Ahmedabad Plane Crash: The 32-Second Flight

The car came to an abrupt halt in one of the lanes of Laxminagar in Meghaninagar, an innocuous neighbourhood in Ahmedabad, now synonymous with the Air India crash tragedy. The road ahead was too narrow, so we walked. At a barricade, a lone policeman was struggling to keep dozens of excited, curious onlookers at bay. “Go, but no photos or videos,” he told us. We walked some distance through an open ground.

And suddenly there it was—the tail end of the giant Boeing sitting atop a building that served as a canteen for medical staff and students. At lunchtime, the aircraft dropped low and smashed into the canteen. A gut-rattling boom followed. The plane split, parts crashing into nearby homes. Fires spread fast, setting off the kitchen cylinders in a chain of blasts.

The morning after, a stillness hung heavy over Meghaninagar. The Boeing’s tail section remained bizarrely perched atop the mess, as if frozen in time. Its crumpled wings drooped like those of a grounded bird. Smoke curled up from the broken walls. The structure, though battered, hadn’t collapsed. We tilted the camera upwards. The scene was as surreal as it was brutal. Policemen rushed in, asking us to step back. The crash site, they said, was being treated like a sanctum until the black box was recovered. We obliged and stepped away.

At the barricade, a father was trying to approach the building. He had lost his son the previous day in the canteen fire. His body, identifiable, was pulled out in the evening. The father wanted to go in and collect his son’s belongings. He wanted to take pictures of his charred bike in order to claim insurance. His sobbing pleas fell on deaf ears. Dejected, he turned back.

Outside, in the lanes of the neighbourhood, people were buzzing like bees. The daily wagers, living in tiny houses in the illegally sprung-up brick structures, had never seen anything like this before. There was shock and awe. People had come from afar to catch a glimpse of the broken plane. Residents were dramatically narrating, over and over again, how it fell. They were traumatised; revisiting the tragedy was their way of dealing with the trauma. For many, the memories of the 2001 Bhuj earthquake, which killed thousands, came rushing back. They were associating the sound of the crash with the sound of the rumbling earth during the quake.

Hansa ben had just come back from the doctor. Her eight-year-old grandson had a high fever. He kept crying the whole night, requesting his parents to take him far away. “The way our doors and windows rattled when the flight flew past was scary. We ran out of the house. We thought it was an earthquake. The children panicked,” she says.

A tiny staircase took us up. It was dingy. We switched on our mobile torch. There were numerous one-room homes on each floor. Each house was full of curious onlookers who had come from neighbouring areas to see the broken Boeing. Strangers were nonchalantly walking into kitchens, bedrooms and balconies of families. There were journalists too, with their cameras and tripods. Residents didn’t seem to mind. It was their shared trauma. A young man, who was opening the door to the terrace, joked: “If I start charging Rs 100, I will be rich.”

There were at least 50 people up there. The tail end was now seen at eye level. “It will take them days to clear the debris. Until then, the remains of the plane will continue to haunt us,” says Yogesh Solanki, a resident.

At 1.30 pm, at another location in Laxminagar, people came out of their homes. It had been exactly 24 hours since the crash. Dozens of flights had taken off since morning. Another one was approaching. It was eerily close. One could see the logo and the tiny windows. The revving engines brought conversations to a halt. Then there was silence. People let out a sigh of relief.

Our cameraperson captured the shot. “This flight was like that flight,” said six-year-old Devansh, who had been silently watching us from behind. Startled, we turned. “That one was also a red and white one. It caught fire in the sky. Then the pilot opened the parachute and disappeared and the plane crashed,” he said. That was the young boy’s version of the crash. Children were picking up conversations emotionally distraught parents were having. Images from the crash were playing in their minds incessantly, like a slow-motion movie—the ball of fire, the black smoke, screams and cries, the sirens of ambulances and fire brigades. Recurring conversations were not helping them cope.

From the terraces of their homes, they could still see the giant mess of the flight wreckage and the charred buildings. The air was still acrid, the visibility low. There was a strange stench. They were aware that some bodies could still be buried inside, charred beyond recognition.

