LCA Story

 The LCA and the Curious Case of India’s Flying Paradox

I was leisurely going through the morning paper, reading about IAF force structures and the news on the additional 97 LCA Mk1A aircraft contract. My mind took me back to 2012, the year I found myself seconded to the Aeronautical Development Agency — a body whose very name manages to sound both impressive and faintly fictional. I was a Joint Director occupying the last cabin, down a dark and shady looking corridor in ADA. I was tasked with the noble duty of monitoring progress on India’s indigenous Light Combat Aircraft (LCA) program. I say 'monitoring' in the loosest sense, since the project itself was already enjoying a leisurely multi-decade meander through layers of committees, subcommittees, and what one might politely describe as selective optimism. I got a lot of time to read books, journals, articles on the historical journey of this aerial platform.

Now, the LCA was conceived in the 1980s to replace the venerable but exhausted MiG-21 fleet. What followed was a textbook case of ambition taking the elevator while execution politely walked up the stairs. Our requirements were spirited: a lightweight, supersonic, highly manoeuvrable fighter, with advanced avionics, fly-by-wire controls, short-field capability and ideally, the ability to land on an aircraft carrier and attend Republic Day parades without further modification. Basically, Copy, iterated and Pasted MIL SPECS from US and Russian sources.

In short, we asked for a kind of airborne Jeeves — supremely capable, endlessly reliable, and unflappably elegant. What we got was … Bertie Wooster. Endearing, full of potential, but prone to getting into avoidable scrapes.

One particular episode comes to mind. The aircraft’s front canopy, understandably, had to be bird-strike resistant. The original specification required it to withstand an impact at 125 metres per second — a perfectly respectable benchmark in line with global norms. When the test results came in, however, the figure had been curiously translated into feet per minute. This gave the number a certain dignity — it looked more impressive, you see — while carefully obfuscating the fact that the performance had not, in fact, met the original metric. It was, in essence, the aeronautical equivalent of saying one ran a marathon in 'furlongs per lunar cycle' — technically true, but unlikely to earn you a place at the Olympics.

Another charming sleight of hand involved the shift from the International Standard Atmosphere (ISA), where sea-level temperature is pegged at a brisk 15°C, to something called Indian Reference Temperature (IRT), which comes in somewhere around 20–25°C.

This gentle increase in ambient temperature has the unfortunate side effect of degrading engine thrust and aerodynamic performance. It’s rather like rating a racing car’s performance on a test track made of treacle, then wondering why it doesn't win at a Grand Prix.

The most delightful aspect of the entire program, however, lies in its institutional structure — a kind of bureaucratic soufflé. You see, the aircraft is manufactured by HAL, designed by ADA, certified by CEMILAC, and quality-assured by DGAQA. On paper, it sounds like robust oversight. In practice, most of these bodies are so intimately connected that independence becomes more theoretical than actual. It is not uncommon for someone to serve as auditor in the morning and return to their parent organisation — the one being audited — by teatime. Then there is the matter of flight testing. Under the pressures of deadlines,there have been occasions when testing phases were — how shall I put this — streamlined. Trials were merged, protocols relaxed, and results presented by the Agency, with a degree of rhetorical flourish. 

Somewhere along the way, the aircraft did fly — and that, one must concede, is no small thing. The pilots, to their eternal credit and hard work, genuinely love flying the LCA. Its carefree handling and agility have earned admiration. But while flying may be carefree, reporting on the same should not be. We must not confuse number of sorties with operational maturity, nor PowerPoint enthusiasm with actual engine thrust.

Underpinning all of this is a deeper cultural malaise: the unquestioning deference to hierarchy. The 'yes sir' reflex, hardwired into generations of uniformed and civilian personnel alike, ensures that inconvenient truths are often rephrased, postponed, or gently removed altogether. In the corridors of our strategic establishments, doubt is too often treated as disloyalty, and critical thinking as some foreign import requiring customs clearance.

One might suggest that true national capability, in aviation or elsewhere, is not built on blind affirmation, but on the sturdy scaffold of scepticism, rigour, and the occasional, well-timed, 'No, sir, that won’t fly.'

India’s aerospace talent is vast. Its ambition is real. But if we are to produce truly world-class aircraft, we must not merely demand performance from our machines, we must demand honesty from our processes. This means independent certification agencies, verifiable metrics, third-party audits, and the cultural maturity to accept inconvenient truths without being defensive.

