India, July 11 -- A surge of anticipation flows when boarding a flight. Not quite the same when chugging on parallel lines on a Vande Bharat or a Shatabdi, though that has a romance of its own. Flying with the Maharaja comprises childhood memories of skimming the cumulus and the cirrus or watching the setting sun in sub-continental skies. My experience with the Maharaja began with the Douglas DC-3s, called the Dakota, in the 1950s. The man of the moment and pioneer of Indian aviation was the legendary JRD Tata. I still remember with nostalgia the flight to Kashmir, my first, with my parents, looking out of the porthole, marvelling at mountains below. I couldn't help grinning ear to ear, and, so the story goes, walked a foot above the tarmac with delight upon landing, if that were even possible. Later came their Lockheed Constellations, flying falcons had such regal names: Rajput Princess, Himalayan Princess, Maratha Princess, Malabar Princess, et al. They then graduated to the names of illustrious Ranis of Jhansi, Chittor, Ellora, and Ayodhya. All along, though, the beturbaned Maharaja adorned the tail, with gentle humility, but a moustache twirled to the skies. One admired the chivalry of the Maharaja for letting the girls take the lead. Once the Boeing 707s came, the names of the Himalayan peaks began to adorn the aircraft from Annapurna, Kanchenjunga, Nanga Parbat to the Everest. With the advent of the mammoth 747s, the real Maharaja came into his own. Now, penned on the side, were Emperor Akbar, Ashoka, Vikramaditya, and Samudragupta, to mention a few that I flew. Back then, before emplaning, one noted the name of the craft one was flying with pride, and the flight number was just that, a number to be forgotten as soon as one touched terra firma. But those were different times. As children, we were even allowed into the cockpit of an Ariana Afghan aircraft that flew into Amritsar from Kabul. We chatted with the pilots and came away with hugs from the air-hostesses and handfuls of candies. Today, the skies are crowded, the security stressful, and these liberties are passe. The challenges of those managing flights have also skyrocketed: Crew that manage public misbehaviour with patience are stretched to the limits, and pilots have to brave aggressive weather systems, made even more hostile by climate change. So, when a brave pilot takes a beating to his Airbus in a hailstorm or patiently assuages the passengers during turbulent monsoonal surges, I keep my calm and say a prayer, not for myself, but for the crew that battles the odds for us. The other day, I flew the Maharaja to the capital on purpose, on a Dreamliner, not because there were no options available, but in solidarity, and with faith. It is still the safest mode of travel, and they give it their best. As I flew with young crew members, conversations turned grim many a time, the tragedy still raw in our hearts. But take wing we shall nevertheless, as even this shall pass, and flying is now a necessity, much like the cause of the young bird who has to fly. So, take heart, fellow travellers, as the skies are still the limit, even for those without wings....