TOUCH GRASS AND FEEL LIFE BEYOND THE SCREEN

Muhammad Ibrahim Mahtab
0333 53 63 248
mahtabbashir@gmail.com
Islamabad

Muhammad Ibrahim Mahtab highlights why, in an age ruled by screens and digital distractions, touching grass is no longer merely an internet joke but a gentle reminder to reconnect with the real world.

Humanity has spent thousands of years asking magnificent questions. How did the universe begin? What is the meaning of happiness? Why do civilisations rise and fall? Brilliant minds have devoted entire lifetimes to finding answers.

Yet the digital age has produced a strangely memorable question of its own, "when was the last time you touched grass?

It sounds ridiculous. Grass is ordinary. It grows in parks, gardens, playgrounds, and along quiet streets. We walk over it without thinking. Children roll across it. Gardeners cut it every weekend. Why would something so common become the symbol of a modern philosophy?

Because touch grass no longer means simply placing your hand on a lawn. It has become internet shorthand for something much deeper: step away from the screen, breathe fresh air, and remember that life exists beyond notifications.

Technology has transformed civilisation. It connects families across continents, educates millions, creates careers, entertains us, and opens doors to knowledge unimaginable a generation ago. The internet is not the villain of this story. The problem begins when the digital world quietly becomes our entire world.

This essay is not an argument against smartphones, gaming, social media, or technology. It is an invitation to reclaim balance, to rediscover sunlight, conversations, movement, creativity, and the simple joy of being physically present.

After all, the greatest luxury in the twenty-first century may not be faster Wi-Fi.

It may be ten uninterrupted minutes beneath an open sky.

From meme to meaning

The phrase “touch grass” was born as a joke.

When someone spends hours arguing online about fictional characters, sports debates, celebrity drama, or impossible conspiracy theories, another person inevitably replies, “Go touch grass.”

It is funny because it instantly shrinks an oversized problem. The internet often magnifies tiny disagreements until they feel like world-changing events. Outside, birds continue singing. Trees continue growing. Clouds continue drifting across the sky.

Nature has no opinion about your comment section.

That contrast gives the phrase its power. It reminds us that perspective is sometimes only one walk away.

The balance we forgot

Nearly everything beneficial becomes harmful without moderation.

· Food nourishes, but excess harms.
· Exercise strengthens, but overtraining injures.
· Work creates purpose, but burnout destroys joy.
· Entertainment relaxes, but endless distraction consumes time.

Technology follows exactly the same rule.

Modern apps are brilliantly designed to keep our attention. One short video becomes twenty. One message becomes an hour-long conversation. One quick search becomes a journey through countless tabs.

The internet rarely tells you to stop.

Balance is therefore a personal decision. Sometimes the healthiest notification is the one your own mind creates, “I've been sitting here long enough.” That moment is worth listening to.

Reality has better graphics

Screens are extraordinary, but they remain windows, not worlds. Outside, the experience is wonderfully impossible to download.

You feel the warmth of sunlight on your face. You hear birds instead of ringtones. You smell rain before it arrives. You notice wind moving through leaves in ways no animation perfectly imitates.

The physical world engages every sense simultaneously.

A smartphone can show you a beautiful forest.
A real forest lets you stand inside it.

That difference matters.

Your body was built to move

Modern life has quietly become a sitting competition.

Students sit in classrooms. Office workers sit behind desks. Gamers sit for hours. Streaming services encourage “just one more episode.” Social media asks for one more scroll.

Our bodies were never designed for permanent furniture.

Fortunately, movement does not require expensive equipment. Walking remains one of humanity's greatest inventions.

A ten-minute walk can become:

· an unexpected conversation,
· a football match with friends,
· a bicycle ride,
· a peaceful evening stroll,
· or simply a chance to stretch after hours indoors.

Exercise feels less like a chore when it looks more like play.

Why nature never begs for your attention

Digital platforms compete aggressively for your focus. Nature does not.

A tree never sends reminders. A flower never interrupts your conversation. A sunset never demands that you enable notifications.

Ironically, this quietness is what makes nature remarkable.

