We don't even look at the sky anymore
A year after an Air India flight fell onto the BJ Medical College hostel in Ahmedabad, the 19 people killed on the ground — among them a grandmother and her two-year-old granddaughter — are mourned by a community still living inside the wound. The damaged hostel stands undemolished, and the sound of aircraft overhead has become a recurring summons back to grief. In the space between institutional resumption and personal reckoning, survivors, families, and the college itself are learning that moving forward and moving on are not the same thing.
- A grandfather who lost both his wife and granddaughter in the hostel mess watches their photographs each morning and cannot bring himself to look at the sky when planes pass.
- The wrecked hostel — concrete hanging open, soot-streaked walls, buried belongings — remains standing a year later, forcing students and residents to walk past the disaster every single day.
- Two medical students who survived the collapse still carry the smell of that afternoon and the faces of friends who did not make it out; one continues physiotherapy for burn injuries in the city's summer heat.
- A neighborhood resident who rushed toward the fire describes images that will not leave him — scattered bodies, racing flames, a rescue zone that materialized and then, weeks later, quietly dissolved.
- The college dean held together an institution in mourning, fielding parents searching for children and a father who refused to accept DNA identification because, he said, his own eyes were proof enough.
- As the first anniversary approaches, a prayer meeting, a blood drive, and a tree-planting are planned — gestures of remembrance in a place where closure remains elusive and the sky is never quite neutral.
A year after an Air India plane struck the BJ Medical College hostel complex in Ahmedabad, Prahlad Thakur keeps two photographs on his wall — his wife Sarlaben and his two-year-old granddaughter Aadhya, both killed in the hostel mess where they worked and spent their days. Of the 260 people who died in the crash, 19 were on the ground. Thakur had run a tiffin service on the campus for fifteen years; Aadhya rarely left her grandmother's side. When the plane hit, he was in another building. He ran toward the smoke, searched room to room, and spent six days moving between hospitals and relief camps before finding them in a mortuary. He remembers the biscuits he brought home and the way she ran to him. He remembers a wife who spent her life feeding others.
The hostel still stands — upper floors torn open, concrete in jagged slabs, suitcases buried under dust and steel. Demolition has been approved but not carried out, and students pass the ruins on their way to lectures while aircraft rumble overhead every few minutes. Two medical students, Arman Khan Pathan and Aditya Dayal, were in the mess when the plane came down. Pathan was pinned beneath a table as cylinders exploded around him; Dayal helped carry him out on a mattress. A year later, they still speak of friends who died — a classmate who was the only brother to several sisters, a child who carried a family's hopes. The smell, Dayal says, returns without warning. Another student, Brijesh, still wears pressure garments for burn injuries and struggles to turn the pages of his textbooks. A nearby resident who rushed toward the explosion on his bike has not been able to shake the images of what he found.
The burden of keeping the institution functioning fell on dean Meenakshi Parikh, who navigated not one tragedy but many layered inside it — parents searching for children, students healing from injuries, families waiting on DNA results. One exchange has stayed with her: a man who had lost his son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter refused to leave without seeing their bodies, telling officials that his own eyes were the only identification he needed. As the first anniversary approaches, the college has planned a prayer meeting, a blood donation drive, and a tree-planting. Parikh says moving forward was never a single moment but a slow settling back into life. At home, Thakur sometimes watches a video recorded the day before the crash — Aadhya carefully feeding her grandmother a morsel of food, Sarlaben smiling. Outside, another plane crosses the sky. He does not look up.
A year has passed since the Air India plane fell from the sky and into the BJ Medical College hostel complex in Ahmedabad, and Prahlad Thakur still cannot look up when aircraft pass overhead. The photographs on his bright green walls—his wife Sarlaben in one frame, his granddaughter Aadhya in another, dressed in white and smiling—are the first things he sees each morning. Both were in the hostel mess on that June afternoon, less than two kilometers from the airport. Of the 260 people who died in the crash, 241 were aboard the London-bound flight. The other 19 were on the ground, among them Sarlaben and two-year-old Aadhya.
Thakur had worked for fifteen years running a tiffin service with his family, cooking and delivering meals to doctors across the medical campus. Aadhya spent most of her time there, rarely leaving her grandmother's side. When the plane struck, Thakur was in another building. He dropped everything and ran toward the smoke, searching room to room, calling his wife's name over and over. Around him, survivors stumbled out of the wreckage while others remained trapped as rescue teams fought through the debris. For six days, the family moved between hospitals, wards, and relief camps across the city, chasing rumors and asking the same questions. They found Sarlaben and Aadhya in a hospital mortuary. Now, when Thakur thinks of his granddaughter, he remembers the biscuits he brought home and the way she ran into his arms. When he speaks of his wife, he remembers a woman who spent her life feeding others. "Everyone got along with her," he says. "She was a very good woman."