“When the flight took off yesterday, something did not feel right. The noise was weird. It was very low. It appeared to be struggling to go further up. In fact, it came to a standstill for two or three seconds. It then made one more attempt, but soon after, crashed into one of the buildings,” said a resident, who followed the second-by-second trajectory of the ill-fated flight. She was drying clothes on her terrace. “I keep seeing this image over and over again. I won’t be able to erase this from my mind ever,” she added. She pleaded with us repeatedly not to name her. “I have heard the police have picked up the boy who shot the crash video that is now going viral,” she said.

While narrating the incident, she appeared to be emotionally numb. Under normal circumstances, someone would have suggested that she see a therapist. But this section of society has no access to such facilities. Despite living next to the airport, they can only dream of buying a flight ticket. “I always wanted to sit in a flight. Not anymore. I feel scared,” says Devyanshi. She is only five.

The residents were aware that they could have made it to the list of the dead had the flight crashed in their densely populated neighbourhood. It was a matter of a few kilometres. “Thousands would have died. Just see how narrow these lanes are. No ambulance or fire brigade could have reached us,” said Saroj Patel, who has been living here for three generations.

“There was nothing here back then. The airport did not even have a compound wall. We used to play on the runway. Only two flights used to take off. Now, the airport resembles an autorickshaw stand. Our safety stands compromised,” said Rishin Patel, 80, who was sitting at his kiosk close by. His wife, Madhu Patel, 75, broke down. The Patels and their son, who works at the canteen, were out that day. “We could have lost him. When I say this, I feel guilty because many lost their loved ones. I keep watching TV news the whole day out of guilt. I am not able to eat,” she said.

While they are relieved to be alive, residents now bear survivor’s guilt. How does one continue to live normally when the first response to the terrible tragedy was: “Thank god it wasn’t us”.

For many, the memories from the past air-crash tragedy have resurfaced. An 온라인카지노 Airlines flight from Bombay to Ahmedabad crashed on October 19, 1988, killing 133 of the 135 on board. “My mother was saying many people were charred to death. After the recent crash tragedy, she is remembering all that now,” says Sanjay Thakor, who lives in the neighbourhood. Umesh Patel, 62, lived close to the 1988 crash site. “I was 25 then. I still remember seeing those dead bodies. I have not been able to erase that memory,” he says.

A day after the crash, barricades were erected at the site ahead of the Prime Minister’s visit. Only media, security and rescue personnel were allowed in. Two urologists from Civil Hospital, residents of the damaged building hit by the plane, pleaded with police to enter for just five minutes to retrieve essential documents. Their requests were denied.

These residents were collateral damage—displaced from their homes and grieving colleagues and friends. The middle of the aircraft, where the fuel tank was, hit between two residential blocks. The blaze soared to nearly 700°C. Bikes and cars in the compound were charred. A toy cycle sat on a balcony. On another, a burnt frock dangled on the clothesline. Two knotted bed sheets hung from a second-floor balcony—an apparent escape attempt.

Unsung Heroes: The First Responders

On June 12, when the roar of engines gave way to a deafening explosion near Ahmedabad’s airport, panic swept through Meghaninagar, adjacent to both the international and domestic terminals. What many first assumed was an earthquake or bomb blast turned out to be far worse: a passenger aircraft had crashed into the heart of their neighbourhood, erupting into flames and sending plumes of thick black smoke into the sky.

“It was a heart-rending scene. I heard screams of men possibly crying for help to be rescued before the view at the crash site became entirely dark due to the heavy smoke,” said Pankaj, who was seated on a stool outside his optical shop the next day as the area teemed with curious onlookers who were being driven away by a posse of policemen while the work to haul the debris of the aeroplane went on.

Large cranes were deployed to clear the mangled wreckage after the crash, while disturbing videos of dismembered bodies and charred remains deeply affected residents. The darkened doctors’ quarters, a damaged tree, and the aircraft hulk stood as grim reminders of the horror that shook Meghaninagar. Pankaj Barote, like many, ran for cover after the explosion.

Before official rescuers arrived, it was slum residents—auto drivers, daily wagers, shopkeepers—who rushed in.