Look closely at a single tree. Birds occupy its branches. Ants travel across its bark. Sunlight changes its appearance every minute. What seemed ordinary becomes astonishing once attention replaces distraction.

Nature is not boring. It is simply patient.

Perspective is waiting outside

Have you ever lost an online game and felt personally offended by the universe?

Or spent an evening arguing with a stranger whose real name you never learned?

Inside the digital bubble, everything feels urgent.

Step outside and something curious happens.

Cars continue moving. Children continue laughing. Someone walks their dog. The evening sky slowly changes colour. The world quietly demonstrates that your argument was never the centre of reality.

Perspective is not forgetting your problems. It is remembering their actual size.

Real conversations sound different

Technology has made communication effortless.

We can message instantly, video-call relatives abroad, and build friendships across oceans. These are extraordinary achievements.

Yet face-to-face conversations still possess something irreplaceable.

Shared laughter.
Comfortable silence.
Eye contact.
Walking beside someone instead of texting them.

Some of life's most memorable discussions happen without planning. Two friends leave home intending to walk for ten minutes and accidentally spend an hour talking about dreams, family, careers, or nothing important at all.

Those moments rarely go viral. They become memories instead.

The unexpected gift of boredom

Modern culture treats boredom like an emergency. The moment silence appears, many of us instinctively reach for our phones.

But boredom has a remarkable hidden talent. It creates space for imagination.

Without constant digital input, the brain begins producing ideas of its own. Stories emerge. Poems appear. Business ideas develop. Problems find solutions. Curiosity wakes up.

Creativity often begins exactly where endless scrolling ends.

The sky doesn't have a comment section

Perhaps the most underrated outdoor activity is looking upward.

Morning skies glow softly. Afternoon clouds invent impossible shapes. Sunsets paint colours no filter truly captures. Night reveals stars that existed long before humanity invented electricity.

The sky offers remarkable features:

· No password
· No subscription
· No advertisements
· No algorithm
· No comment section

It simply exists. And somehow, that feels luxurious.

Where did three hours go?

Digital entertainment changes our perception of time.

You promise yourself five minutes.

Suddenly it is evening.

This is not necessarily malicious; enjoyable experiences naturally compress our sense of time. But outdoor life follows a different rhythm. Walks have beginnings and endings. Conversations pause naturally. Parks encourage observation rather than constant consumption.

Sometimes productivity is overrated. Being present is productive enough.

Technology is a tool, not a universe

The healthiest lifestyle is not a battle between screens and nature.

It is a partnership.

Use technology to learn languages, write stories, edit photographs, build businesses, communicate globally, and explore ideas.

Then close the laptop.

The goal has never been technology versus trees. It is technology alongside trees.

Small breaks change big habits

Many people imagine dramatic solutions.

Delete every app.
Throw away the phone.
Move into a cabin.
Reality is kinder.
Small habits create meaningful change:

Instead of..... try....... 

Scrolling during every break
Walking outside for 10 minutes
Gaming continuously
Stretching between matches
Messaging constantly
Talking face-to-face occasionally
Watching another video
Looking at the evening sky
Balance grows through tiny decisions repeated consistently.

Grass is the least judgmental thing you'll ever meet

Social media constantly measures people.

Followers.
Likes.
Views.
Shares.
Comments.
Popularity becomes a visible number.

Grass measures none of these things.
A tree offers shade whether you're famous or anonymous. A park welcomes children, athletes, students, grandparents, and strangers equally. Nature has no leader-board.

Sometimes existing without being evaluated is wonderfully refreshing.

Creativity loves fresh air

Writers borrow stories from streets. Artists steal colours from sunsets. Photographers chase light through parks. Scientists ask questions after observing ordinary things. Changing environments changes thinking.

Many brilliant ideas arrive during walks rather than while staring aggressively at blank screens. Going outside is not always escaping work. Sometimes it is quietly preparing for better work.

Curiosity begins with “why?”

The outdoors is an endless classroom.