Let the next chapter in India’s aerospace story be written not in inflated metrics and interdepartmental handshakes, but in the unambiguous ink of engineering integrity.After all, a fighter aircraft must fly in clear air — but its development must fly in clearer conscience.

Jai Hind. Or as the British say, “Carry on, chaps”

24th July 25​​​​​​​Akshay

Old School

  School Cockpit Discipline vs. New Age Rush: The Cost of Compromised Aviation Training

 

In the high-stakes world of aviation, training has always been the foundation of safety, confidence, and professionalism. It is what separates a licensed operator from a true aviator. In earlier decades, aviation training was an intense, methodical, and deeply personal process. Instructors did not just teach flying; they built habits, sharpened instincts, and cultivated a sense of absolute responsibility. Today, that golden standard faces erosion—driven by economics, demand, and an alarming shift in philosophy.

 

The Legacy of Meticulous Instruction

 

Training in the earlier days was a rite of passage. It was long, rigorous, and unapologetically demanding. There were no shortcuts, and certainly no compromises. The cockpit was treated like a sanctum, and entering it meant having internalised a strict discipline in observation, communication, and decision-making.

 

Flight instructors emphasised habit formation. Where your eyes went during cruise, descent, or at the top of climb was not random—it was drilled into muscle memory. Pilots were taught to scan the instruments, to listen with intent, to read the machine, and more importantly, to constantly ask questions about what they saw. Even during a quiet cruise, complacency was not allowed to creep in. “Don’t trust the calm,” we were told. “Read the airplane.”

 

Old-school instructors were taskmasters, mentors, and sometimes, father figures. They saw flaws, not as setbacks, but as a call for immediate correction. A casual attitude was reason enough to delay progression. No one was passed because they were “trying hard” or “soft spoken”. It was never about temperament alone—it was about competence, discipline, and the ability to command and make assertive decisions under pressure. Those who lacked assertiveness were trained to develop it. Those who resisted feedback were counselled or filtered out. And those who could not meet standards were held back—not to punish, but to protect the integrity of the profession.

 

Modern Pressures: Speed, Scale, and Softer Edges

 

Contrast this with today’s climate. With the explosion of global aviation, there is a high demand for pilots. Airlines are expanding routes, aircraft deliveries are at a record high, and fleets need crew—yesterday. Training schools, many of them privately run, are under pressure to feed the industry. Timeframes are shrinking, pass rates are rising, and expectations are being adjusted to meet throughput goals.

 

In some quarters, training is no longer about building the complete pilot—it is about pushing them through a pipeline. Cadets who may not meet traditional standards in cockpit assertiveness, systems understanding, or situational awareness are often allowed to progress. The rationale? They’ll “learn on the job.” The silent, hardworking, non-confrontational individual is no longer filtered out; they are often celebrated for their pliability, their “team spirit,” or their coachable attitude. But what happens when that same person must make a split-second decision, challenge an unsafe command, or recognise a subtle system failure? Are they prepared?

 

There is an unspoken erosion in how we define readiness. A “good CRM” score, fluent radio phraseology, and polished simulator sessions are used as proxies for capability. But where is the assessment of mental resilience, assertiveness, or decisiveness under duress? These are no longer easily observable in today’s accelerated training environments.

 

Slips, Forgiven Too Easily

 

In traditional training environments, even minor deviations—especially in SOPs or checklist discipline—were addressed with sharp corrective feedback. An instructor might pause the session to ask: “Why did you miss that?” “What did your instruments just tell you?” or “Would that have passed unnoticed at 30,000 feet?”

 

Today, non-critical errors are often brushed aside. There’s a softer tone, a gentler approach, sometimes born of necessity—to retain students, keep up morale, or maintain completion rates. But aviation doesn’t forgive such leniencies. Small errors in judgment, timing, or attention have a way of creeping into high-stress scenarios. If they were not corrected when they were harmless, they might become fatal when they are not.

 

This pattern is dangerous: the normalisation of deviance. It’s not just the occasional miss, but the acceptance of it without intervention. This is where foundational habits are either made—or lost forever.

