Airplane Mode

A metaphor for the unexamined life.

A note on the hiatus

Fewer than five of my readers have asked where I’ve been since my last post, so I thought I’d begin by explaining my absence. A prolonged dry spell is a passable reason, but is it ever simply that? The ideas abound, but the words remain scarce. I have to coax the sentences out, word by word, hoping that they somehow align into a sonorous narrative that rings true. Any writer will tell you that, in moments like these, it's far easier to vacuum the carpet for the third time this week, rearrange the bookshelf by size, colour and intellectual weight, and polish the taps until they gleam like they've never known a single drop of water.

But why say, "I have no words," when the truth is that I’ve been evasive, unwilling to take a seat at the writing table? In August, it was an infestation of carpenter ants that drove me out of my bedroom, even as the unwelcome insects settled comfortably into the cracks around the doorframe. In September, it was the familiar disorientation of going from one home to the other. The dread of the displacement settled onto my skin and seeped into my bones, leaving me creatively paralysed. In October, I was engulfed by festive-themed nostalgia, unsure of which part of my rose-tinted past I was longing for, while meticulously sweeping under the rug some nagging health concerns. And, as if that weren’t enough, there were a couple of family health emergencies thrown into the mix.

During this dry spell, I have started and abandoned countless pieces on subjects close to my heart—collectivist styles of communication, my decade-and-a-half-long debate on the institution of marriage, dream interpretation in the age of GenAI, and more. But then, a series of doubts crept in: Should I "save" this for my book? Am I ready to divulge so much personal detail for the sake of a larger point? But isn't that the very purpose of my writing—personal essays on psychosocial issues? Then, why am I not writing? Doubts linger on the blank page. 

I’m finally breaking the spell with some thoughts on "airplane mode”, reserving the loftier subjects for later.

~

The Airplane Mode Epiphany

On a recent flight, I found myself instinctively switching my phone to airplane mode right before takeoff. As a seasoned but anxious flyer, my seatback is upright, my window shade is lifted open, my seatbelt is tightly fastened, and my phone is (always already) on airplane mode—all before the crew can ask. Interestingly, the crew no longer asks us to do that last bit. Nor are there any announcements or visual indications that recommend putting your phone on airplane mode. Yet I follow the ritual, careful not to cross the imaginary lines, feeding the omnipotent fantasy that my tiny phone might hurt the gargantuan plane. Back when it was mandatory to switch to airplane mode, I never asked why. Now that it isn’t, I haven't asked why not. I simply comply: obediently, cautiously, but, most importantly, unquestioningly. 

Moments before takeoff. The city looks lovely from afar, as most things do.

That night, as I drifted into the particularly sweet, fatigue-induced sleep that seems reserved exclusively for travel days, I realised that my habit of switching to airplane mode is an analogy for unquestioning obedience. Many people, especially those who don’t think to question convention, spend their entire life on ‘airplane mode’. They follow a societal blueprint: go to school, follow a conventional career path, buy a home, get married (to marry for love is rebellion in itself, so, to not marry at all—well, Indian society isn’t ready to entertain that thought), procreate, and then pass along the same template to their kids. Never asking why. Just as I never do, before putting my phone on airplane mode.

The tendency to follow the script without question becomes particularly apparent when someone deviates from the norm. When I question the relevance of marriage—the inherent power imbalances and the misogynistic underpinnings of the institution, when I talk about being child-free by choice, reclaiming womanhood beyond an ageing body, when I refuse to subscribe to the distinction between my maiden and marital identity, it bothers many people. They’re discomforted when I declare that I’m a writer, that my “job” doesn’t fit neatly into a proverbial title, that I live between two cities without a clearly defined and conventionally accepted reason to do so, that I reject all symbols of marital status even though my partner (i.e. ‘husband’) is my favourite person. 

Those who take issue with me questioning the norm are, in a way, just like me on an airplane. Perhaps they never thought to ask why. Just as my ‘well-wishers’ are overwhelmed with discomfort when they learn about my choices, I feel uneasy when I notice the person next to me hasn't switched to airplane mode and continues to live stream a video as we ascend sharply into the sky. This essay, like that moment before takeoff, is simply a reminder to let people do their own thing. The plane isn't going to go down—literally or metaphorically—at least not because someone’s breaking an outdated rule!

From now on, I hope to use ‘airplane mode’ as a metaphor for an unexamined life, remembering to ask why, or why not, before deciding how to live. This is a cue to anyone who needs it, to take their life off the default setting, questioning the template now and then. 

Meanwhile, my phone continues to be on airplane mode. Given my acute distaste for phone calls—especially the spontaneous ones—I often prefer to keep my phone on airplane mode, trusting that sensible people will have the courtesy to text first. And, honestly, if you can’t take a moment to craft a polite message to ask if I’m available, do I even want to be talking to you?

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It’s your turn to answer at least one of these for me:

• Do you put your phone on airplane mode before takeoff? 

• How do you feel about impromptu phone calls? 

• What's the most unconventional life choice you’ve made so far?