Letter to the Director General

 The Director General, 

DGCA, Government of India

Sir, 

This letter is offered as an observation. I believe calm statements of fact tend to be more effective than raised voices. 

For much of my career, I trusted regulatory systems to respond fairly and predictably when requirements were met. Repeated interaction with the DGCA has shown that predictability exists, but not necessarily in alignment with documented procedures. The delays are admirably consistent, explanations are often limited, and outcomes completely unrelated to compliance.

This is not about a few individuals. The pattern suggests a system that has normalised inefficiency. Today files crawl and then after long delays, queries are raised by the concerned desk. These are without clear purpose, and digital portals continue to display "under process" without accountability. Progress, when it finally occurs, is often sudden and unexplained. It’s almost like the “Hand of God” and what the revered palms handled. Not one, but across processes, like issuance of computer numbers, licence endorsements, foreign licence conversion, and verification of Indian licences for overseas employment, the experience is similar. Applicants meet requirements, submit documentation, and wait. Their careers remain on hold. Then Informal suggestions appear from well wishers. These often expedite matters, after which all delays resolve promptly.

Today the role of Flight Operations Inspectors and Consultants appear limited largely to final clearances, with little authority to influence organisational correspondence or formally document systemic concerns. Almost all serve on contract or deputation. This arrangement achieves procedural completion but can never encourage institutional ownership. Hence responsibility becomes narrow, accountability selective, and silence efficient.

The “Digitalisation” of the DGCA was intended to improve transparency. In practice, it has removed visibility and stayed true to its word. The office works in digits and adds up to none. An applicant does not know who holds a file, why it is delayed, or when it will move. Confusion has become standardised. When regulation becomes transactional, standards erode. When oversight becomes procedural, safety weakens. Aviation failures are rarely sudden; they are usually the cumulative result of small tolerated deviations. Leadership silence is rarely neutral. In a system where tenure is temporary and responsibility dispersed, inaction sadly means acceptance. 

This letter is not written in anger. It is written with the expectation that the regulator can be respected for its standards rather than navigated for its processes. Pilots are trained to report risks before they manifest as outcomes. This letter is one such report.

Respectfully

Civility and the Chill Factor

 Civility and the Chill Factor

I stepped out of my Airbnb at 6:15 a.m., boldly ignoring every dire warning that Glasgow’s wind would freeze, flatten, or otherwise erase me. The weather here clearly has a flair for theatrics. Still, my morning cigarette awaited me.. it’s been my loyal, toxic companion, my daily act of rebellion, my perfectly legal slow-motion suicide. I know it serves no purpose, yet like certain relationships, I refuse to let it go.

The moment I turned onto Maxwell Street, the wind sliced through my jacket with the tenderness of a dentist operating without anaesthesia. At nine degrees, the cold didn’t merely touch me, it negotiated directly with my bones. I’ve been a trekker and a soldier; I’ve known cold that makes you question your life choices. But this was cold with confidence. Cold that greets you eye-to-eye and says, “Welcome to Scotland. Let’s see what you’re made of.” Then, as the first curl of smoke escaped, something softened. The world felt warm, not in temperature, but in temperament. Glasgow, I discovered, is a city where the people produce more warmth than the sun manages on most days.

This is my first time in Scotland, a place I previously knew only through travel documentaries and calendars. But the reality is far richer: Highlands stretching into forever, lochs holding the reflections of moody skies, the scent of ancient forests after rain. It’s a landscape that inspires and humbles simultaneously. Threaded through it is the famous Scottish “chill”—not just in the air, but in the attitude. Calm, unhurried, matter-of-fact. People here seem to “chill” as a way of life, something I’ve attempted for years with spectacular lack of success.

Let me be clear, I am not criticising India. Far from it. India is one of the world’s greatest civilizations. I grew up reciting “unity in diversity” like scripture. We are the land of ancient wisdom, timeless art, and people who can argue passionately about everything from metaphysics to cricket to who stole the last biscuit. Our cultural depth is unmatched. Yet as I walked through Glasgow’s quiet, damp streets, I felt something undeniably different. It wasn’t superior, simply different in a way that slows the pulse without meditation apps.

It begins with the smallest gestures. I barely understand the Scottish accent, yet the warmth behind the words is unmistakable. People smile on buses. They nod. They thank you as though gratitude were a reflex. When I ask for directions, they guide me gently, repeating themselves with a patience usually reserved for speaking to pets or toddlers. Back home in Bangalore, simplicity is elusive. Our mornings may be cool, but our public spaces are pressure cookers, the heat, crowds, traffic, and ceaseless urgency. Courtesy becomes optional and survival mode takes over.

