She was my rock. After losing my dad, the next person I looked up to was my mum.
One year after a Boeing 787 Dreamliner fell from the sky near Ahmedabad and took 260 lives with it, the families left behind find themselves caught between two silences: the one that followed the last phone call, and the one that has met their every request for answers since. Grief, when denied the anchor of explanation, does not settle — it circulates, reshaping households, stealing sleep, and turning ordinary rooms into places of absence. The investigation remains unfinished, the black box data unshared, and the institutions entrusted with accountability have offered, in the words of those most affected, little more than obstruction.
- A year after the crash killed 241 aboard and 19 on the ground, not a single family has received a final explanation for why their loved one did not come home.
- Air India and government authorities on both sides have been accused of actively blocking bereaved families from accessing basic information, including flight recorder data.
- Children are crying over small things, parents cannot sleep, and survivors are lying awake in houses that no longer feel like homes — the psychological toll is compounding with every month of silence.
- Families are pushing hard for transparency: they want the black box findings released, formal institutional support, and recognition of the financial devastation the disaster has caused.
- Investigators are expected to release further findings soon, but for those who have already waited a year, the promise of 'soon' has begun to feel like its own kind of cruelty.
A year ago, Sagar Patel took a routine call from his mother as she boarded Air India flight AI171 in Ahmedabad. She told him she was on the plane. He asked what she wanted for dinner. He said he would pick her up at Gatwick. It was the last time they spoke.
On June 12, 2025, the Boeing 787 Dreamliner struck a medical college shortly after takeoff, killing 241 people aboard — among them 169 Indian nationals and 52 British citizens — and 19 more on the ground. Sagar's mother, Hasumatiben, had been the centre of his household. When he returned home after the disaster, his young daughter was searching her grandmother's bedroom, looking for her.
Shweta Parihar flew to India with her eleven-year-old son after learning her husband Abhinav had been on the flight. With DNA identification still ongoing, she told the boy his father was simply delayed. He kept asking to speak to him. When the truth came, it broke something in him. The family had moved to Britain only a few years earlier, building toward a better life. Now Parihar works on a health visa, cannot afford the gymnastics and swimming her son once loved, and has appealed to governments, the airline, and its parent company Tata Group for practical help — employment support, a work permit, money for her child's education.
Mohammed Shoeb Iproliya's wife used to wait at the door when he came home. They had been planning to buy a house. "All those dreams are broken now," he said. "I only want justice."
For all three, and for the many families represented by aviation attorney Mike Andrews, justice has so far meant waiting. The investigation has not published its final conclusions. The black box data has not been shared. Andrews describes Air India's posture toward grieving families as one of "roadblocks," and says they are still being victimised a full year on.
Parihar says she cannot sleep. Patel travelled to India this week to mark the anniversary, hoping proximity to the place might offer something — closure, or at least witness. The investigation is expected to move forward soon. But for families who have already spent a year in suspension, waiting has become its own form of loss.
A year has passed since Sagar Patel last heard his mother's voice. She had called him from her seat on Air India flight AI171, as she always did before takeoff, sitting down at Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel airport in Ahmedabad and delivering their small ritual: "Yep, I'm on the flight. See you later." He asked what she wanted for dinner. He told her he would pick her up when she landed at Gatwick. That was the last conversation they would have.
On June 12, 2025, the Boeing 787 Dreamliner struck a medical college shortly after leaving the runway. The impact killed 241 people aboard the aircraft—169 Indian nationals and 52 British citizens among them—along with 19 more on the ground. Another 67 were seriously injured. Hasumatiben Patel, Sagar's mother, was returning to London after visiting family in India. She was the heart of her son's household, living with him, his wife, and his daughter. "After losing my dad, the next person I looked up to was my mum," he said. "She was my rock."
