Behind the curtains: Choli ke peeche capitalism hai

In the 1993 classic Khal Nayak, many Indian males of a particular vintage had their first ontological brush with salubriousness when Madhuri Dixit asked: “Choli ke peeche kya hai?” One was too young in 1993 to appreciate that question, but if we flip the Freudian framework for a Marxist one, the question that has bugged me the longest is: What’s behind the Business Class curtain in aeroplanes?

My curiosity has been borne out of the alacrity with which flight attendants rush to divide the classes and draw the proverbial Randist curtain between the proletariat in Economy and the bourgeoisie in Business, making it almost impossible to witness what’s going on in the latter section. Would the hoi polloi stage a mini-French Revolution if they saw the Marie Antoinettes sitting ahead, eating their proverbial cake? After all, it’s highly unlikely the peasants managed to sneak in a guillotine on a flight that doesn’t even allow water bottles.

And then, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, I got a chance to look behind the curtain when yours truly and his better half were bumped up to Business from Premium Economy—and I must say, the other half lives quite well. For starters, just like our current faux Westminster-style democracy, the number of choices goes up the richer one is, and the same applies to the ‘have-lots’. The poor have one option: take it or leave it. The rich have plenty.

They begin with welcome drinks: buttermilk sourced from a virgin cow or pomegranate juice handpicked by Persephone. The main course includes four or five options, ranging from butter chicken to Penang fish curry, served on actual china crockery that Trump would undoubtedly approve of.

It was the first time in modern aviation history that one’s palate felt like more than an afterthought. And it didn’t stop there. That you’re in a different stratosphere is evident from the plush seats with actual leg space—the first time one has sat on an Indian plane that didn’t behave like its clients had the leg length of Tyrion Lannister. The headrest is soft, the lumbar support firm, and when the seat stretches into a flatbed with the press of a button, one almost expects a lullaby to play or a masseuse to pop out of the overhead bin.

But perhaps what makes sitting in Business most enjoyable is the sight of the hoi polloi looking at you in disbelief, wondering what right choices you made in life that allowed you to board through the golden gate. Were you born with intergenerational wealth? Did you build a company of self-combusting scooters?

Yet while neighbour’s envy is a great joy, the real question—one that has been asked by Indians of all vintages—is “Kitni deti hai?” which, in this context, translates to: Is it worth the money?

And the truth is, Business Class is only enjoyable when one doesn’t pay for it—when it drops into your lap by chance. Just like freedom is best stolen, there’s no luxury quite like an unearned one: the accidental upgrade, the lottery of modern travel.

The best thing about being in Business Class, really, isn’t the food, or the seats, or even the priority boarding. It is the smug satisfaction of knowing you didn’t pay for any of it—that for once, the system erred in your favour. The curtain may separate the classes, but for that one flight, you’re royalty, sipping Persephone’s juice while the rest of the plane waddles along in middle-class mendicity.

So, what’s behind the curtain? Well, it’s what didn’t escape Pandora’s Box: Hope.