I worked for a large European company with offices all over India. My boss, who hated to fly, would often send me in his place to far-off meetings and conferences. I enjoyed the travel, visiting new cities and meeting new people. With so much travel, some of the pilots and flight attendants became my friends.
A youngish pilot I liked on our very first encounter. He was modest and self-effacing. I found him a man of few words, yet he was soft-spoken and friendly. I told him that, despite my executive duties, my first love was writing and reading. In response he said that flying was his first love and he liked the simple life of a pilot. He wanted nothing better than working his allotted hours and then returning to his wife and two small children.
I was taken aback when his co-pilot later confided in me that he was actually the son of Indira Gandhi, the first female Prime Minister of India. There were rumors that his mother wanted him to assist her and begin a career in politics. When I next encountered him at the airport, I alluded to the rumor, saying I would miss seeing him on my flights. He said he would never leave flying. He loved it and he loved the life it allowed him.
“I don’t want to do anything else,” he said. “I just want to fly and watch my children grow up.”
A youngish pilot I liked on our very first encounter. He was modest and self-effacing. I found him a man of few words, yet he was soft-spoken and friendly. I told him that, despite my executive duties, my first love was writing and reading. In response he said that flying was his first love and he liked the simple life of a pilot. He wanted nothing better than working his allotted hours and then returning to his wife and two small children.
I was taken aback when his co-pilot later confided in me that he was actually the son of Indira Gandhi, the first female Prime Minister of India. There were rumors that his mother wanted him to assist her and begin a career in politics. When I next encountered him at the airport, I alluded to the rumor, saying I would miss seeing him on my flights. He said he would never leave flying. He loved it and he loved the life it allowed him.
“I don’t want to do anything else,” he said. “I just want to fly and watch my children grow up.”
I ran into him another time or two before I moved to Washington, D.C., in the late seventies. In 1984 I saw his photo on the front page of the newspaper after his mother was assassinated. He was persuaded to succeed her as the new prime minister. I thought of that young man who had so loved flying and did not seem to care for politics.
Would he be able to retain the simple life with his family he loved so much, I wondered.
Would he be able to retain the simple life with his family he loved so much, I wondered.
Just seven years later I saw him again on the front page. A woman had sought audience with the young Prime Minister and, coming close to greet him, detonated a hidden and powerful explosive belt.
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