Pravin Patel, an autorickshaw driver who lives in one of the nearby slum clusters, had just returned home for a quick lunch. “The moment I heard the bang, I rushed outside with others. The entire sky was darkened by smoke. It was hard to breathe. My eyes were burning. We couldn’t see each other in the haze,” he recalled.

Patel and a few others didn’t hesitate and ran towards the source of the smoke, unaware of what they would find. When the first fire trucks arrived and began dousing the flames, the wreckage of the plane slowly came into view. “We realised there might be people trapped inside. So, we jumped into the debris, hoping we could help,” Patel said. “I saw many charred bodies. It was horrifying. But we did what we could until professional rescuers took over.”

In the hours that followed, as sirens filled the air and emergency services scrambled to respond, local citizens took it upon themselves to keep the area accessible. With roads quickly clogging up due to traffic and onlookers, a few residents stepped up to direct vehicles and clear pathways for fire engines and ambulances. Several volunteers began distributing face masks to people nearby. Some formed a human chain to help police and officials keep the crowd at bay, creating safe zones for responders to work without interference. Many youngsters distributed water, biscuits and bananas. When the white sheets ran short, women in the neighbourhood offered their bed sheets and sarees so that the bodies could be sent to the post-mortem in a dignified manner.

Among the early responders was Prince Pattani, son of the local councillor. “I pulled out the body of a young boy from the canteen. He was still holding a spoon in his hand. There was uneaten food on plates on the table. We did as much as we could. Wish we could have done more,” he said.

These people have seen a lot. Won’t it affect them emotionally? “We don’t have the luxury to stop to compose ourselves. Our daily struggles will help us forget the tragedy,” said auto driver Patel.

The DNA Angle

The day after the crash, the action had shifted to the Civil Hospital. More than 250 bodies were brought to the post-mortem unit in a short span. “I have not slept a wink. On average, I transport one body daily. Never before have I transported 22 in seven hours,” said Shankar Vaghela, an ambulance driver who was among the first to reach the crash site. When asked if they would get any mental health support after this, he laughed.

At the hospital, the administration had to rise to the occasion. Since the bodies were badly charred, DNA testing became imperative for their identification. The families of the crash victims, as well as those who died in the mess and in the vicinity of the crash, started pouring in. A DNA sample testing room was set up.

The scene outside resembled a time-lapse—heavy police presence, grief-stricken families, doctors and medical professionals moving in and out, journalists looking for stories chasing them all, administrative staff doing their paperwork. One thing was unusual—one would have expected to see families crying and sobbing. Probably they were so numb with grief that tears were not flowing. They were sitting quietly in the DNA room, waiting for their turn to arrive. Even before they could process the loss of their loved ones, they were stuck in the maze of procedures.

To facilitate the process, 230 teams were formed. Authorities said immediate or even distant relatives could collect the remains with valid documentation.

Families from Ahmedabad, across Gujarat and beyond gathered at the hospital, forced to walk past the post-mortem room to reach the DNA centre. The unbearable stench, the sight of mangled remains—some in containers—left them shaken. Hospital staff struggled with limited resources; one ran out and vomited. Rumours of rotting bodies, lack of space and halted DNA tests irked families. Despite 44°C heat, many refused to leave, choosing to wait on the hospital campus.

After angry relatives of the deceased rued the delay in the release of samples, hospital authorities said the sampling had been done swiftly. Rajnish Patel from the Civil Hospital said: “It takes time to meticulously examine the DNA samples. Family members can come when they are called and we will handhold them.”

In a post on X, Gujarat Chief Minister Bhupendra Patel said the DNA sampling was being done with urgency and care. “Interacted with medical teams and visited the verification room, facilitating the dignified handover of mortal remains. DNA sampling and matching are being conducted with urgency and care. Assured families that every possible support is being extended in this tragic hour,” he wrote.

Volunteers Take Charge

The Civil Hospital held the city’s grief—a maze of charred remains, endless waits, and bureaucratic coldness. But outside its gates, another current stirred. Unprompted, locals and volunteers became the city’s heart, a stark counterpoint to the official despair. Amidst the ashes, an unspoken solidarity began to stitch itself together, a fragile promise of shared humanity.