When Sagar flew to India in the days after the crash, he expected to find answers. A year later, he is still waiting. The investigation has not published its final conclusions. The black box data remains unshared with families. Air India has offered what Mike Andrews, an aviation attorney representing about 135 affected families, describes as "roadblocks" to those seeking information. "They are still being victimised, even one year after the crash," Andrews said. For Patel, the silence has been compounded by the weight of grief at home. When he returned to his house after the disaster, his daughter was searching her grandmother's bedroom, looking for her. "It's heartbreaking to see that," he said.
Shweta Parihar's son was eleven when his father, Abhinav, died on that flight. She had flown to India with the boy after learning of the crash, but authorities were still identifying victims through DNA testing. She lied to her son about what had happened, telling him his father was delayed, that he would call soon. "He kept saying: 'I just want to talk to my dad,'" she recalled. When the truth finally came, it devastated him. Now, months later, he cries over small things. Before the crash, the family had moved to Britain only a few years earlier, hoping to build something better. "Everything is now lost," Parihar said. She works on a health visa and has asked the Indian and British governments, Air India, and the Tata Group—which owns the airline—for practical support: help finding stable employment, a work permit, sponsorship assistance, and money for her son's education and activities. Gymnastics and swimming, which he loved, now cost thirty to forty pounds per session. She cannot afford it.
Mohammed Shoeb Iproliya's wife, Nusratjahan, used to wait at the door when he came home. They had been building a life together in Britain, planning to buy a house, making plans. "We had a lot of dreams," he said. "All those dreams are broken now." Like Patel and Parihar, he is still waiting for clear answers. "I only want justice," he said.
The families have pushed repeatedly for updates on the investigation. Patel has asked simply for information, for some word about the black box, for anything that might explain what happened. Parihar said the lack of closure has made sleep impossible. "Still we don't believe this happened," she said. "Still we are in shock. Still at night we can't sleep." Patel travelled to India this week to mark the first anniversary, hoping that being there might bring some sort of closure. His message to others was simple: "Cherish your parents. Not having them around is one of the most difficult things to deal with." The investigation is expected to yield further developments soon, but for the families of the 260 dead, waiting has become its own kind of disaster.
Notable Quotes
They are still being victimised, even one year after the crash— Mike Andrews, aviation attorney representing affected families
Still we don't believe this happened. Still we are in shock. Still at night we can't sleep.— Shweta Parihar, widow of crash victim Abhinav Parihar
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does the silence from investigators seem to matter so much to these families right now?
Because not knowing is a different kind of death. You can grieve a person. You can't grieve a mystery. These families are stuck in a liminal space—they've lost someone, but they haven't been told why. That uncertainty keeps the wound open.
The article mentions Air India creating "roadblocks." What does that actually look like in practice?
It's the difference between being told "we're investigating" and being given real information. Families want to see the data, hear from the airline about what went wrong, get answers to specific questions. Instead, they get silence or deflection. For people already traumatized, that feels like being pushed away.
Shweta Parihar is on a health work visa. Does that status make her situation uniquely vulnerable?
Absolutely. She's a widow with a grieving child, working in a precarious immigration status, unable to afford basic activities for her son. She's asking for help that should be automatic—work sponsorship, childcare support—but she's getting nothing from the governments or the airline. Her visa status means she can't easily leave or change jobs. She's trapped.
What strikes you most about Sagar Patel's story?
The ordinariness of it. He asked his mother what she wanted for dinner. He said he'd pick her up. These are the conversations that happen thousands of times a day. The fact that this one was the last one—that's what makes it unbearable. And a year later, he still doesn't know why.
Do these families have any legal recourse?
That's unclear from what we know. Mike Andrews is representing 135 families, so there's likely litigation happening. But litigation takes time, and these people need answers and support now. They need to know what happened, and they need help rebuilding their lives. The legal system moves slowly.
What would "closure" actually look like for them?
Honest answers about the crash. Accountability from Air India and the governments involved. Practical support—financial compensation, immigration help, counseling. And permission to move forward. Right now they're stuck, waiting for information that should have been shared months ago.