Why do leaves change colour?
Why do clouds move?
Why does grass grow toward sunlight?
Why do birds appear before rain?
Reading answers online is valuable.
Seeing the questions happen in real life makes knowledge unforgettable.
Observation gives education a heartbeat.

The fair argument against touching grass

To be honest, touching grass is not always possible.

Some people live in crowded cities with limited green spaces. Others face extreme weather, disabilities, demanding schedules, or unsafe neighbourhoods. Many meaningful hobbies exist entirely indoors, from programming and reading to gaming and digital art.

Passion is not the problem. Imbalance is.

“Touch grass” works best as a gentle reminder, not an insult. Loving technology and enjoying indoor hobbies can coexist beautifully with caring for your physical well-being.

The internet will wait

Perhaps the greatest illusion of online life is urgency.

Another message will arrive.
Another meme will appear.
Another trend will begin.
Another argument will continue.
The internet is wonderfully persistent.
It will still be there after your walk.
Your attention, however, is limited. Spend it intentionally.

The surprisingly scientific grass-touching method

For the sake of academic excellence, let us establish the official procedure.

1. Locate a safe patch of grass.
2. Walk toward it at a respectable pace.
3. Observe the surroundings.
4. Touch the grass.
5. Resist immediately checking your phone.
6. Stay outside for a few extra minutes.
7. Return whenever you're ready.

Congratulations.

You are now an internationally certified grass toucher. (Unfortunately, no diploma is available.)

Why this joke refuses to die

The phrase became famous because it captures a uniquely modern truth.

Online communities can make tiny issues appear enormous. Inside the internet bubble, everyone seems to care. Outside it, most people are simply living their lives.

Schools continue teaching.
Families continue eating dinner.
Parks continue filling with children.
Rain continues falling.
The internet is vast.
Reality is larger.

The philosophy of grass

What can grass possibly teach us? Perhaps simplicity.

Grass does not compare itself with flowers. Clouds do not compete for followers. Birds never worry about engagement statistics.

Nature exists without constantly asking whether it is winning. Humans often forget this.

We compare careers, salaries, appearances, grades, houses, vacations, and popularity. The digital world amplifies these comparisons every day.

Stepping outside interrupts the scoreboard. For a few quiet moments, you are not competing. You are simply alive.

A love letter to the internet

Dear Internet,

Thank you.

You helped us learn languages, reconnect with childhood friends, publish books, discover music, attend universities, and laugh at impossibly strange memes.

You changed civilisation.

But even masterpieces deserve intermissions.

We'll be back after our walk.

Please don't take it personally.

Sincerely,

Humanity

Conclusion: Step outside, the world is waiting

Why should you touch grass?

Not because grass is magical.

Not because going outside instantly solves anxiety, deadlines, heartbreak, or unfinished homework.

And certainly not because an internet stranger ordered you to.

You should touch grass because balance is one of the healthiest habits a person can build.

The real world offers things no algorithm can fully imitate: the warmth of sunshine, the smell of rain, spontaneous conversations, laughter shared without headphones, children playing in parks, the changing colours of evening skies, and the peaceful realisation that not every notification deserves your attention.

Technology remains one of humanity's greatest achievements. Use it to learn, create, communicate, and dream. But never let it convince you that the screen is the whole story.

Beyond your door are ordinary moments that quietly become extraordinary memories.

A nearby park.
A familiar street.
A bicycle ride.
A family conversation.
A breeze moving through trees.

And somewhere, probably only a few steps away, a completely innocent patch of grass, growing patiently without Wi-Fi, followers, advertisements, or opinions about your latest post.

It is simply waiting.

So close the app.
Pause the game.
Silence the notification.
Open the door.
Look at the sky.
Walk a little farther than necessary.
Smile at someone.
Breathe deeply.
And if the opportunity presents itself, touch grass.

The writer is 11 years old and currently studying in Grade 5 at Islamabad Convent School (ICS), Islamabad.

