the single digits, something like 7, on that Monday.

Rewind back to Sunday, the heavy rains caused a landslide of sorts at Tikiapara. This shut down the entire South Eastern Railway section of Howrah Station. Most of the trains were cancelled, and some were moved to depart from Santragachi. All incoming trains were being short-terminated at Santragachi.

On Tuesday morning, I woke up at 6 AM. Looking back at those days, I'm pretty surprised at what I could do. Right now I wake up no earlier than 11 AM, and in those days, 7 AM was late by my standards. Oh, I forgot to tell you that my Dad would not be travelling with us, due to issues with his job - he would be joining us later during the weekend - and it would be just the three of us, Mom, Bro and me who would be travelling. I woke Dad up and went off to sleep again, waking up at 7. I found Dad watching the news intently, and I remember images of submerged villages, with people sitting on the roof of a hut in the middle of what looked like a fast-flowing ocean of water, being shown on the news. I think the channel was Tara News. Anyway, at about 7:30, headlines showed up telling that 8645 Up East Coast Express would be departing from Shalimar, 3 hours late at 1:45 PM.

We - the three journeymen, Dad and my maternal grandmother - took a taxi and departed for the station at about 11 AM. We descended from the Vidyasagar Setu and got confused for a while, before taking the Upper Foreshore Road until we got to a signboard showing that we needed to go left to get to Shalimar. Anyhow, we reached there somewhere 'round 1:15, because I remember we had very little time in our hands while we were stuck in the level crossing just outside the station. Shalimar station isn't very big. In fact, it has something like 20 tracks, with 18 of them being in a freight yard. There's one long island platform with Platform numbers 1 and 2. The platform has a concrete roof. There are no shops, no coolies - no nothing. Just a platform and tracks.

We got to the platform after crossing the Platform 1 track on foot - there's no over-bridge, heck, there isn't even an entrance to the station - kept our luggage somewhere in the middle of the platform and began waiting. And waiting. 1:45 came and passed. So did 2. And then 2:30. We explored many possibilities - such the train having left from Santragachi, or having been cancelled - until somewhere around 2:50, a voice on the PA system (which we didn't know even existed until that announcement came through) said that the rake had left the Tikiapara yard and would be arriving on Platform 2 in some time.

And the train did arrive, pulled by the same Jhansi-based WAM-4 electric engine that would take us all the way to Vishakapatnam. While we boarded our coach - and stormed out after keeping the luggage because the AC had not been switched on and it was stuffier than hell inside - the engine decoupled and attached to the other end of the train. We bade our goodbyes, and the train pulled out from the station at 3:45 PM, a full 4 hours behind schedule and departing from the wrong station.

The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. The coach was almost empty until Kharagpur, and even then we had the entire 6-birth coupe to ourselves all that day and night. I was awake all night, watching out of the window - which I always do, even nowadays, in trains - and remember the train stopping numerous times after passing the Chilka Lake station. I couldn't make out the lake itself because it was so dark, so I daydreamt about fighter planes having a dogfight in the skies above us while I communicated with them over a radio and watched them on a Radar screen in an imaginary laptop. Ahh, those innocent days.

I must have dozed off around 3 or so, and woke up at 6, just as the train arrived at Srikakulam Road. One glance outside and I was captivated by the scenery of the eastern coastal plains. I have traveled along many routes in the Indian Railways, and trust me, you will not see a more scenic mainline route than the Srikakulam Road - Rajahmundry stretch. I quickly took a look at the time and calculated that we were running 8 hours late, and concluded that we would not be reaching Hyderabad until 2AM that night. Resignedly, I took my toothbrush and went off to brush my teeth, while Mom inventoried our food and water supplies. We concluded we had enough biscuits and cake to last us till the evening, and that we had to buy a couple of bottles of water. We also called up Mashimoni and Mesho, giving them our progress report.

We reached Vishakapatnam around 9, where the train stopped for around 40 minutes. Mom went down and bought a couple of bottles of water. The train got a new engine (which I later saw was a rusty old WAG-5) which was slow as hell. Our coupe got another passenger, bringing the total to four. The train finally started off, in the opposite direction, branching out into another line just before a station called Duvvada. We got our breakfast of Idli and Chutney from a vendor with a bucketful of that stuff. After that, we rolled about on our berths and I read a Famous Five book until we reached Rajahmundry, sometime around 2 in the afternoon. We ordered lunch from the Pantry Car, and waited until it arrived.

It arrived just as the train departed. The train picked up speed very slowly, but then slowed down again as it climbed on top of the bridge over the Godavari. The first two spans of the cantilever bridge are curved, meaning the train curved almost through 75 degrees while over water. It was breathtaking, watching the train curve on a bridge, out of the window.

