WALKING ON AIR

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AT 17, Khushboo Solanki is perhaps the youngest at the interview. “I realised we had to come in a formal knee-length skirt, so I rushed back all the way to Lokhandwala. I convinced my mother to buy me a formal skirt and a shirt— they cost me Rs 1,000. This is my last chance. If I don’t get through, I will have to settle down with books. And later get married and raise kids,” says Solanki nervously.
She is not the only one. Fatima too has had a hard time convincing her somewhat conservative parents, she says, to invest in her training programme, a six-month course at an academy in Raipur.
Raipur has an airhostess training academy too, as does Goa and several towns in the north-east and rural Maharashtra—the continuing boom in the Indian aviation industry means middle-class youngsters from mofussil towns are looking for training and preparation, to get ahead in the race for high-paying, glamorous jobs as cabin crew.
Training institutes are churning out an estimated couple of lakh youngsters every year, many of whom end up in the hospitality sector if an airline job proves elusive. The Indian civil aviation industry will need nearly 40,000 cabin crewmembers in the next four years, according to one study.
The low cost airlines have shown the great Indian middle class how to fly, and how to dream of flying as a profession, says Sameer Walia, vice president (Corporate Communication) of Frankfinn Institute, one of the biggest airhostess training institutes in the country. “Middle class passengers are increasing in the country and this in turn opens the mindsets of people in small towns. They see how air hostesses work, and that’s reflected in the overwhelming number of entries the industry is getting. Needless to say the pay package and the perceived glamour attached to this industry are another big appealing factor,” he says.
Also, a major trend for cabin crew requirements is that women are preferred to men. Kingfisher, for one, has only women as cabin crewmembers.
That explains this all-girl walk-in interview. Every time a candidate walks into the changing room after her screening, the powder brushes halt as she is bombarded with questions: “Selected? What did they ask? Any tough questions? What about your height? Weight was okay?”
Until late afternoon, the room buzzes with curiosity, nervousness and excitement. Many are told they won’t make the grade because they don’t fit the stringent weight requirements. Others are told they need a few additional centimetres in height.
“I was told I don’t have the required height. I tried hard to convince them that I am above 160 centimetres,” says a frustrated Zakia, also perhaps upset that the interviewers pointed out frostily that she was in jeans and a tee. “I know I am beautiful, I speak fluent English and also am qualified,” she adds.
Fatima is listening keenly. In her early twenties, she has travelled alone from Raipur every time she has spotted an advertisement like the one that brought her here. “I have relatives here but I could have stayed with them if it was for a day or two. But I’ve been here for a month,” she says, re-reading the advertisement that she’s cut out of a daily tabloid.
The requirements are not many: Those between 18 years and 27 years are eligible to apply. Minimum educational qualification is Std XII. And the advertisement is direct —applicants should be single, with clear complexion devoid of blemishes, scars and tattoos, at least 160 centimetres tall and weight “as per airline standards”.
“I didn’t read the advertisement carefully. I saw only later that the fine print at the bottom says girls must dress in a knee-length skirt. I thought my personality would have been enough to get this job,” says Zakia.
Solanki says she was selected by the Kingfisher Academy. “But the course was very expensive—more than one lakh. That’s why I am applying again for the walk-in interview, where they first confirm your job and then train you for six months,” she says.

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AS the chatter continues in the dressing room, the chirpy Solanki discovers that many in the room—including me— have completed their graduation. “I guess I’m the youngest here,” she tells me. But there are others equally young—one gaggle of girls are sharing notes on the just-completed Std XII board exams and the impending results.
“My parents are very supportive,” says a visibly nervous Aneela Sheikh, 17, clutching her resume. Hers and many other parents wait anxiously downstairs. “Gone are the days when parents objected to jobs in the aviation industry. My daughter is pursuing her higher studies as well, but if she gets through here, she can hone her conversational skills,” says one mother, hopeful even after hours of waiting.
Puneet and I gauge how much longer it will be before our turn arrives. One of the girls has force-applied some make-up on Puneet, who, at 5 feet 7 inches without her heels, has been told she’s a strong contender if she’ll abandon her spectacles. It’s been four hours and our turn is a good two hours away. We’re chickening out, we explain sheepishly.
As we leave, some of the experienced girls flaunt their proficiency to the freshers. “I love travelling, that’s the reason I am here. My passion is to serve passengers. All clichéd answers, but they work,” says a girl in her late twenties, clearly already flying for another airline. “Or maybe you can say you’ve got your eyes on the skies.”