Glasgow makes me question whether this is fate or merely habit. Because here, a bus driver’s “cheers,” a held door, a queue that remains a queue, all these tiny courtesies create an inner quiet I seldom experience in urban India. I don’t feel rushed. I don’t feel judged. I simply… function. And that feels miraculous.

So whom do we blame? History, climate, population? Perhaps the answer isn’t in blaming anyone at all. What I do know is this. Civility matters. Politeness has power. Restraint has elegance. And respect for space is an art worth cultivating. Indians are not strangers to kindness. We are champions of hospitality, but our warmth becomes selective in public. Maybe the solution isn’t a revolution, but tiny daily choices: a smile, a calmer tone, a moment of patience. And yes, perhaps, the cold is Scotland’s secret weapon, since any misbehaviour would simply require too much body heat. Back home, we lack the chill factor. But we do have the human factor..and that, thankfully, travels well.

Making of an Unemployable Pilot

 Making of an Unemployable Pilot

India’s aviation story today is paradoxical. Beneath the triumphant narrative of increasing passenger numbers, massive aircraft orders,  expanding airports  and fiery political speeches lies a contradiction so stark that it borders on scandal. The Commercial Pilot Licence (CPL), once seen as a ticket to a golden cockpit career, has become in many cases a one-way ticket to unemployment, debt and despair. What was once a dream now increasingly feels like a trap. Thousands of licensed commercial pilots in India are unemployed, and hundreds of them are even endorsed on jet aircraft such as the Airbus A320 and Boeing 737.

This is not an economic anomaly. It is not simply a temporary hiring slowdown. It is the predictable outcome of a training culture that confuses examination success with professional competence, and an industry structure that externalizes risk onto the individual while protecting institutional comfort.

To understand the depth of the crisis, one must begin with the financial entry barrier. Becoming a commercial pilot in India costs between Rupees 60 and 80 lakh, sometimes more. The CPL itself demands an investment of Rupees 35–55 lakh. A type rating on a jet aircraft adds another Rupees 15–25 lakh. Living expenses, examination attempts, licence renewals, and ancillary costs inflate the figure further. For many families, this is not discretionary spending. It usually involves mortgaging property, exhausting savings, or assuming substantial loans. In most professions, such investment implies structured career entry. In Indian aviation, it guarantees only a licence.

The industry’s defenders often attribute unemployment to oversupply. It is true that India has issued more than a thousand CPLs annually in recent years. It is also widely acknowledged within the sector that 4,000 to 5,000 CPL holders remain without airline employment, including roughly a thousand who have already self-funded jet type ratings. But oversupply alone does not explain the scale of unemployability in a market that continues to expand capacity aggressively. Aircraft are being inducted; routes are being added. The deeper issue lies elsewhere.

The uncomfortable truth is that the CPL ecosystem in India has evolved into an examination-clearing enterprise rather than an intellectual training ground. Theoretical examinations rely heavily on multiple-choice formats. Question banks circulate widely. Coaching centres specialize in pattern recognition and repeat-question identification. Students are trained to pass papers efficiently. What often suffers in this process is learning the concept. 

A candidate may achieve high scores in Air Navigation, Meteorology, or Technical General. Yet when confronted with practical scenarios that demand application rather than recall, gaps frequently emerge. The physics that underpins aviation like energy management, aerodynamic cause and effect, thrust-drag relationships, load factor implications, is sometimes memorized as formulae rather than understood as living principles. Performance charts are treated as procedural relics rather than graphical expressions of physical reality.

This becomes visible when trainees transition from single-engine piston training to multi-crew jet environments. They may know the wording of standard operating procedures. They may be able to recite sections of the FCOM or FCTM accurately. However, when asked to interpret instrument trends dynamically, to explain why a particular pitch response follows a thrust adjustment, or to reason through a destabilized approach without relying solely on scripted memory items, hesitation appears. Aviation is applied physics in motion. If training reduces that physics to exam fodder, operational adaptability inevitably suffers.

The airlines are not unaware of this inconsistency. Selection processes have become more rigorous. As technical interviews demand explanation and understanding, rather than rote learning, hiring has become more selective. Backlogs have started to grow. Ironically, the very system that produces large numbers of licence holders contributes to their exclusion from employment.