 

Technology Cannot Replace Fundamentals

 

It’s also worth noting the illusion created by today’s high-tech cockpits. With automation doing so much, pilots can be lulled into a false sense of mastery. Glass cockpits, auto throttles, Managed, VNAV and LNAV—all brilliant tools, but they mask deficiencies in fundamental understanding. Many younger pilots are proficient in managing the flight but are less confident when needed to fly it manually, especially in degraded situations.

 

Old-school training, in contrast, focused relentlessly on raw flying skills. You had to trim by feel, estimate descent paths visually, and make decisions based on partial information. Today, while those skills are still taught, they are not reinforced as consistently. As a result, pilots may find themselves relying heavily on systems they don’t fully understand.

 

The Way Forward: Reinvent Without Diluting

 

Aviation cannot afford to compromise on training standards. The stakes are too high. As we grapple with pilot shortages and rising costs, the solution is not to ease standards but to innovate within them. Simulators must be used not just for check rides, but for habit training. Instructors must be empowered—not pressured—to hold students accountable. And most importantly, we must protect the culture that values self-discipline over speed, and command capability over “Passability”

 

We need to go back to emphasising cockpit culture—where to look, how to listen, when to speak up, and what it means to “fly the aircraft first.” These aren’t soft skills. They are survival skills.

 

Conclusion: The Cockpit Demands Character

 

Ultimately, aviation demands a unique kind of individual—decisive, calm under fire, inquisitive, and self-aware. These traits aren’t born; they are built. And they’re built through time-tested, uncompromising training.

 

We owe it to the flying public, to ourselves, and to the very ethos of aviation to ensure that pilots are not just qualified, but worthy of the cockpit they occupy. A mellow temperament is no substitute for assertive professionalism. Good intentions are no replacement for good habits. And hard work, while admirable, must be paired with hard standards.

 

Training is not a box to be ticked. It is the very crucible where a pilot is forged.

 

 

22nd July 25                                                                    Akshay

The Investigators

In Pursuit of Truth: Trusting the Integrity of Crash Investigators

In the aftermath of a tragic aviation accident, such as the crash of Air India Flight 171, emotions naturally run high. The loss of life, the haunting images, the unanswered questions—all fuel a collective need for accountability and closure. Amid this turbulence, a select group of professionals have been entrusted with a duty that is both solemn and sacred: to uncover the truth. They are the investigators, often unseen, yet central to shaping our understanding of what really happened. It may be considered naive by some, but there remains a quiet, unwavering belief that those tasked with such grave responsibility will discharge it with the utmost

diligence, fairness, and honesty. After all, these are not ordinary people plucked from

convenience—they are individuals chosen for their experience, integrity, technical knowledge, and sound judgment. Their qualifications are often the result of decades

of flying, engineering, systems analysis, and accident reconstruction work. These are not jobs one stumbles into; they are vocations pursued with a sense of purpose.

And yet, in a world where misinformation, half-truths, and suspicion often dominate

public discourse, even these professionals are not immune to doubt. We live in a time where institutional trust has eroded, where cynicism is more fashionable than faith, and where the allure of conspiracy often outweighs the patience to await conclusions. But in doing so, we risk undermining the very mechanisms designed to protect us. The question we must ask ourselves is not whether the truth will be found, but whether we are willing to accept it when it is. Are we prepared to accept a

mechanical fault if it exonerates human error? Or a lapse in judgment if the black

box proves it? Or do we simply want someone—or something—to blame, regardless of what the data says? A corporation, a pilot, a system—any target that helps us make sense of tragedy?

Accountability and truth must not be confused with scapegoating. The purpose of an investigation is not to feed public sentiment, but to unearth facts. It is a cold, methodical, and often painfully slow process that relies on evidence, not emotion.

The investigation into Air India Flight 171 deserves precisely this kind of objectivity—not speculation, not media noise, not political pressure. For aviation professionals, the ultimate measure of an investigation’s value lies not in headlines or public satisfaction, but in safety—what is learned, what is fixed, and

what is prevented. The goal is never punishment, but prevention.So let us be cautious in our judgment. Let us remember that truth is not always dramatic, nor always satisfying. It may point to a systemic flaw, or a minute detail, or a confluence of errors that no single person could have foreseen. But it is still the truth.

In the end, we owe it to the victims, to their families, and to future passengers to let

the process unfold. To believe in those few who carry the burden of investigation.

And when the final report is written, let us read it not with suspicion, but with the

dignity and respect it demands.