Grief hangs heavy in Meghani Nagar in Ahmedabad, as the wreckage of a London‑bound Air India Boeing 787 Dreamliner lies smouldering in the compound of BJ Medical College.
The devastating crash – which took place around 2pm local time on Thursday – left emergency services scrambling amid thick plumes of smoke and debris, entire streets in shock and families shattered. All but one of the 242 people on board the flight were killed, but there were dozens more fatalities on the ground as the plane came down in a residential area.
Among those devastated by the unfathomable tragedy is the Patni family. Seventy-year-old Babibehen Babu Bhai Patni sits on the gritty communal floor of her residential society, utterly inconsolable.
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She mourns her 12-year-old grandson Akash, whose life was tragically cut short, while her son and daughter‑in‑law suffered grievous injuries.
The young boy was accompanying his mother, Sitabehen Patni, when he fell asleep beneath a tree near their tea stall on the college grounds. Moments later, the aircraft hurtled from the sky, engulfing him in a fatal fire.
“All that remains of him is his burnt body, almost looking like a piece of ash,” Babibehen says, her voice choked with agony. “My daughter… her arm, her leg, all burnt. She is serious and in ICU. My son is also burnt. Nothing of my grandson’s is left. What will I do? Is this even his age to die?”
Her grief is unfiltered, raw, and unrelenting as she wails loudly, surrounded by the women of her community. The body of Akash remains at the hospital in Ahmedabad, awaiting identification and release to his family – a cruel limbo that amplifies her sorrow.
Outside the Civil Hospital, 24‑year‑old Kajal Patni – Akash’s grief-struck elder sister – waits in the oppressive sun as she retraces the final moments of her brother’s life
“He had gone to get lunch for my parents at around 2pm,” she explains. “Mum had come home for a quick shower, so he took a nap waiting for her. She was almost back when the crash happened. A deafening explosion was followed by wisps of dark smoke. When she ran towards him, everything was pitch‑black.
Tears stream down her face. “The authorities haven’t told me when I will see his body. I just want my brother… I feel restless, suffocated, like I cannot breathe. Both my children used to play around him. What will I tell them?”
This grief is not contained within hospital walls; it spills across the campus grounds, amplified by cellphone videos circulating of Akash’s charred, unidentifiable remains lying in the rubble.
Inside the medical college hostel kitchen, 30‑year‑old Shahana Khatoon was cleaning pots when the calamity struck.
“I heard a huge explosion,” she recalls, eyes distant. “Suddenly, everything went black – from the dense smoke. At first, I thought it was a big storm. But then people started yelling, ‘A plane has crashed! Run!’ Debris and dust filled the air. I was terrified.”
She and a colleague attempted to flee, aided by two boys eating at a café nearby. “They saved us, but both were injured in the melee,” she says, referring to the chaos left in the wake of the crash.
Now, Khatoon anxiously awaits news of her missing co‑worker and the woman’s two-year-old granddaughter, Adiya. “Their bodies haven’t been found,” she says, voice quivering. “We’re still looking for them.”
Her husband, Kurban Ali, 35, rushed to the site fearing for his wife and daughter’s lives. “I was frantic,” he says. “Police wouldn’t let me in. My wife and daughter returned about four hours later – thankfully okay –but those hours were quite painful for me. I did not know whether they were dead or alive.”
“It was at least an hour after the incident, that my wife managed to contact me and tell that she was safe,” he says, standing outside his society.
Footage recorded by residents captured the scene: thick black smoke swallowed hundreds of metres of the campus, as survivors frantically tried to escape the blast zone.
From his sixth-floor kitchen window, 38‑year‑old Arunbhai Mangal Bhai Parmar witnessed the horrifying descent of the aircraft. “It was flying straight, then suddenly just stopped –parked in the air – and plunged,” he says, mimicking its sudden drop. “Then came the blast.”
He tried to assist but was thwarted by fire and security barriers, he says. “The rescue work could only begin once the fire brigade arrived – about 30 minutes later. Even then, I could do nothing; police had already blocked access.”
Surrounding streets were thrown into pandemonium. Just next door, 55‑year‑old Suresh Bhai was tending to his sewing shop when he heard the tremendous impact. “At first, we thought it was a bomb. There was a massive plume of smoke, and we were terrified there might be another explosion,” he recalls.
“At first we thought it was an attack or something. There was a lot of chaos. Everyone started rushing down. Firefighters came in soon. We were all scared that what if it is a bomb blast and feared there might be another.”
In the hours that followed the crash, debris lay strewn across the campus compound.
Initial images show a jagged section of fuselage embedded in the college building. At least five medical students enrolled at BJ Medical College died, and around fifty others were injured. The charred remains of the building where the jet had smashed remain ominously blackened.
The impact of the plane crash could also be seen outside the post-mortem office of Civil Hospital, located about a kilometre from the impact site. The air was thick with the smell of burnt bodies, with officials, civilians and media personnel roaming around with their faces covered with masks.
Hundreds of relatives gathered outside sat inert, their expressions vacant with loss and uncertainty. Some waited for the bodies of loved ones, others held on to a flicker of hope, as ambulances arrived in quick succession.
Security forces – police, CRPF (Central Reserve Police Force), NSG (National Security Guard) and NDRF (National Disaster Response Force) – were rapidly deployed after the crash, and the government swiftly imposed strict information controls.
Air India’s parent company, the Tata Group, has pledged Rs10m – roughly £86,000 –to the next of kin of each victim. They will also cover medical expenses of the injured and assist in rebuilding parts of the college.
But as yet, the final death toll from the ground has yet to be confirmed.
Officials on condition of anonymity told The Independent that at least seven bodies have been released to families after post‑mortem checks and DNA tests.
A senior hospital official said: “They have instructed us not to release the death toll for another two days, until all bodies are identified.”