A FRIEND’S TALE: FROM BALA’S DUSTY ROADS TO OXFORD’S GRAND HALLS

From a modest beginning in southern Punjab to postdoctoral research at one of the world’s most prestigious universities, Dr Muhammad Iqbal Hajana’s journey is a story of perseverance, friendship and an unyielding hunger for knowledge

Mahtab Bashir
03335363248
mahtabbashir@gmail.com
ISLAMABAD

Some journeys are planned around destinations. Others are forged slowly, painfully and patiently until the destination itself becomes a consequence of perseverance. Dr Muhammad Iqbal Hajana’s journey belongs to the latter kind.

Catching up with Iqbal, talking about life, memories and how far we’ve come.

From Jampur in Rajanpur, a relatively remote city of southern Punjab, to the distinguished corridors of the University of Oxford, his story is not merely about academic degrees, professional positions or scholarships. It is about refusing to accept circumstances as a verdict.

It is about a young man who arrived in Islamabad with little more than ambition, discipline and an unspoken conviction that his life could become larger than the geographical boundaries from which he had emerged.

I met that youngster in 2003, in the Computer Sciences Department of Quaid-i-Azam University. Back then, he was simply Iqbal. Many of his friends called him Bala.

There was nothing ostentatious about him. He was quiet, somewhat shy and rarely the loudest voice in a room. But there was something unmistakable beneath that reserved personality: determination.

I had been born and raised in Islamabad, so I had seen countless young people arrive in the capital carrying dreams of education, employment and a better future.

But Iqbal was different.

He did not merely arrive in Islamabad. He gradually conquered the challenges it placed before him. From Jampur to Quaid-i-Azam University

Iqbal came to Islamabad in 2001, shortly after completing his graduation.

Some classmates and teachers encouraged him to consider Quaid-i-Azam University, then, and probably still, one of Pakistan’s most formidable centres of higher learning.

For a young man coming from Jampur, the transition was considerable. But Iqbal did not regard Islamabad as an escape from his past. He regarded it as an opening to his future.

In 2003, he completed his M.Sc in Earth Sciences from QAU. Yet one degree was not enough. He enrolled in the Computer Certificate Programme at QAU’s Department of Computer Sciences. That was where we met, where our paths first crossed, and where fate would eventually bring us together again.

We spent roughly six months in the department together.

I remember Iqbal as hardworking, disciplined and intensely focused. His ambitions were never noisy. They were visible in his conduct. Then came the class elections.

Iqbal was elected Class Representative, while Nazia, another mature and brilliant student from the Anthropology Department, was elected Girls’ Representative.

The choices reflected something simple but important: people trusted them.

Iqbal subsequently entered the M.Phil programme in Earth Sciences, continuing to build the academic foundation that would eventually take him far beyond the boundaries of Pakistan.

A motorbike, a challan and Lahore

Friendship, however, is not built from degrees. It is built from ordinary days. Iqbal and I once travelled from Islamabad to Rawalpindi on a motorbike. On that journey, a traffic warden handed me a challan.

It may have been the first, and perhaps the last, traffic ticket I ever received in Rawalpindi.

The story became even more complicated when I handed the voucher to a colleague, a Daily Times reporter in Rawalpindi, hoping he could help me retrieve my driving licence. He lost the voucher. I eventually stopped pursuing the matter until my licence expired and I had to apply for a new one.

Years later, I still remember that episode more fondly than I remember many serious events of that period.

Life was moving. So were we.

At one point, wedding invitations began arriving from the very people with whom we had once shared classrooms and examinations. The Class Representative and Girls’ Representative were getting married.

Two friends and a dream in Lahore

Iqbal and I also travelled to Lahore to appear in Punjab Public Service Commission (PPSC) examinations.

Those two weeks remain among the more colourful memories of our younger years. We would sit the examinations at Fortress Stadium and then wander through Lahore. We explored its streets, visited its landmarks and sampled its food.

One day, as candidates emerged from the examination centre, we noticed a reporter interviewing them. Iqbal was late. So, I spoke to the journalist and shared my aspirations. The next morning, we bought the newspapers. There it was: “Over 11,000 Youth to Fight for 20 Vacant Posts under PPSC.” I have somehow managed to preserve that newspaper to this day.