In response, aspiring pilots attempt to enhance their employability by self-funding type ratings. The endorsement on aircraft families such as the Airbus A320 or Boeing 737 is seen as a competitive advantage. Yet this additional investment carries no guarantee of absorption. If employment does not materialize within validity periods, refresher training becomes necessary, adding further cost. The financial risk remains entirely with the individual, while the institutional beneficiary retains discretion over hiring.

For those who do secure employment, the reality does not necessarily translate into stability. Employment bonds ranging from Rupees 50 lakh to Rupees 1 crore, five-year commitments, and notice periods extending up to a year are not uncommon. These measures are defended as mechanisms for training cost protection. Yet in many cases, the pilot has already financed his or her own type rating. The effect of such bonds is to restrict mobility and suppress competitive wage dynamics. When exit carries severe financial consequences, bargaining power diminishes.

The perception of lucrative pilot salaries further obscures the structural imbalance. Entry-level pay structures in several Indian carriers revolve around minimum guaranteed flying hours, often as low as forty hours per month. Compensation is heavily tied to actual flying duty hours  and not total duty hours. If operational scheduling reduces flying time, earnings correspondingly decline. Meanwhile, loan repayments and living expenses remain fixed. When adjusted for inflation and training debt burdens, real income growth for pilots has not kept pace with the industry’s expansion. In certain segments, it has stagnated or regressed relative to earlier decades.

The contradiction becomes evident. India has invested heavily in airport infrastructure, fleet acquisitions, and route development. Yet workforce planning remains fragmented. There is no transparent, publicly accessible alignment between annual CPL output and projected airline demand. There is limited benchmarking of flying school performance in terms of graduate quality and airline absorption. The regulatory focus remains oriented toward compliance and examination clearance rather than demonstrable learning outcomes.

This environment produces a predictable cycle. Flying schools admit large batches based on aspirational marketing and growth headlines. Students invest heavily. Examination systems reward memorization. Airlines encounter variability in candidate depth and respond with heightened selectivity. Employment bottlenecks intensify. Salary pressure increases. Bond structures tighten. The cost of every misalignment is borne by the individual pilot.

It is important to clarify that the issue is not one of inherent incapacity among trainees. India produces intelligent, motivated aviation aspirants. The problem lies in systemic design. When intellectual curiosity is subordinated to question-bank efficiency, when physics is reduced to formula recall, and when operational reasoning is overshadowed by checklist memorization, the training outcome becomes brittle. Aviation demands both discipline and comprehension. Standard operating procedures are indispensable, but they are not substitutes for understanding.

If India intends to claim global aviation leadership, the entire philosophy of pilot training and recruiting has to be reformed. Examination formats should shift toward applied reasoning and scenario-based evaluation, compelling candidates to demonstrate comprehension rather than recall. Training institutions should be required to publish transparent outcome data, including placement rates and performance benchmarks. Bond practices require regulatory scrutiny to ensure proportionality and fairness. Notice periods post completion of bond period, need to be completely done away with or reduced to one month, and aligned to global best practices in any profession. Most importantly, training, particularly in aerodynamics, energy management, and systems integration, must be reinforced as the intellectual backbone of pilot development.

India’s aviation story is impressive in scale but uneven in structure. It celebrates aircraft orders while neglecting human capital architecture. It markets dreams of flight while offering no structured guarantee of professional progression. It issues licences in large numbers yet questions the quality of those it certifies. Until these contradictions are addressed, the country will continue to produce licensed pilots who are financially burdened and professionally stalled. Growth statistics will climb. Press releases will multiply. But beneath them will remain a silent group of trained, indebted aviators waiting for a system that recognizes that a licence is not merely a document, it is a promise of competence, opportunity, and responsibility.

At present, that promise is not being kept.

Catch 22

 First Officer Jamy believed the system was broken. Captain Fady believed the system had always been broken, which meant it was functioning exactly as designed. They were somewhere above central India at thirty-seven thousand feet, flying a machine capable of landing itself in zero visibility while debating whether Crew Scheduling was a department or a psychological experiment.

“It’s intentional,” Jamy said. “They know exactly what they’re doing.”
Fady nodded with the steady gravity of a man who had long ago stopped expecting justice from rostering software. Autopilot engaged. Autothrust active. LNAV and VNAV glowing like obedient deities. The airplane was doing everything correctly, which left the humans dangerously free to think.
The interphone chimed.
Cabin crew.
“Captain, just to inform you… passenger in 19B is upset about the departure delay. He says there was no announcement from the flight deck.”
Fady blinked once. Slowly. There had indeed been no announcement. There had not been an announcement for years.

