As a Soldier the most difficult thing I have ever done was not crossing enemy lines. It was picking up a phone and dialling a number that would change someone’s world forever.
I would hold the receiver with trembling hands, my throat dry, rehearsing the words I would never get right. Sometimes I would pause before pressing the last digit, as if time could be held back a little longer.
And then, the call would connect.
There would be a confused hello on the other end. A mother’s voice, soft and unprepared. A father’s gruff tone, trying to sound strong. A sister, cheerful because she thought it was her brother calling from the border. Then I would speak, slowly, gently. There would be silence first, as if the words hadn’t landed yet. And then something I can never unhear.
The sound of a phone falling to the ground. A sharp cry. A gasp. The rustle of people gathering in the background. Weeping that would start in one voice and travel through the room like a current. Sometimes, no words came at all. Just raw, guttural grief.
As a soldier, I was trained to be calm. But in those moments, I felt small, human, and unbearably helpless.
And today, as I sit in the comfort of a newsroom, far from the borders where I once stood guard, I feel that same helplessness returning. The Ahmedabad air crash has pulled me right back into that space. Because someone, somewhere, is making those calls right now.
An Air India flight bound for London, with 242 passengers and a courageous crew, lifted off like any other journey. My friend’s sister too was one of the cabin crew in the illfated flight. Inside were students returning to campus, families looking forward to reunions, professionals chasing opportunities, and travellers carrying their quiet hopes. There were dreams overhead, and memories waiting at the other end.
But within minutes, the plane went down. It crashed near a prestigious medical college hostel, tearing through not just metal and concrete, but through the hearts of countless families. Lives were lost in the air and on the ground. Young students, locals, passengers, airline staff- each of them a whole story.
There is no training that prepares you to witness such loss. No distance wide enough to soften the ache. I cannot stop thinking of the parents tracking that flight online. Of friends waiting at Heathrow, balloons in hand. Of text messages that will now stay unread forever.
And I wonder “who is calling them now”?
What makes this even more unbearable is the twist of fate. Maybe someone missed that flight. Maybe someone on ground had a narrow escape. Maybe someone stepped out of the hostel for five minutes and lived. It terrifies me how close we live to the line between life and death without knowing it.
This was not just a crash. It was a brutal reminder of how unpredictable life is. How, in a single moment, everything can change. We keep planning for someday. But the truth is, life is NOW.
What was the fault of the poor tourists who were holidaying in Pahalgam with families who fell prey to coward terrorists, what was the fault of Raja Ragvanshi who went to Meghalaya for his Honey moon to start a happy beginning. Joy & celebrations- A trophy parade ended in a stampede in Bangalore, sudden landslides in Sikkim led to deaths of our bravehearts.
So let us not leave our love unsaid. Let us not save kindness for later. Let us not postpone the joy we can offer today.
To the ones we lost in the Ahmedabad tragedy (onboard or on the ground), you are remembered. You will always be remembered. Deeply. Tenderly. Eternally.
Yes, all of us must leave this world one day. But to leave it like this, scorched and broken, is a pain we can never fully carry. And yet we must. Together.
Praying for the departed souls to find peace.
Praying for strength for those left behind.
And praying that we never forget how fragile life is, and how urgently we must cherish it – R.I.P.
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