When Iqbal finally emerged from the examination centre, I told him about the interview. Then I shared another little incident. “While I was coming out,” I told him, “I heard one candidate ask his friend, what you have written in reply to a question, whether Iqbal was a better Shair (poet) or Hakeem (a healer).” His friend prompted: “Nothing, my friend. I have only just discovered that Iqbal was also a Hakeem.” We laughed. It was a tiny episode in the vast story of our lives.

But decades later, I still remember it.

Perhaps that is the strange mathematics of friendship: some moments become more valuable with age.

The professional world could not contain him

During his M.Phil studies, Iqbal joined Oil and Gas Development Company Limited (OGDCL). The professional world opened another door for him.

He gained practical experience in the energy sector, learned the demands of professional life and established himself beyond academia. But professional stability did not silence his academic hunger.

Instead, it seemed to sharpen it.

He eventually secured a Higher Education Commission scholarship and proceeded to Cardiff University, UK for advanced studies. For someone who had begun in Jampur, Cardiff represented another formidable leap.

But by then, perhaps Iqbal had stopped measuring his dreams by distance.

After returning to Pakistan, he joined Weatherford, a multinational oilfield services company. Later, his professional journey took him through OGDCL, OGTI in I-9 and Weatherford in I-10.

Our meetings continued. Sometimes we would sit over tea. Sometimes over a meal. We would revisit old memories, discuss our respective careers and wonder how quickly the years were disappearing.

Our professions had taken us in different directions. Our friendship had not.

From industry to the classroom

Eventually, Iqbal made another significant decision.

He moved from the corporate oil and gas sector into academia and joined Bahria University Islamabad as a member of its teaching faculty. It was more than a career transition. It seemed to reflect something fundamental about him.

For Iqbal, education was never simply a collection of certificates to be displayed on a wall or degrees to be added to a curriculum vitae.

Knowledge was a lifelong pursuit. He wanted to learn more. Then he wanted to teach. And after teaching, he wanted to discover more. That restlessness eventually took him back to the pursuit of advanced research.

And then came Oxford

Years after leaving Jampur, Iqbal secured another HEC scholarship. This time, the destination was the University of Oxford. Today, he is undertaking postdoctoral research in Earth Sciences at Oxford.

The distance between those two points is difficult to measure merely in kilometres. Jampur to Oxford is not simply a geographical journey. It is a journey across circumstances. Across uncertainty. Across financial and social limitations. Across countless moments when it would have been easier to settle. But Iqbal kept moving.
“Iqbal, do you remember?”

When he recently returned from Oxford during a break, he called me. We met over tea at Super Market in F-6, the very sector where I was born and raised.

As we sat together, the years seemed to collapse. I looked at him and, for a moment, I could almost see the young Iqbal of 2003 sitting before me.

The Earth Sciences Department, The Computer Sciences Department. The class elections. The motorbike. The Rawalpindi challan. The Lahore examinations. The newspaper. The laughter. The dreams.

“Iqbal, do you remember those days?” I asked. Of course, he did. Some memories do not require photographs. They remain preserved somewhere deeper.

The teacher became a mentor

Today, Iqbal’s contribution extends beyond his own academic journey.

He has supervised two PhD students and several MPhil students, while contributing numerous research papers to national and international academic journals.

The young man who once sat beside us in a university department has himself become a mentor to a new generation of scholars.

That, perhaps, is a more profound measure of achievement than any title. Knowledge becomes meaningful when it is passed forward.

A life built together

Iqbal’s personal journey has also been intertwined with academia. He married one of his university colleagues (yeah, GR), who herself is a PhD scholar and faculty member at a reputable public-sector university. Together, they have three children and are currently residing in the UK.

Over the years, he has achieved many of the material comforts associated with professional stability, a home, luxury vehicle(s) and a secure life.

But when I look at his journey, these things appear almost incidental.

The greater achievement is intangible. It is the respect he has earned. It is the students he has inspired. It is the knowledge he continues to create. And it is the distance he has travelled without forgetting where he began.

What Jampur gave him

Iqbal’s story is particularly significant because of where it began.