The scenery changed after crossing the river, and got very boring. I went back to my book, and finished that before climbing up to the upper berth, turning the AC vent towards me and dozing off until I suddenly woke up, found that the train was moving along very slowly, came down and found that it was entering Vijayawada. The train waited for 20 minutes, getting a new engine. Mom bought some stuff from an IRCTC vendor who'd come on the train, and paid him with a 100 rupee note for a bill amounting to 34 rupees. The vendor got off the train, telling us he was going to get change. Anyway, the train departed, again in the reverse direction, five minutes later, and the vendor never returned with the change. Two coupes up front, another family had been duped, this time of a 500 rupee note.

As the train curved to the left to enter the branch line towards Kazipet, I got a good look at the engine, which was a new WAP-4 painted in flaming red. Then things got very interesting. When the train had departed Vijayawada, it was 7 hours late, with a projected arrival time of 1:30 AM. The train suddenly picked up some frightening speed, with the coaches shaking so much that water bottles kept falling off the center table. I looked out of the window and I could see the train skipping one red signal after another. We again had the coupe to ourselves, since the other occupant had left at Vijayawada, and we munched on our cakes and biscuits, not daring to stand up lest we fall down due to the coach's swinging.

We stopped along the route at Khammam and Warangal, when we decided to call up Mashimoni to give them the latest progress report. It was then that we decided to get off the train at Secunderabad itself, rather than go all the way to Nampally (Hyderabad Station). That way it'd be easier for them to pick us up, and we could get off the train earlier. They told us to call them when the train reached Kazipet, so that they could then leave their house for the station.

We reached Kazipet just half an hour later, sometime around 8. We called them up to inform them of the progress. After the train left Kazipet, it began going even faster. The time it normally takes for the train to get from Kazipet to Secunderabad is four hours. That day, we did it in two and a half.

We reached Secunderabad around 10:45 or so. The train was now running, down from seven hours, five hours late, having made up for two hours along the Vijayawada-Secunderabad stretch. In fact, it had made up for so much time in between Kazipet and Secunderabad that Mashimoni and Mesho didn't have enough time to get to the station. We had to wait.

Anyway, the train attendant, a young Bengali fellow with a cheery face who'd been very helpful all through the journey, helped us down with our luggage and set us down on the platform. The train left ten minutes after it arrived, for its final stop at Hyderabad. We waited around until 11, until Mashimoni and Mesho showed up and asked us to exit the station and come up to the car park where they were waiting.

We did the meet and greet, and hopped onto Mesho's car. Mesho was driving, since the driver had gone home as it was so late. We left the station talking nineteen to the dozen, supposedly driving towards their home at Banjara Hills, before we found that since Mesho was paying more attention to the talking, he'd been absent-mindedly driving around a putla three times. But that's another story altogether.

It's 3:20 AM here, and I need to get my dose of sleep now. Adios, then :-)

I Fly

Give me an option, and I'll chose the flight any day. Not because of the "business values" and the short time of travel, but the sophisticated and technological masterpiece that the plane is, is something very unique, something that nothing else can replicate. And of course, there is this charm in flying that you will not get anywhere - not in trains and not in buses.

My first flight was when I was transferring to Guwahati back in '02. Jet Airways Flight Niner Whiskey - Two Zero One, Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose International to Lokopriya Gopinath Bordoloi Guwahati. Fifty minutes of flight time, an hour and ten minutes total. The aircraft was a Boeing 737-800, brand new. I didn't notice it's tail number, though - at that time I didn't know that it was there. The first time I got a look at it, I was like - this is BIG. In the pictures, they looked as tiny as ants compared to in real life. Our aircraft was parked somewhere in the main parking bay facing the terminal, along loads of Indian Airlines Airbuses. If you remember, IA's aircraft had a perfectly white body with an orange tail and IA written in a typographical way - their logo. On one side of the aircraft, Indian Airlines was written in English, while on the other side it was written in Hindi.

NSCBI did not have any aerobridges then, so a bus took us to the foot of the airstair attached to the aircraft. A lady took the Boarding Pass, smiled and tore it up. She handed the pass back to me and kept the counterfoil. I proceeded up to the aircraft, being greeted by the stewards and air hostesses. I distinctly remember that the air hostesses, on seeing a kid like me, would give me their best "Good Morning", and me, the innocent kid, would return the pleasantry in the exact singsong voice. And later suffer the consequences - expressly, my dad's teasing me. Anyway, so I got my perfect seat - just behind the trailing edge of the right wing. A perfect spot to watch both the scenery down there, as well as observe all the control surfaces on the wing.

By and by the air hostesses (who, in those days, wore a black skirt and a blue blouse with tulip imprints) would come and give us hot towels, chocolates and other stuff, in preparation for the flight. Sadly, none of this happens in even full-cost airlines today, save in Business Class. The aircraft pushed back from the gates, started it's engines and began a long taxi to the active runway under it's own power. This is where the exhilaration and thrill began. Nothing like the surge of power from the two CFM International CFM56 turbofans and the resultant acceleration of the aircraft, gently bumping over the taxiway can drive up your adrenalin better. Fasten your seatbelts, and sit back, this baby is about to take to the sky.