The immediate and selfless response of the Ahmedabad community painted a picture of hope and humanity in the face of such devastation. In the city, individual volunteers, support groups and NGOs were actively on the ground, offering aid and comfort to those most affected—the grieving families of crash victims.

Beyond his work as a professional wedding photographer, Mridul Patel devotes his time to volunteer efforts in Ahmedabad and nearby villages. A resident of Sardar Nagar in Ahmedabad and an active member of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), Patel has been on the frontlines since news of the crash broke.

“We have around 60 to 70 volunteers on the ground. Our main focus is supporting security arrangements and managing logistics in and around the hospital. We’re also working closely with families of the injured and deceased to ensure they get the help they need,” he said.

In the immediate aftermath of the crash, the RSS quickly mobilised its local network, deploying 60 to 70 volunteers to Ahmedabad Civil Hospital, which became the focal point for treatment and coordination. From managing patient queues and helping locate missing relatives to distributing food and water, the volunteers became a vital part of the crisis response. For relatives arriving from outside the city, unfamiliar with the hospital’s layout or overwhelmed by grief, these volunteers served as guides, helpers and quiet companions in their darkest hours. The scene at the hospital campuses was both heartbreak and solidarity. Makeshift help desks were set up under trees and inside parking lots. Volunteers helped with everything—arranging mats, setting up water stations, charging phones for family members and offering emotional support in simple yet powerful ways by listening, sitting silently beside someone or walking them to a doctor’s office.

Alongside the RSS, other community organisations also responded with urgency and compassion. The Visv Umiya Foundation, based in Jaspur near Gandhinagar, was among the first to arrive with material aid. Trucks carrying large supplies of water bottles, buttermilk, packaged biscuits and light snacks made their way to the BJ Medical College campus late at night after the crash.

For families who had not eaten or rested in hours, these small gestures brought comfort and relief. “We came overnight without hesitation as soon as we heard the news,” said one volunteer. “We didn’t wait for anyone to ask. Even if we can’t change what happened, we want the families to know they are not alone.”

Even individuals unaffiliated with organisations stepped in. Maulik Pauria, an MBA student from Vadodara originally from Rohtak, had come to Ahmedabad to visit his uncle during a short academic break. When a friend from the RSS told him more help was needed at Civil Hospital, Maulik didn’t hesitate. “I’ve been helping with food and water distribution and assisting police officials with basic security arrangements. It feels important to do whatever little we can during such a difficult time,” he said. Maulik, like many others, took on roles far from his daily life, standing for hours in the sun, calming panicked relatives and helping hospital staff maintain order. For him, this wasn’t about affiliation or obligation. “It’s about showing up. You don’t need to know someone to stand with them in their grief,” he said.

Ratan bhai, a local autorickshaw driver, spent the day offering free rides to anyone in need across the sprawling grounds of Ahmedabad’s Civil Hospital. The hospital, which spans over 110 acres according to its official website, can be difficult to navigate, especially under the blistering heat of mid-June. For families already reeling from the trauma of the Air India crash, simply moving between buildings for medical updates or paperwork became another burden.

“It’s very hot today (June 14). On most days like this, I’d be resting at home after my morning shift,” Ratan said, gently wiping sweat from his brow. “But I heard from a few people that families of the patients and victims were struggling to get around the campus. So, a few of us, auto drivers, decided to come here and help—no fare, no questions.” With a humble smile, Ratan continued circling the hospital grounds, turning his auto into a small but vital gesture of humanity.

Endless Wait for Some Families

Anil Patel, 60, lost his only son and daughter-in-law in the crash. He lost his wife to cancer earlier. He is left all alone now. The charred remains of his son and daughter-in-law haunt him; since the crash, he has been plagued by nightmares and the crushing weight of irreversible loss.

“What can I do? I have to deal with the pain for the rest of my life. This is my fate,” he said. Drenched in sweat, Patel waited daily at the hospital for the charred remains of his loved ones, unable to see their faces one last time.

Twenty-four-year-old Kinal Mistry from Anand had visited Ahmedabad briefly before boarding the ill-fated flight. Her uncle Jignesh Patel said: “We came running from Anand (80 km from Ahmedabad) to the hospital when we were informed about the crash. My sister and nephew were devastated upon hearing about her death.”