“Noted,” Fady replied.
He had once made announcements.
Once, long ago, he had delivered what he considered an eloquent, articulate explanation about weather deviations, ATC flow control, and the delicate ballet of sequencing arrivals. His tone had been calm. His vocabulary impressive. His pauses intentional. It had been a masterpiece.
Unfortunately, he had not pressed the PA switch. He had transmitted it on 121.9. To Ground.

And, inadvertently, to three other aircraft waiting for pushback.

There had been a pause on frequency long enough to measure existential collapse.
Then someone had keyed up:
“Uh… Captain, beautiful speech. We’re all inspired.”
Another voice:
“Copy your motivational seminar.”
Since that day, nothing left Fady’s lips except procedural necessities and atmospheric adjustments.
Altitude distension, he called it.
The cabin could read it as they liked.
“Passenger wants to know why the captain didn’t address the delay,” the crew member added gently. Fady considered several possible explanations:, Philosophical restraint, Selective communication policy, Trauma.
He settled for: “We’re airborne now.”“Copy, Captain.” The interphone clicked off. Jamy stared ahead, shoulders trembling slightly.“You could’ve just made one short announcement,” he offered carefully. Fady looked at him with the serene calm of a monk who had renounced amplification. “No.” And that was that.

The First Officers, collectively over the years, had adapted. They didn’t mind the silence. As long as Fady gave them enough warning. Because Fady had developed a system. At approximately ten thousand feet after takeoff, once the sterile cockpit period ended, he would remove one earcup from his headset and say, with solemn professionalism: “Your controls for two minutes.” This was Jamy’s cue.

He would “step out” only mentally meaning he would take radios and monitoring , while Fady accessed what he referred to as “situational awareness enhancement.” From his flight bag emerged a carefully curated 1990s mix. Stuff he used to listen to in NDA, Synth. Bass. Questionable percussion. Nothing loud. Just enough. Fady believed rhythm improved cruise fuel management. Jamy believed rhythm improved Fady. They never discussed it.

At cruise, the earlier grievance about 19B dissolved into broader injustice.

“Gupta’s moving to Training,” Jamy said.
Fady nodded. “Promotion by disappearance.” They reviewed fuel figures. Everything precise. Which felt suspicious.
“Vietnam is hiring,” Jamy tried again.
“Everyone is hiring somewhere,” Fady replied. “Until they aren’t.”
A small chime interrupted them.
Seat belt sign for light turbulence.
Professional mode re-engaged instantly. Announcements were technically required.

Jamy looked at Fady expectantly.
Fady looked at the seat belt switch.
He pressed it. The ding echoed through the cabin. He did not speak.

Somewhere in 19B, disappointment intensified. Later, as they approached top of descent, Jamy ventured:

“You know… passengers like hearing from the captain.” Fady adjusted the heading bug by one unnecessary degree. “They hear the engines. That’s enough.”
“You were very articulate that day.”
Fady stared forward. Silence on 121.9 still echoed in his memory. “I peaked,” he said softly.

Descent briefing commenced.
“Minimums 23.”
“Checked.”
“Autobrake three.”
“Set.” The satire evaporated. Precision remained. They intercepted the localizer. The autopilot performed elegantly, as if slightly smug.
At minimums, Fady disconnected it. Hand-flew the rest. The landing was smooth , almost suspiciously so.
Reverse thrust deployed with confidence bordering on poetry.
As they vacated the runway:
“Nice one, Captain,” Jamy said.
“Aircraft did most of it.”
There was no irony in his voice.

At the gate, engines wound down. Screens dimmed. Systems powered off like obedient soldiers dismissed from parade. Passengers disembarked. 19B left with unresolved emotional closure. The cabin crew would later report, “Flight was good. Just no announcements.”
Fady accepted this as a performance review. As they gathered their bags, Jamy checked the roster.
“Same sector tomorrow?”
“Until they change it,” Fady said.
“They’ll change it.”
“They always do.”
They walked into the terminal , one man who believed the system was broken, and another who had stopped addressing it publicly.
Above them, another aircraft leveled at thirty-seven thousand feet.
Somewhere in that cockpit, a captain was pressing the PA switch.
And somewhere else, a frequency fell silent.

Just another day in the life of a line pilot who couldn’t refuse the duty. In some ways Uber drivers were on a different level. They had the power to say No. Fady envied them.