The active runway, at that time, was One Niner Left. NSCBIA's longest, and also the toughest to navigate to. The taxiway does not connect to the end of the runway, so the aircraft has to enter the runway about two thirds of the way up, go until the piano keys and make a 180 degree turn to face the take-off direction. Our flight then aligned up with the centerline, and stopped, applying brakes. I saw the control surfaces move - the pilot was testing the spoilers, ailerons, elevators and the rudder. Then five degrees of flaps were extended. And then the engines increased to a roar.

View from an A320 taking off

If you have never flown before, believe me, the takeoff is like nothing else. If you thought that during taxiing, the engines were loud, then during a takeoff the engines are like fifty of them running inside each of your ears. The amazing vibrations, coupled with an unbelievable acceleration that pushes you back into the seat and leaves you with no scope of leaning forward - are things that can only be experienced first hand. Pretty soon I felt something like a sense of weightlessness, and saw that the Taal Gaach-es were getting smaller. The plane had taken off, and we were on our way.

About ten minutes later we were at an altitude of 18,000 feet - Flight Level One Eight Zero - cruising at eight-tenth the speed of sound, or Mach Zero Point Eight Two, still ascending to the final cruising height of Flight Level Three Five Zero. The seat belt sign came off, but I decided to keep mine buckled. I always keep mine buckled throughout all flights - it's safer when that Clear Air Turbulence suddenly hits - and yes, it happens much more often than you think. The air hostesses, by this time, began had begun serving the food.

I don't remember exactly, but I think the menu was somewhat like Chicken Pepperoni Sandwiches, a slice of cake with a cherry on top, a tangy and spicy raita type thingy but continental so it couldn't have been a weird raita, and some soufflé. The sandwiches were shrink-wrapped on a tray - and we could take the tray, as well as the soufflé bowl, home! In fact, over time, we would have a collection of such bowls and trays, and Jet's signature toothpick style desert spoon with a handle-top shaped like Jet's logo. Sadly, all food nowadays are served on disposable Aluminum boxes with disposable plastic spoons - sick.

Anyway - the rest of the flight was pretty uneventful until the descent began over Bangladesh and the Khasi Hills. The seatbelt sign came on, flaps were deployed, with a little bit of the spoilers coming up, and the speed was reduced. To the unaccustomed - this is the scariest phase of the flight when it feels like the aircraft is dropping out of the sky. Yes, that's exactly what's happening, but in a controlled fashion, so enjoy the forces.

The approach to LGBA is something called a CDA - Continuous Descent Approach. This means, the incoming aircraft begins its descent from cruising altitude at a precise point in its flight path, and maintains the same rate of descent all the way to the runway, not leveling of even once. This is in contrast to conventional approaches, where the aircraft levels off at anywhere between 2,000 to 3,000 feet until it intercepts the localizer - A radio beacon guiding the aircraft to the runway in a straight line. The LGBA has a CDA because of it's unique vectors-to-final - It goes parallel to the runway back about 7 kilometers and then makes a 180 degree turn to intercept. Conventional approaches intercept at 45 degrees.

All through the approach I sat with rapt attention, looking intently at the wings for changes in the control surfaces. As the aircraft came out of the final turn to face the runway, the flaps extended to the full 45 degrees and the engines increased to a roar to maintain the speed - a hundred and sixty knots, or nautical miles per hour. The aircraft descended and landed smoothly. In fact, I don't know why, maybe because it's a change in the training of pilots but what they do is bring the aircraft to a level flight about ten feet off the runway and idle the engines, letting the aircraft drop the final ten feet. This makes for a very bumpy and unpleasant landing. However, back then, the pilots always used to do a brilliant job of the landing. In fact, you could not even feel the wheels hitting the ground - It would be descending and suddenly you would be thrown forward gently as the thrust reversers and spoilers deployed, bringing the aircraft's speed down pretty fast. Thrust reversers until sixty knots, then brakes until thirty knots and then without stopping continuing all the way to the tarmac where we would disembark, head into the terminal and collect the baggage.

In the next two years of our stay in Guwahati, I had flown no less than twelve times - that's an average of a return flight every four months. Yes, we used to catch planes like buses, at less than a week's notice. Every time I would discover something more about aeroplanes. I also used to be quite fashion-conscious in my own way, wearing the best of my formal clothes on board. Always a tie (even though our school uniform required only a pre-tied strap-on tie, I would wear a full tie, having learnt to tie it when I was six), always a plain shirt with proper trousers and belt, and always a coat. At least a waistcoat, anyway. Also, cuff-links were mandatory. I also had a prized navy-blue bow-tie which I would wear quite often on a flight. Come to think of it, I was always a success with every flight attendant on every flight ;-)

Now that we're back in Kolkata, there's nowhere to fly to, but once in a while when we go on a holiday, at least one of the legs of the journey have to be on a flight - it's pure bliss, being on one.