Aviation Deviation

What is wrong is the absence of guardrails in India, where dynamic pricing routinely mutates into predatory pricing at the slightest disruption or festival rush. It defeats the very vision the Prime Minister has often articulated vision—that the Hawai Chappal Walāin Hawai Jahaaz. How can he, when a routine two-hour ticket suddenly costs the equivalent of an international return fare?

Passengers lay scattered across airport floors, transforming a modern terminal into something that resembled an overcrowded railway station from another era. Among them sat a groom, clutching his phone as he tried to stay connected to the wedding ceremony he was now missing. Around him were families rationing snacks for restless children, elderly travellers searching for assistance, and students staring at screens that displayed cancellations instead of boarding gates. What could have been tolerated as a routine winter inconvenience instead spiralled into a national aviation breakdown, stranding thousands and exposing a deeper truth: this was not a fog crisis at all — it was an accountability crisis.

Most of those stranded were IndiGo passengers. Such is IndiGo’s scale that when it falters, the rest of the system feels the tremor. Its mass cancellations triggered a cascading collapse not because the fog was extraordinary, but because preparedness was inadequate and oversight disturbingly absent. IndiGo cited visibility and crew duty limitations.

And here lies the immediate genesis of the crisis: DGCA’s revised Flight Duty Time Limitations (FDTL) norms, notified in early 2024. These rules extended weekly rest to 48 hours, tightened night-duty limits and redefined duty hours to improve safety. But when full enforcement arrived this winter, IndiGo admitted it had “misjudged” the impact. Rosters buckled, pilots timed out, and the network crumbled. Other airlines adjusted gradually, but IndiGo — because of its scale — suffered the deepest shock. With passengers stranded, DGCA rolled back parts of its own rules, granting temporary waivers to stabilise operations. That U-turn itself raised questions: were the rules too ambitious, or was the airline too complacent?

The regulator should have been the first to anticipate this. DGCA audits, monitors and approves, yet none of these tools stopped the collapse. It also raises a broader question about modern oversight: shouldn’t the DGCA maintain a constant presence at major airports and build real-time intelligence systems capable of alerting it to risks before they escalate? With the technology available today — from predictive analytics to AI-driven monitoring — a 24×7 surveillance and coordination mechanism is hardly an unreasonable expectation. Effective regulation demands not just rules, but an active eye on the ground. A watchdog that only barks after the intruder has left is of no use to anyone.

To understand how one airline’s stumble paralysed the entire system, we must track IndiGo’s path to dominance. Two decades ago, India’s skies were crowded with carriers: Jet Airways, Kingfisher, Air Sahara, Air Deccan, Paramount, and later GoAir. One by one, they collapsed — some under debt, others from mismanagement, and some because the sector, though described as liberalised, remained structurally unforgiving. As these airlines disappeared, IndiGo expanded rapidly: ordering aircraft in bulk, standardising fleets, prioritising punctuality and building a low-cost model that appealed to investors and travellers alike. Efficiency drove its rise, but consolidation also occurred because the state did not intervene to address structural fragilities. What emerged was a narrow marketplace where a single airline carried more than half of India’s domestic flyers — a concentration that made the entire system vulnerable.

Accountability, therefore, extends beyond IndiGo and DGCA. Civil aviation is among India’s most regulated sectors; nothing moves — from slots to routes to fleet induction — without government oversight. Yet for years, neither ruling nor opposition parties asked the deeper questions. What does it mean for one private airline to handle such a disproportionate share of national traffic? What happens when that airline falters? And what protections exist for passengers? These questions rarely entered political debate, despite being central to national mobility.

The Parliamentary Standing Committee on Transport, Tourism and Culture — responsible for civil aviation oversight — has written reports on safety and airfares. It has commented on ATC shortages, passenger dissatisfaction and pricing practices. But the monopoly question — how wise it is for one carrier to dominate a regulated sector — never became a central theme of scrutiny. Meanwhile, the pressure on the passenger wallet kept rising. During the chaos, airfares for the Delhi–Mumbai sector shot beyond Rs25,000, and even short-haul substitutes became exorbitant. Delhi–Bengaluru fares were quoted in the Rs40,000–Rs80,000 range. On the Delhi–Amritsar route, passengers shared screenshots showing domestic fares comparable to international flights to London. A routine two-hour journey turned into a luxury purchase overnight. This was not merely demand–supply dynamics; it was a system shedding its last layer of restraint.

And this is not a new phenomenon. Every festival, long weekend or school holiday brings its own round of fare spikes. Delhi–Mumbai, Delhi–Bengaluru and Mumbai–Goa have all seen ticket prices double or triple during peak periods. Airlines describe this as algorithmic optimisation; passengers experience it as exclusion. A country that aspires to democratise air travel cannot turn a blind eye to such distortions.

Which brings us to the heart of the pricing debate. Airlines defend this as “dynamic pricing,” a global practice that matches fares to demand. There is nothing inherently wrong with that. What is wrong is the absence of guardrails in India, where dynamic pricing routinely mutates into predatory pricing at the slightest disruption or festival rush. It defeats the very vision the Prime Minister has often articulated — that the hawai chappal walā should be able to fly. How can he, when a routine two-hour ticket suddenly costs the equivalent of an international return fare? A system that claims to democratise flying cannot, at the same time, price out the very citizens it hopes to uplift.

The government has now stepped in — belatedly — capping fares, calling airlines for meetings, and promising tighter oversight. The announcements look fine on paper, but in a responsive, inclusive democracy, execution matters far more than intent. A fare cap that exists only in a press note changes nothing for the passenger stranded at a terminal or priced out of the sky. Reforms cannot remain headline or rally lines; they must translate into protections that citizens can feel.

In the absence of a strong Passenger Bill of Rights, Indian flyers remain exposed. There is no automatic compensation for long delays, no guaranteed meals or accommodation, no binding timelines for refunds, and no independent consumer body with penal powers. In Europe, stranded travellers would receive hotels, meals and compensation. In India, many got little more than floor space. Citizens who save for months, who budget tightly, who travel for weddings, funerals or emergencies, deserve more than algorithm-driven indifference.

Accountability cannot be limited to IndiGo alone. DGCA must confront its failures of vigilance. Governments past and present must reckon with decades of policy drift that allowed a regulated sector to slide toward unhealthy concentration. And Parliament must recognise that aviation is not merely an arena for viral incidents (remember the Air India seat episode?) but a critical pillar of national mobility.

India dreams of becoming a global aviation hub. It has built gleaming terminals and celebrated record passenger numbers. But infrastructure without governance is an illusion. A system that collapses under predictable fog cannot support national ambition. A market that lets domestic fares soar beyond international levels cannot claim to serve its citizens. A regulator that arrives after the damage is done cannot claim credibility. A democracy that overlooks mobility inequity cannot claim inclusiveness.

And so we return to the larger truth this crisis has spelt out in bold: when any essential service tilts towards monopoly, choice shrinks, transparency fades and democracy itself begins to wobble. A market without competition becomes a maze without exits, and the consumer, stripped of options, becomes an afterthought. The writing is already on the wall, brighter than the departure boards we stared at in frustration. This is the time to pause, to think, to question. Because if we do not ask the hard questions today, we will wake up tomorrow to a system that offers no answers — only the quiet, resigned acceptance of freedoms slowly surrendered.

(The columnist is a Mumbai-based author and independent media veteran, running websites and a youtube channel known for his thought-provoking messaging.)