Be Safe. Fly Safe.

Vayu Shakti 1999

 It was the end of winter and the beginning of 1999, which in the Rajasthan desert meant the sun had begun rehearsing for cruelty but had not yet committed to it fully. The mornings were almost tender. The wind carried a polite chill. The sky over Pokhran stretched in an uninterrupted blue that suggested permanence, confidence, and a slight disregard for human planning. It was the kind of sky that made PowerPoint slides look achievable.

Up north, in icy silence, other calculations were already being made.

Down here, in sand and spectacle, the Indian Air Force prepared for Vayu Shakti. Air Power in capital letters, preferably bold font, preferably televised. Guns. Missiles. Precision. Geometry behaving on cue. The brief sounded simple, in the way that briefs always do when written indoors.

The desert listened and made no promises.

The range lay wide and patient, a beige amphitheatre designed by geology and temporarily leased to doctrine. Heat shimmered before noon. Flags marked target areas and flapped bravely in winds that did not subscribe to operational timelines.

Actors and aircraft arrived in waves. The stage was set. The script was flexible.

Almost everyone met everyone at the Jaisalmer Bar. It was located at the extreme right hand corner in the Officers’ Mess, a rectangular survivor of successive Station Commanders, each arriving in a Peak Cap, full of vision, mission statements, and a dangerous belief in interior design.

Every one of them had tried to “leave his mark.”

And every one of them had.

Unfortunately, none had left the same mark.

The result was less “heritage charm” and more like a “coup attempt.”

One Commander had believed in Pastels. Another in Executive Brown. A third had briefly flirted with something called Desert Contemporary, which looked suspiciously like leftover paint from the MES. No one finished what he started. So one wall was motivational cream, another bureaucratic green, and a third, behind the trophy cabinet, remained defiantly 1977. 

Paint peeled in shades best described as Administrative Fatigue. Ceiling fans rotated with the slow determination of officers awaiting promotion. They did not cool. They contemplated. The sofas were a museum of abandoned policies. Floral upholstery from the “soft power” era. Heavy fake leather from the “assertive command presence” phase. And one lonely modern grey couch, purchased during a brief reform movement, that matched absolutely nothing and looked as though it deeply regretted its posting.

The bar counter leaned slightly to port, as if bracing itself for the next renovation proposal. It had survived three “modernisation drives,” two budget reallocations, and one Commander who insisted that blue LED lighting would “bring in a retro vibe.” The LEDs flickered briefly, then retired voluntarily.

Every evening, the same blue overalls assembled. Flying jackets hung from chairs like shed reptile skins. Bore-well water left white streaks on boots and occasionally on senior moustaches. Paneer arrived with religious punctuality, unaffected by command tenure. Chapatis had personality… some puffed with pride, others lay flat in quiet protest. The local tea was strong enough to restart minor aircraft systems and possibly the moral compass of the Accounts Section. And through all of this, the Mess endured. A glorious, unapologetic patchwork of unfinished legacies.

Each passing Commander had tried to bend it to his style. Instead, he merely added another chair, another shade, another confused curtain pattern before being posted out. The Mess did not resist change. It simply absorbed it… badly.

There was, of course, a special category of visitor to this magnificent architectural compromise: the MiG-27 squadron chaps from the East. They suffered from one operational tragedy… no proper heavy armament range back home. This meant that every few months they would launch themselves westward in heroic ferry formations, like a migrating tribe of heavily armed optimism. Briefing rooms would echo with confidence. Maps would be made, xeroxed decisively. Weather would be “manageable.” Technical state would be “within limits.” They would depart in glorious formation. And then… reality would begin.

Somewhere over central India, the first snag would occur. A caution light would blink with quiet mischief. A hydraulic line would develop philosophical doubt. An engine instrument would decide it had done enough for the day.

By the time they reached the midpoint of the country, the once-imposing formation resembled a tactical diaspora. One aircraft parked in Kanpur, another contemplating life in Gwalior. One more awaiting spares somewhere. By the end of it, they were sprinkled across the subcontinent like reluctant confetti.

The few who actually made it all the way to Jaisalmer deserved a drink. And that, precisely, is what they did. They would arrive sunburnt, slightly dehydrated, and carrying the emotional weight of three aborted legs and six tech log entries. They walked into the Mess not as mere pilots, but as survivors of a mechanical selection process. Egg on toast would be consumed. Beer would be evaluated critically. Stories would grow in altitude with each retelling.