As the hours passed, closure became more elusive for families and relatives. The wait was agonising. The unavoidable procedures were taking too long. They started losing patience.

“I am here with my wife. We have been here since June 13 (a day after the crash). I have stayed on the hospital premises throughout the day, hoping I could get some information about my nephew’s family,” said Ayub Ali, who lost four members of his family. He hasn’t slept more than four hours a night during his time in Ahmedabad.

Suresh Patni hadn’t left the Civil Hospital sidewalk since the crash. His teenage son Akash died when wreckage fell on him as he carried food to his mother, who ran a tea stall near the mess building. She suffered facial and arm burns trying to save him and remains unaware of his death.

“We didn’t tell Akash’s mother that her son had died. The burns all over her face and arms give her a lot of pain, and she screams, thinking how painful it would have been for her son, whose burning body she somehow wanted to rescue,” said a relative of the deceased.

Patni informed relatives of his son’s death over the phone. Some arrived after reading about it in local papers, joining him on the hospital sidewalk, where he’s waited for days, refusing to return home until he receives his son’s remains. He survived on tea and water, unable to eat or sleep.

“It’s been 36 hours since I gave my DNA, but there is no news about my son’s body. My wife has suffered 50 per cent burns. We don’t know anything about compensation. I don’t know whether my wife will be able to fully recover from the trauma or how long she will remain bedridden,” he said.

Dishevelled and desperate, Ravi Thakur searched for his mother Sarla and daughter Atiya. Sarla worked as a cook in the mess the plane hit, and Atiya was with her. With their phones unreachable, Ravi gave DNA samples at Civil Hospital, hoping for news. Amid police presence and official updates, many like Ravi struggled to get clear information about their missing loved ones.

“I run a tiffin service at the Civil Hospital. On the day of the crash, I was at the hospital. I tried calling my mother, but her phone remained switched off. I gave my DNA on the day of the crash itself,” he said.

Yuvraj Singh waited days to claim his brother’s body, only to be told a name mismatch—Ranveer instead of Ranvir—needed correction. “The authorities informed us that there was a mismatch which they wanted us to correct to collect the body,” he said. Tearful, he sat among families on the second day after the crash, listening as police announced in Gujarati that DNA results would take more time.

Soon, impatience replaced anger. Chaos mounted after two heads were found in one body bag. “This will require the DNA sampling process to be repeated, as the parts belong to two victims and shouldn’t be in the same bag,” a senior official at Civil Hospital said. Families pleaded for whole bodies, not parts. Rumours swirled that those in Mercedes cars got priority.

The doctor fraternity is mourning too. “The aircraft fell on the undergraduate mess. The wreckage fell on the residential quarters. Many people died at both these locations,” said Naseer Salar, a resident doctor. “It is shocking. We are yet to come to terms with the situation after losing our fellow students,” said Harshed Patel from Civil Hospital.

Cremations and Closure

The authorities started releasing the bodies four or five days after the crash. At a crematorium in Ahmedabad, family members were waiting for the coffins of two sisters to arrive. “Do not open the coffins on your own; the civic staff will do that. Under no circumstances can you open the yellow body bag for any rituals. Do not insist and please cooperate. You are not allowed to touch the remains, as they could be infected,” a staffer from the municipality told the relatives very coldly. For the sobbing family, the combustible yellow body bag pushed in for cremation was the last memory of their loved one. It was an incomplete, uncomfortable goodbye.

Now, the second round of paperwork—death certificate, insurance, compensation. After the completion of administrative tasks, the long and painful grieving process will begin. Complete closure may or may not happen. The trauma will linger forever.

Swati Subhedar is Assistant Editor, 온라인 카지노 사이트. She is based in Delhi

Ishfaq Naseem is senior special correspondent, 온라인 카지노 사이트. He is based in Srinagar

Jinit Parmar is a senior correspondent, outlook. He is based in Mumbai

This article is part of 온라인 카지노 사이트 Magazine's July 1, 2025 issue, 'Pre-emptive Unprovoked', which explores India’s fragile borderlands and the human cost of conflict. It appeared in print as 'The 32-Second Flight '.