By Satyabrat Borah
In the heart of winter, when northern India often wraps itself in a thick veil of fog, the skies above the country turned chaotic in early December 2025. What began as routine seasonal disruptions quickly snowballed into one of the most severe operational crises in Indian aviation history, centered around IndiGo, the nation’s dominant airline. Thousands of flights were cancelled, tens of thousands of passengers found themselves stranded in overcrowded terminals, and the familiar hum of travel plans dissolved into frustration and uncertainty. Airports in Delhi, Mumbai, Bengaluru, Hyderabad, and beyond became scenes of weary families sprawled on floors, business travelers pacing anxiously, and long queues snaking around counters. Yet, amid this turmoil, there lay an unexpected invitation to pause, reflect, and rediscover deeper truths about life, control, and responsibility.
Imagine arriving at the airport full of anticipation, only to watch the departure board flicker with delays and cancellations. One moment, you are rushing toward a destination, a meeting, a wedding, or a long-awaited reunion. The next, everything grinds to a halt. The fog outside is dense, visibility drops to near zero, and even the most advanced aircraft cannot safely take off or land. But this crisis was not solely nature’s doing. New regulations on pilot duty hours, designed to prevent fatigue and enhance safety, had taken full effect in November. Airlines were given ample time to prepare, yet IndiGo, with its razor-thin margins and expansive schedule, struggled to adapt. Pilots reached their rest limits faster than anticipated, rosters fell apart, and a cascade of cancellations followed, amplified by the inevitable winter fog that blankets northern India every year.
For the travelers caught in this web, the experience was profoundly humanizing. In our fast-paced world, we are accustomed to motion, to the illusion that technology and planning can conquer any obstacle. We book tickets months in advance, confident that the plane will lift us effortlessly across the country. But when the screens turn red with cancellations, that confidence shatters. Suddenly, there is nowhere to go, nothing to do but wait. People spread out newspapers or jackets on cold terminal floors, sharing snacks with strangers, exchanging stories of missed connections. Children play amid the luggage, elders doze in corners, and conversations flow across barriers that usually separate us. In these involuntary pauses, the airport transforms into a makeshift community, a place where the relentless drive forward gives way to simple presence.
This forced stillness offers a gentle, yet profound, spiritual lesson. It echoes the Jain principle of Anekantavad, the doctrine of many-sidedness, which teaches that reality is multifaceted and no single perspective captures the whole truth. We often view travel from our own narrow lens: my ticket, my schedule, my urgency. When delays strike, anger rises because the world dares to deviate from our expectations. But Anekantavad invites us to step back and acknowledge the many sides of the situation. There is the pilot’s perspective, prioritizing safety above all. There is the ground staff’s reality, stretched thin by unforeseen challenges. There is nature’s indifference, the fog rolling in without regard for human timetables. And there is the broader context: regulations born from a desire to protect lives, even if their implementation reveals systemic vulnerabilities.
Suffering arises, as ancient wisdom reminds us, when we cling to a singular, rigid view of how things should be. We demand certainty in an inherently uncertain world, insisting that the future align perfectly with our itineraries. The crisis stripped away that illusion, revealing what philosophers have long called the certainty of uncertainty. In those hours or days of waiting, many travelers discovered a quiet power in letting go. Sitting on the airport floor, with no immediate escape, one confronts the inner restlessness, the constant mental chatter of “I must arrive, I must control this.” Radical acceptance emerges not as resignation, but as liberation. It is the peace that comes from releasing the grip on outcomes we cannot force. This is not passivity; it is wisdom, aligning oneself with the flow of life rather than battling against it.
Of course, acceptance for passengers does not absolve those in positions of leadership from their duties. While individuals learn to embrace uncertainty, organizations and regulators cannot hide behind it as an excuse for shortcomings. Here, another strand of ancient insight illuminates the path forward. The 10th-century Jain sage Acharya Somadeva Suri, in his treatise on ethical governance and conduct, warned against pramada, or negligence, as the gravest threat to any endeavor. He likened a leader who ignores warning signs to a person sleeping peacefully in a house already aflame. Winter fog is no surprise in India; it arrives reliably each year, reducing visibility and slowing operations. Similarly, the new pilot duty rules were announced well in advance, giving airlines nearly two years to hire, train, and adjust schedules.
Yet, in pursuit of efficiency and growth, some models operate on the thinnest of margins, with little buffer for the unpredictable. Expanding flights aggressively while maintaining lean crews might maximize short-term profits, but it courts disaster when realities like fog or regulatory shifts intervene. Somadeva’s teachings emphasize that true duty, or dharma, must precede mere profit, or artha. Accepting payment from passengers creates a sacred trust: in exchange for their fare, they deserve reliable service backed by robust preparation. When infrastructure and planning fall short, that trust erodes. Preparedness is not just good business; it is the highest form of ethics, honoring the dignity of those who depend on the system.
This responsibility extends upward to governance itself. In ancient Indian thought, a ruler’s primary role is raksha, protection, and yogakshema, the welfare of the people. The state is not a distant observer but an active guardian, ensuring order amid potential chaos. When thousands are left stranded, lacking basic amenities or clear communication, it signals a lapse in oversight. Regulators must enforce standards diligently, preventing any single player from becoming too dominant or complacent. If corporations are chariots racing forward, the government holds the reins, guiding them to serve the public good. Profit-seeking is natural, but it must never trample human dignity. In this crisis, interventions came: schedule cuts, fare caps, inquiries, and calls for greater resilience. These steps reaffirm that the common person’s welfare remains paramount.
Looking back, the entire episode resembles the mythic Samudra Manthan, the churning of the ocean in Indian lore. From that intense churning emerged both poison and nectar. The poison was the immediate chaos: disrupted lives, economic ripples, eroded trust. But the nectar lies in the wisdom gained. For passengers, it was a reminder to cultivate inner equanimity, finding calm even when the external world falters. Letting go of the ego’s demands brings a lighter heart, unburdened by futile resistance. For airlines, the lesson is to root out pramada through thoughtful planning, building buffers that honor long-term stability over fleeting gains. And for authorities, it reinforces rajdharma, the duty to protect and uplift citizens actively.
As operations gradually stabilized and planes began filling the skies again, one hopes the deeper insights endure. Travel will always involve uncertainties, from weather to human factors. But if we carry forward a touch less ego and a greater cargo of wisdom, tolerance, and foresight, these disruptions become teachers rather than mere trials. In the quiet moments on an airport floor, amid the shared vulnerability of strangers, we glimpse our shared humanity. Life, like flight, is not always linear or predictable. Embracing its many sides with grace, responsibility, and compassion allows us to navigate it more peacefully. The fog lifts eventually, revealing clearer horizons, if we have learned to see them anew.