“We launched eight,” one would begin gravely.

“How many reached?” someone would ask.

A pause.

“Operationally… sufficient.”

Then there were Mirage pilots who were test pilots and test pilots who were Mirage pilots. Yes there was a difference… but thats for another day. 

Irrespective of which sub group one belonged to in the “fraternity”, they were keepers of the faith, had stiff upper lips and impeccable sunglasses discipline. They carried themselves with the quiet assurance of men who believed they were elite. Which, to be fair, they were. At least presently.

What they preferred not to advertise too loudly was that many of them had come from the feeder MiG-21 squadrons, where avionics consisted largely of a compass and an artificial horizon, and where survival instincts were developed early and decisively.

But once they strapped into the Mirage, something subtle occurred. Posture improved. Vocabulary shifted. Words like “platform,” “test points,” “telemetry,” “systems philosophy,” and “energy management” entered daily conversation.

They would listen patiently to the MiG-27 tales of hydraulic despair while nodding with controlled sympathy.

“Yes, yes… very rugged aircraft,” they would murmur.

There was always that faint air of having transcended something. As though the Mirage cockpit came with an invisible finishing school.

Yet, on occasion, usually after the second drink, the MiG-21 roots would resurface.

A story about dead-stick recoveries and relights. An anecdote certainly involving questionable radar returns. A fond remembrance of engines that required encouragement. The stiff upper lip would tremble… just slightly.

In truth, all tribes met at the same bar counter. The MiG-27 nomads. The Mirage aristocracy. The instructors. The survivors of ferry missions.

The Mess did not discriminate.

It merely provided eggs to order, paneer tikka, resilient tea, beer, and a safe space for exaggerated heroism.

Among these flight suits stood two pilots of FOXBAT formation, chosen, selected, or perhaps condemned to validate a unique proof of concept.

Sqn Ldr Battersea—or Bats—was Foxbat-1. He looked faintly misplaced in the desert, a very composed Bengali gentleman who had once played Tom Cruise in his prime as an instructor at the National Defence Academy. Poetry and discipline had once negotiated a truce within him. He loved music, preferably country and rock, properly structured. In another life, he might have played at a bar. In this one, he flew a MiG-29. He led the formation with quiet authority. He rationed enthusiasm. He trusted geometry because geometry, unlike committees, did not reinterpret itself mid-meeting.

Flight Lieutenant Fady, Foxbat-2, carried youth in a disciplined container. His jaw was sharp. His flying, sharper. A Peak Cap worn differently, Ray-Bans chosen with intent. Style existed, but professionalism dominated. He trusted the aircraft, and he trusted his formation leader. He also trusted repetition. He held formation like a moral obligation: one disciplined wing span apart, no drift, no drama.

Both played guitar. Both sang. Often after debriefs, when the desert cooled to copper and egos shrank to manageable size, they walked beyond the Mess perimeter. Boots crunched softly. Sometimes guitars accompanied them if morale required technical reinforcement. They spoke of Aerodynamics and Music and India and the Service, and politics. Fady would soon attend an instructor’s course. Bats had been there, done that, with chalk in hand, converting enthusiasm into survivable competence.

“Being an instructor is mostly about patience and commitment,” Bats would say.

“And about trying every day and never giving up,” Fady added, remembering his father’s words. “Your student will learn in spite of you,” and that was comforting.

Day one: Air Marshal Chester Blaster, Senior Air Staff Officer, SASO, stood before the pilots in what Jaisalmer Mess insisted on calling the green room, though nothing within fifty kilometres could credibly be described as green. Short, compact, moustache perfectly regulation, a TACDE veteran, he spoke with flourish. When he began explaining air-to-air geometry, it sounded practical, doable and almost destiny.

“To showcase capability,” he said, “we must first have something to shoot at.” This was, even by Air Force standards, an innovative thought.

The solution reached by his Ops Staff at Command HQ involved, meteorological balloons as gun targets, M-6 flares dropped by a MiG-27 to simulate heat-seeking targets, and a radar-reflective drum released by an An-32 crew with parachutes for air-to-air radar launches. On the screen, the PowerPoint presentation looked elegant. Arrows curved obediently. Targets descended in dignified dotted lines. On sand, it looked hopeful.