Jampur did not offer him the same concentration of opportunities available in Pakistan’s major urban centres.

Yet he never treated his birthplace as a limitation. He carried Jampur with him. Then he added Islamabad. QAU. Cardiff. The corporate world. Academia. And finally, Oxford. Each place became another chapter rather than a replacement for the previous one.

That is perhaps the most beautiful aspect of his journey. He did not erase his origins to reach Oxford. He carried them there.

The only missing link 

Amid his many achievements, Iqbal feels the absence of his parents, who are no longer here to celebrate the milestones they helped him reach.

He remembers them with deep affection and gratitude and repeatedly acknowledges that whatever he has become is inseparable from their sacrifices, prayers and upbringing.

For all the universities he has attended, all the scholarships he has won and all the professional milestones he has crossed, there remains a part of the journey that belongs entirely to them.

Perhaps every achievement of his carries an invisible dedication. To his mother. To his father. To the people who believed in him before the world had any reason to do so.

Geography decides where you begin, not where you end

As someone born and raised in Islamabad, I have seen many talented young people come to the capital in search of opportunity.

Some found it. Some lost their way. Some achieved what they came for. Iqbal did something different. He kept expanding the boundaries of what was possible for himself. His journey offers a powerful lesson to young people growing up in smaller cities and less privileged environments:

From Iqbal to Dr Iqbal

When I first met him in 2003, he was simply Iqbal. A shy young man. A hardworking student. A friend. Today, he is Dr Muhammad Iqbal Hajana, an academic, researcher, mentor and postdoctoral scholar at Oxford. Yet, sitting across from him over tea in F-6, I did not see only the scholar. I saw the old friend.

The young man from Jampur who came to Islamabad carrying a dream that was probably larger than he could explain at the time. Perhaps that is why his story touches me personally. Because I witnessed a small part of the beginning.

I watched the journey unfold. And now, from Jampur to Oxford, I can see just how far that quiet determination carried him.

His journey is not over. Perhaps Oxford is not the destination either.

Perhaps it is simply another milestone on a road that began in Jampur and continues wherever his curiosity, scholarship and determination take him.

And if I were to ask him one final question today, sitting across that cup of tea, it would be simple: “Mr. Bala, oh sorry Dr. sb, how far do you think you can still go?” Knowing him, I suspect he would smile quietly, and keep walking.

“TEA IS FANTASTIC” ABHINANDAN’S NEW ANNOUNCEMENT MAY COME FROM AN ATR

IAF fighter pilot moves from the MiG-21 cockpit to a local ATR, leaving behind the dogfight, the Vir Chakra and a famous cup of Pakistani tea.

Mahtab Bashir
0333 53 63 248
mahtabbashir@gmail.com
ISLAMABAD

Once celebrated as the moustachioed face of Indian air force, Group Captain Abhinandan Varthaman is now preparing for a very different kind of flight, training to operate an ATR for Indian regional airline FLY91.

One cannot help wondering: is India's celebrated fighter pilot not capable enough to fly an ATR yet? Perhaps he is. And perhaps that is precisely why he needs the training. After all, the last time he ejected, landed on the Pakistani side and was captured.

He flew a fighter jet into an encounter with Pakistani aircraft, his MiG-21 came down. So, after the MiG-21 chapter, comes the ATR chapter.

Abhinandan sipping tea during captivity in Pakistan

From supersonic fighter sorties to regional passenger flights, from chasing aircraft to chasing schedules, it is certainly an unusual career transition for a man whom India's political and media establishment once turned into a symbol of military heroism.

And somewhere in this curious aviation story, one sentence continues to hover above everything: “Tea is fantastic.”

Those three words, uttered by Abhinandan while in Pakistani custody in 2019, became an unlikely cultural phenomenon in India. The captured pilot, visibly injured but composed, was shown drinking tea and answering questions without revealing information.

But Indian media soon did what Indian media does best when presented with a dramatic television moment: it turned a cup of tea into a national epic.

The man whose aircraft had been shot down and who had subsequently been captured was transformed into a heroic symbol. His moustache became iconic, his photographs appeared everywhere and his name became embedded in India's political rhetoric.

