Mr & Mrs Sundaram: Mavericks of the sky

Time of India

3 days ago

A pilot losing a paper map to a gust of wind wouldn't seem like a big deal today. But this was 1947, when there was no GPS, and the aircraft, a Dakota (a military transport plane widely used in World War II).
Among the passengers was
Rajendra Prasad
, President of the Constituent Assembly. The plane, piloted by Captain V Sundaram and Captain Usha Sundaram, was en route from Trichy to Trivandrum when the map flew out of her hands through a crack in the sliding window. "Here we are, in the middle of bad weather, over unfamiliar terrain, with no map to guide us. Trivandrum has no radio facilities," writes Captain Sundaram in his autobiography 'An Airman's Saga'.
Luckily, they soon spotted Cape Comorin in the distance and followed the coastline, descending safely while dodging dark clouds and lightning strikes.
At a time of piston engines and manual controls, when India relied on foreign pilots for official flights, the Indian couple flew a cross-country route from the UK to Madras, spread over 27 flying hours. Best known for setting a flight record, the couple — parents of Blue Cross India co-founder Chinny Krishna — also undertook many iconic but lesser-known journeys in pre- and post-Independence India.
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Undo
Chosen by Jawaharlal Nehru and later Sardar Patel, the duo flew across the subcontinent and modern-day Pakistan during the country's formation, becoming perhaps the only Indian couple to pilot national leaders, chief ministers, and prime ministers.
"Patel wanted to visit all 300 princely states and meet nawabs, nizams, and local rulers to urge them to join the Indian Union. And he insisted on Indian pilots, nationalism was in the air," says their son, Suresh Sundaram, now in his 80s.
"Much of the terrain was unmapped. They flew to places where no planes had landed, guessing routes and weather conditions."
Equally iconic was their UK to India journey to deliver a new De Havilland Dove aircraft for the Madras govt. "The moment we saw the Dove on the apron at Hatfield airport, we painted 'Government of Madras' on the fuselage and the Indian tricolour on the fins. We named her 'Hanuman' and marked it on the nose," writes Sundaram.
"The British owner was about to give my father flying instructions," adds Suresh. "But after watching his test flight, he said, 'There's nothing more I can teach you'.
"
On June 7, 1948, a "cold, crisp morning", the couple began their 6,000-mile journey from the English Channel. After smooth stopovers in Toulouse, Geneva, Rome, Athens, and Nicosia, they encountered a dust haze en route to Baghdad, so thick they couldn't see 100 yards ahead.
"Flying under these conditions would be nothing short of foolhardiness, so we decided to turn back and head for Habania, where a civilian aeroplane wouldn't be accepted ordinarily.
But this was an emergency," writes Sundaram. RAF officials marked the runway with oil barrels for visibility, allowing the couple to land at an airfield in central Iraq, says Suresh. After an overnight halt, they flew to Sharjah, only to face an even worse dust storm.
With near-zero visibility, they descended to 500ft, unsure if they were over water or desert. After nearly two weeks, they reached Madras and were welcomed as heroes.
"My mother could fly solo, turn co-pilot, and also take on the role of flight attendant, serving tea or coffee to high-profile passengers, all in a sari," says daughter Viji, a US-based journalist. Usha earned her pilot's licence at 22, inspired by her husband.
She began as his co-pilot but soon flew solo. "The day of her maiden solo flight, my father meant to telegram her parents 'Usha did solo', but wrote 'Usha died solo' by mistake, causing chaos for a while," says Viji.
Within a few years of marriage, the couple had three children, so Usha wasn't able to accompany her husband on all of his adventures. Sundaram writes of a solo trip with Patel from Calcutta to Guwahati, which required flying over East Pakistan, then considered enemy territory.
When Sundaram expressed concern, Patel said matter-of-factly, "What's wrong with Pakistan? Let's fly over and see their country." But as they flew over East Pakistan, a wireless message crackled in from Dacca: "Greetings from the govt and people of Pakistan to Sardar Patel.
Welcome to fly over Pakistan."
In August 1947, amid Partition, Captain Sundaram was part of a little-known refugee rescue mission. With people fleeing both ways, by train, steamer, and plane, seats were in such demand that some offered to pay in "gold and diamonds".
But there was a problem. There were enough aeroplanes – Dakotas – lying idle, but not enough pilots. Sundaram offered his services to Bombay-based Mistry Airways, which was flying to Multan in Pakistan's Punjab province.
He travelled to Juhu in Bombay, where a Dakota VT-AZY was ready for them. Sundaram's assignment was clear, to fly as many trips as possible with no more than 30 refugees per flight, no luggage. Though the plane seated 28, desperate refugees begged for space.
Captain Sundaram took the risk, boarding 40 extra passengers. Sundaram writes that passengers were crammed on the floor, seats, even the lavatory. Despite being 10,000 pounds overweight, the Dakota made it safely to Jodhpur.
Among the refugees was an old man, his wife, and six children, who refused to part with his luggage. On landing, the old man told Sundaram the cloth bundle he'd thrown out held cash and jewels worth more than a lakh of rupees. They arrived penniless. "That old man was Kishinchand Chellaram, who later built a textile empire in Chennai," says Suresh. Post-retirement, the couple turned to animal welfare and co-founded the Blue Cross India in 1969, but continued to fly recreationally until 1996.
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