The balloons had lived most of their lives as six inches of defeated rubber in cardboard cartons. In operational mode, they expanded into fluorescent spheres the size of gym balls. Fifty each. Pink and orange. Colours not generally associated with lethal force projection. They would sway in the desert breeze, tethered to the earth near a yellow bulldozer and other equipment described in paperwork marked “appendices,” which is where complicated ideas go to feel important.

The AOC-in-C, Air Marshal Reechaa, stood tall and composed like a camouflaged flamingo in a desert oasis. His silence carried value. He would one day rise to be Chief. 

At Pokhran, he just watched the proceedings quietly, absorbing lessons that no case study would ever fully capture.

Then there was the Air-1, Air Commodore BC Tibbber, with his baritone voice. He led what flew and therefore owned what happened. In the Air Force, that explanation required no embellishment. He may not have agreed with the employment of weather balloons as adversarial entities, but he was a good officer and a thorough gentleman. In uniformed services, that is sometimes the bravest possible posture.

Day 2: Flexibility vs Economy of Effort

It began with precision and encountered reality before lunch. The ground party had run out of sutli (string), while tying up and hoisting the balloons. 

To be fair, Fifty balloons require rope. One hundred balloons require lots of it, and the ones that are the providers, the Logistics branch, had not been consulted.

So when FOXBAT arrived at the scene that morning, tucked in tight close formation 100 feet over the desert sand, the targets swayed bravely at approximately five feet above ground… an altitude tactically advantageous for the Army, far less impressive for air-to-air gunnery. From the cockpit, they looked ambitious. From the tower, they looked tragic. In PowerPoint, Fady had found them inspirational.

Bats rolled in for a dummy pass. The CCTL line danced enthusiastically. Fady followed, steady and aligned.

“Clear dummy.” Air Cmde BC Tibber, replied on RT in his deep voice and clear English. He was perched high above the desert with a bird’s-eye view of the proceedings from the RSO tower.

Then came the live pass. That’s when faecal matter hit that rotating cooling device.

“Hold fire! I say again, ABORT!” Air-1 shouted on the RT.

“Bats”, pause….gathering himself, 

“that is the SASO holding the bloody balloons! Check your switches safe and fly for endurance!”

“What the hell… the SASO holding the balloons?” An image flashed in front of Fady’s eyes as he was about to roll in. 

“SASO holding the balloons?!” The image flashed in front of Bats’ eyes as he abandoned the dive and pulled up.

Bats pulled up. Fady broke cleanly and climbed back into position. Below, ground crew achieved record sprint times. The SASO stood alone, quite literally holding Air Power in his hands. One hundred balloons. Fluorescent. Heroic.

What had happened was simple. The ground party had run out of sutli to tie up and hoist one hundred balloons. While the conundrum was being resolved, Foxbat formation had arrived overhead, punctual as doctrine demands. A readily available Mi-17 (the one that had flown the Air Marshals to the range from Jaisalmer) was quickly dispatched to a nearby village called Jetha Chandan to procure additional sutli.

Air Power thus extended its reach into Rural Supply-chain Management.

So while Foxbat waited with engines at endurance settings, an airman was negotiating with a small-time hardware store owner, in the middle of the Thar, on what would be the reasonable value of a few hundred balls of string, considering the Mi-17 had its rotors engaged and national prestige lay idling at operational RPM! That man would never know his contribution to Air Power that morning. 

Day 3: Improved balloon altitude.

Someone found sufficient string. The balloons rose to heights that suggested ambition, but the debrief was not very encouraging.

Post-landing, as Bats and Fady switched off their aircraft, they were met by an officer in a blue Maruti Gypsy. Now, one must understand this species known as the Typical “Staff Officers”. Begin Quote “He is a man past middle life, spare, unwrinkled, oddly intelligent, cold, passive, and permanently non-committal. He has eyes like a codfish, polite in contact, yet entirely unresponsive. The sort of man who could nod sympathetically while mentally drafting your transfer order” End Quote.

He whisked them away for a “hot” debrief.

In the green room sat the Air Ranks, arranged like solemn garden statues, along with a few waiters hovering uncertainly. Water was offered to the sweaty pilots… then promptly ushered away, as though hydration might dilute accountability.

“So, Sqn Ldr Bats, what in your opinion, got the balloons?” the SASO enquired.

Before Bats could even clear his throat, the senior officer graciously supplied three options.

“One: your GSh-30 gun got the balloons. Two: your pull-out was low and the jet wake behind you got the balloons. Or… something else happened?”

The pause after “something else” hung in the air like a radar lock.