The hostel itself still stands as a monument to the disaster. Its upper floors are ripped open to the sky, concrete hangs in jagged slabs, and a smoke-blackened staircase disappears into darkness. Soot streaks the walls. Suitcases and clothes remain buried beneath dust, rubble, and twisted steel. Officials have approved plans to demolish the complex and build a new one, but for now the wreckage persists. Students pass it on their way to lectures as aircraft rumble overhead every few minutes—a sound that once blended into the city's background noise but now carries unbearable weight. "Whenever a plane passes by, we feel the same pain," Thakur says. "We don't even look at the sky."
Two medical students, Arman Khan Pathan and Aditya Dayal, were in the mess when the plane came down. Pathan had just sat down to eat when a deafening sound erupted and part of the building collapsed around him, pinning his legs beneath a table. As cylinders exploded and dust filled the room, he smashed a window with his bare fist, suffocating in the darkness. Dayal arrived moments later to find smoke rising above the building where he and his friends ate almost every day. He helped carry Pathan out on a mattress and into an ambulance. A year later, sitting in their hostel room, the two friends still recall the bodies that arrived that afternoon. Many victims were so badly charred they were unrecognizable. The smell, Dayal says, lingered long after he left and still returns unexpectedly. "It made me want to throw up," he recalls. They speak of friends they lost—a classmate who was the only brother to several sisters, a child on whom a family had pinned all its hopes, a future that vanished in seconds.
Another student, Brijesh, was riding a scooter to the mess with two friends when the plane came down. He still undergoes physiotherapy for burn injuries and wears pressure garments through Ahmedabad's heat, struggling to turn the pages of textbooks. "It happened," he says. "What can be done?" Like many students, he has developed a habit of looking away from the ruins, as if the building might disappear if he refused to acknowledge it. But the people who live around the college have less choice. Vijay was at home about two hundred meters away when he heard the explosion. He jumped on his bike and headed toward the source. By the time he arrived, the aircraft had disintegrated and fire was racing through the buildings. For several hours, the neighborhood became a rescue zone as residents joined firefighters and emergency workers, carrying blankets and water, covering bodies and helping survivors. The images still haunt him. "Wherever I look, there is fire," he says. "Someone's head, someone's hands."
In the weeks that followed, the city's attention slowly moved on. The ambulances left. The television crews departed. The urgency that had consumed the campus gave way to the harder work of aftermath. At BJ Medical College, life had to resume, and much of the burden fell on Meenakshi Parikh, the dean, who had to keep the institution functioning even as it grappled with overwhelming grief. She remembers not one tragedy but many folded into one: parents searching for children, students healing from injuries, her overworked staff, families awaiting DNA results. One conversation has remained with her. A man who lost his son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter refused to leave until he saw their bodies. Officials explained that DNA testing was needed to confirm identities. "My eyes are the DNA test," he told them, insisting he would recognize his family no matter what condition they were in. Parikh pauses when she recalls it. "I could see where he was coming from."
Over time, the rhythms of college life returned. Classes resumed, exams were held, new students arrived. As the anniversary approaches on June 12, the college has planned a prayer meeting, a blood donation drive, and the planting of trees in memory of those who died. Yet moving forward, Parikh says, is not the same as moving on. "There wasn't one moment when I felt I had processed it," she says. "It was a gradual process of settling back into life." Back at his house, Thakur reaches for his phone. There is a video he often watches, recorded the day before the crash. In it, Aadhya carefully feeds her grandmother a morsel of food. Sarlaben smiles. Outside, another aircraft crosses the Ahmedabad sky. Thakur does not look up.
Citas Notables
I just miss them. I see the photos and feel like crying.— Prahlad Thakur, grandfather of victims
There wasn't one moment when I felt I had processed it. It was a gradual process of settling back into life.— Meenakshi Parikh, dean of BJ Medical College
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does the building still stand? It's been a year.
The college has approved plans to demolish it and build a new hostel, but the wreckage remains. It's become part of the landscape now—something people have learned to live around rather than something that's been resolved.
That seems cruel, actually. Forcing people to see it every day.
It is. The students have developed habits of looking away. Some of them were in that mess when it happened. They pass it on their way to lectures, and aircraft pass overhead constantly. The sound used to be invisible to them. Now it means something else entirely.
What about the families? How do they move forward?
Some of them don't, not really. Thakur watches a video of his granddaughter feeding her grandmother. That was the day before the crash. He plays it often. When planes pass overhead now, he doesn't look up.
The dean—Parikh—she seems to have carried an enormous weight.
She did. She had to keep the college functioning while managing the immediate aftermath: parents searching for children, students with injuries, families waiting for DNA results. One father refused to leave until he saw his family's bodies. He told officials his eyes were the DNA test. She understood him completely.
Is there a moment when people feel they've healed?
Parikh says there wasn't one moment for her. It was gradual—a slow process of settling back into life. But settling back isn't the same as moving on. The building is still there. The sky still carries weight.