And the designation does not come easy.

You must, compulsorily, undergo life-altering experiences to earn it.

At times, experiences that alter the impression left by a previous life-altering experience.

For instance, once, after being crushed between two portly businessmen all through a Mumbai-Delhi flight, I left strict instructions with my office to ALWAYS telecheck me into a window seat.

I love window seats. Always have.

Sigh.

The next few weeks were spent flying happily ever after.

Till it happened.

I was to fly on my usual Mumbai-Delhi sector.

I was sleep starved – whenever I have to take the first flight out, I barely sleep in the worry that I won’t wake up in time.

My office made no mistakes.

It was me in the window seat.

A middle-aged gentleman in the aisle seat.

Hunky and dory were together.

Till SHE walked in.

A conservative estimate would peg her between 100 to 115 kilos.

Saree-clad, very-well-fed Punjabi lady, returning home to Delhi, probably.

She ‘settled’ in.

What do I tell you now?

That I spent the rest of the flight with my face squashed against the window like a first time flier?

No it wasn’t voluntary.

When you have a mammoth elbow intruding across three-fourths of your seat space, there is nowhere else to go.

I had to refuse breakfast.

There was NO way I could have handled a tray in that kind of space.

It’s bad enough when you have to share your seat with a giant elbow.

It’s worse when the elbow belongs to a giant who decides to sleep after breakfast.

And sinks a little into you with every passing breath.

Now consider the fact that the elbow belongs to a woman.

What will you scream?

Rape?

I would have.

Had I managed to somehow extricate myself from under that elbow and reached upwards to buzz the air-hostess, I seriously would have.

We disembarked in Delhi.

She, refreshed.

Me, crushed. Literally.

Frequent flying is no fun, my friend.

After Vietnam and Advertising, it ranks third in my books.

That morning I learnt that even a window seat can’t save you from the scourge of an intrusive elbow.

My humble advice?

If you can, fly business.

If you can’t, then beg the ground-staff to tell you who or what has checked into your middle seat.

If you can do neither, quietly take the train.

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In case you have a similar moving experience, do write in.

Gullible’s Travels will be glad to reproduce the same in the larger interest of travelers.

No. You would not want to be in my shoes.

You see, things happen to frequent fliers.

Unimaginable things.

Good soul that I am, I would not ever want them to happen to you.

Frequent flying is no fun, once you’re done with the initial glee and the mileage points craze.

Don’t believe me?

Silly wannabe frequent flier you must be.

You have absolutely no clue of the kind of things that happen to us.

For once, if you travel Mumbai-Delhi-Mumbai frequently, you will know what I am talking about.

Take me, for instance.

I dread the 8pm return flight to Mumbai.

Totally dread it.

Yet I have often ended up taking it.

You see, the 8pm flight is strategically timed.

It allows you to finish a meeting at 5.45pm, leave office at 6pm, avoid the late evening traffic, reach airport at 7.15pm.

It also lands you in Mumbai by 10pm.

Which is not too late.

But it’s not that simple.

The 8pm flight is also strategically located between a lunch, a snack, a rushed drive to the airport on one hand.

And in-flight dinner and coffee on the other.

With ZERO major loo breaks.

So when you are comfortable strapped into your window seat, you are also surrounded by many not-so-frequent fliers who ate a heavy lunch, did their meeting, snacked as the meeting got extended, then caught the cab to rush to the airport, hit the boarding gates, made it to the flight and gratefully collapsed into their seat.

Without taking a SINGLE bio break.

What ensues is this.

You take off.

1. A lemon based refresher is offered.

2. Followed by dinner.

3. Followed by tea/coffee.

4. The trays are collected.

5. The captain announces you will be reaching Mumbai soon.

6. The cabin lights are dimmed.

7. You shut your eyes in relief.

That’s when it happens.

One gentleman, seated three rows ahead of you, raises himself a wee bit and lets rip a silent one.

A deadly, slow-death-inducing silent one that owes its roots to the poisonous mix of the pizzas from lunch, the sandwiches from the snack, the lemon refresher, the horrendously same and insipid in-flight dinner and the coffee after that.

Like a viral, the phenomenon is replicated by passengers strategically seated around you.

And it travels.

It snakes it’s way between rows, navigates down the aisle, around the aisle seats, into your row and singles you out.

You.

There is no escape.

None.

That my friends is the single most horrific torture you can be subjected to, 30,000 feet above the sea.

I have been.

Every time, without fail, on every 8 pm flight.

Some not-so-frequent fliers always manage to lay one on me.

In a dimly-lit cabin, with row after row of passengers, there is absolutely no way you can identify the culprit.

And in an air conditioned cabin, the effect is that of surround sound.

It comes from everywhere.

Now do you believe me?

Frequent flying is no fun, my friend.

If you must fly, avoid the 8pm return flight like plague.

Else I can suggest only one other thing.

Go armed with a deo-dabbed handkerchief.

And hope for the best.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

In case you have a similar moving experience, do write in to us.

Gullible’s Travels will be glad to reproduce the same in the larger interest of travelers.