Bats straightened up and scanned the room. Eyes everywhere. Expectant. Measuring. There was absolutely no question of accepting a low pull-out. That way lay paperwork. Possibly seminars.

He began in full instructor-style debrief mode.

“Sir, the balloons were in my sight. Tracking was steady. There was no danger. So I took the shot.”

Bloody brilliant!!! Fady thought to himself. That’s why he trusted Bats. What a fighter pilot!

Unable to take it any longer, BC (the Air-1) spoke, gritting his teeth, his deep voice rolling across the room like distant thunder.

“No, Bats.”

A pause.

“There was one lone, curious crow in the entire desert. Obviously, it had never seen such a motley of colours. Before you chaps arrived overhead, this fellow had already got to the balloons and pecked at a few dozen… before you could even commence your dive.”

Silence.

Bloody brilliant!!! Fady thought again. How, exactly, had they trained a silly crow to attack MET balloons in Jaisalmer? Brilliant!! Employability of all available assets in a rapidly changing scenario. That’s what the Air Power précis had said.

“Hmmm.”

Day 4:  Introduced character.

The An-32 crew released the radar-reflective drum with professional dignity and on TOT. The parachute was expected to blossom gracefully and descend predictably.

The parachute declined participation.

The drum accelerated toward earth with determination. Radar returns on the two Foxbat scopes were brief but educational. It impacted decisively. Dust rose. The desert accepted the offering without comment.

The next sortie featured M-6 flares. The MiG-27 released one cleanly and exited the danger area. It ignited beautifully. Then the wind intervened.

The flare drifted. Then it drifted more. It reconsidered its career. It then extinguished midway, then reignited, then descended onto the desert floor—still burning enthusiastically.

“Foxbat-2, contact flare.” Fady transmitted.

Fady locked it steady. Tone stable. Discipline intact.

The flare burned on the ground with thermal optimism. It was no longer going to be air-to-air.

“What a pity,” Fady murmured.

“Fady, keep tracking.” Bats replied.

So Fady did. Geometry remained impeccable. Only the battlefield had relocated vertically. What the hell… Fady tracked.

Day 8: Days Five, Six, Seven had redeemed doctrine. Many R-73s left rails with authority and found their targets. Smoke trails etched confidence into the sky. The concept worked.

As the finale approached, someone in Command HQ decided that Sukhoi-30s should replace the MiG-29s, because they looked larger and therefore more persuasive. It must have been one of those Staff Officers. Bats and Fady cursed him and all his generations to follow.

But then, fighter pilots rarely hold a grudge. What’s done is done. The next day was the ferry back to Pune. So that night the two drank and laughed, and drank to the SASO’s good health. After all, the SASO holding balloons was no mean feat, that too alone in the desert sun and five feet above ground!

They grinned about the sutli run by the chopper, laughed about parachutes with independent thought. They debriefed on the art of tracking a flare that had voluntarily buried itself forever. They laughed because they had witnessed and participated in something extraordinary, from its genesis to the final show.

It was funny because it was safe.

Soon the geometry would change. Soon the sky would not forgive approximation. Targets would not drift against blue emptiness. They would hide against rock and snow, dug into heights that mocked performance charts and weapon envelopes. There would be men on the ground looking up, waiting.

Within weeks, the mountains of Kargil would demand something far less theatrical.

The Air Force would be called in support of ground troops clawing uphill under fire. High altitude would thin engines and patience alike. Weapons designed for plains would have to relearn their purpose among ridgelines and razorback shadows. Geometry would no longer be tidy, it would be vertical, compressed, unforgiving.

There would be no time for doctrinal comfort. Innovation would arrive not as a slogan, but as necessity. In record time, under operational pressure, the Mirage and Test Pilots from ASTE along with OEM Tech support would integrate the Litening laser designation pod, and marry it to aircraft not originally configured for such precision. “Dumb” bombs would acquire intelligence. Old iron would learn new language. All this would become capability. Capability would become effect. And effect would matter.

What had been rehearsal in Pokhran would become application in Kargil. Muscle memory would translate into survival. The MiG 27s would come in and pound the adversary in large numbers while the M-2000 replaced spectacle with Precision. The same Air Force that once tracked a drifting flare across desert sand would now carve accuracy into mountainsides to protect its own. The MiG-29s would provide over watch and cover, their R73s tested and ready. 

The desert had allowed humour. The mountains would demand resolve. History had already filed its flight plan.

And this time, there would be no sutli, no long rope and no cutting slack

Memories Still Linger…