Then came the Vir Chakra.

Abhinandan was decorated with India's third-highest wartime gallantry award, while the episode was increasingly packaged as a story of “extraordinary Indian military valour”.

And that is where the story deserves a little less Bollywood and a little more reality.

There is no question that maintaining composure while injured and in enemy custody is difficult. But composure in captivity and victory in aerial combat are two very different things.

Yet somehow, in the Indian telling of the story, the distinction became rather conveniently blurred.

The fighter went down.
The pilot was captured.
The tea was fantastic.
And the hero was born.

Now, seven years later, the same hero is reportedly preparing to fly an ATR in India's regional aviation sector.

The symbolism is almost too perfect.

The MiG-21 was built for combat. The ATR is built to carry passengers between cities.

One carries weapons. The other carries luggage.

One produces the sort of noise that makes people look up nervously.

The other produces the sort of announcement that makes passengers check whether their flight is delayed.

For Abhinandan, therefore, the aviation vocabulary is about to change dramatically.

“Target acquired” may become “boarding completed.”

“Enemy aircraft detected” may become “cabin crew, prepare for take-off.”

And instead of wondering whether the opposing aircraft has locked on, passengers will presumably be wondering whether their checked baggage has made it onto the plane.

But perhaps the biggest irony lies in the fact that Varthaman's most internationally remembered words came not from a successful fighter sortie, but from his time after that sortie had ended rather abruptly.

“The tea is fantastic.”

It was a remarkable public-relations victory for Pakistan. A captured Indian fighter pilot sitting in Pakistani custody, calmly drinking tea and praising it, became one of the most replayed moments of the confrontation.

India, meanwhile, had a different response: instead of allowing the episode to remain an uncomfortable military episode, it elevated the man at its centre into a national icon.

The medal helped.
The television coverage helped.
The moustache certainly helped.
And the tea? The tea became legendary.

Now imagine the next stage.

A passenger boards an ATR. He looks toward the cockpit. Perhaps he notices the pilot's name.

“Abhinandan Varthaman?”

The passenger might reasonably wonder whether this is the same man whose photograph once dominated television screens across India.

And then comes the announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard.”

No Pakistani jets.
No dramatic dogfight.
No ejection seat.
No international crisis.
Just an ATR heading toward its destination.

That, perhaps, is the most amusing part of the entire saga.

War propaganda thrives on drama. Commercial aviation thrives on routine.

The first requires enemies, headlines, medals and patriotic speeches.

The second requires punctuality, discipline, navigation and passengers who have remembered to switch their phones to flight mode.

The Vir Chakra cannot help with turbulence.
A patriotic slogan cannot land an aircraft.
And a famous moustache is no substitute for an aviation licence.

Perhaps this is why the ATR chapter is so revealing. It strips away the political theatre and returns aviation to what it actually is: a profession in which performance matters far more than mythology.

If Abhinandan successfully completes his training and begins flying commercially, he will simply become another professional pilot responsible for getting passengers safely from one airport to another.

No national anthem required.
No heroic soundtrack necessary.
And certainly no need to remind anyone about the tea.

Although, given the extraordinary afterlife of those three words, one suspects that whenever Abhinandan is offered a cup of tea before a flight, somebody somewhere will remember:

“Tea is fantastic.”
What a journey.
From the cockpit of a MiG-21 to the cockpit of an ATR.
From aerial combat to domestic routes.
From fighter pilot to commercial trainee.

And from a captured pilot's famous cup of tea to a career where the real test is no longer how convincingly one can appear heroic on television, but whether one can safely land the aircraft.

Perhaps that is the final irony.

The Indian establishment spent years turning a three-day captivity into a legend.

Now aviation may reduce the legend to something wonderfully ordinary:

Captain, passengers are waiting. The aircraft is ready. Please fly.

The writer is a journalist who completed MPhil thesis titled “U.S. Pro Israel Policy: The Rise of Anti American Rhetoric in Pakistan" from Quaid-i-Azam University, Islamabad.