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Warning: This story contains details some readers may find distressing.
Photos on the wall keep memories alive
Prahlod Thakur wakes each morning to the faces of his wife, Sarlaben, and granddaughter, Aadhya, framed on the peeling green walls of his Ahmedabad home. Both died when an Air India flight crashed into their residential hostel at BJ Medical College last June, killing 19 on the ground and 241 aboard the aircraft.
A year later, the loss remains raw. "I just miss them," Thakur says. "I see the photos and feel like crying." Investigators are set to release a final report on the disaster, but for families like his, the questions are less about causes than about how to live with the aftermath.
A city left with an open wound
The hostel where Sarlaben and Aadhya died still stands as a stark reminder. Its upper floors gape open, concrete slabs hang precariously, and a smoke-blackened staircase leads into darkness. Soot stains the walls, while suitcases and clothes remain buried under rubble and twisted metal.
Officials have approved demolition plans to replace the building, but for now, the wreckage remains. Students pass it daily on their way to lectures, while planes continue to roar overhead-once a mundane sound, now a source of pain for those who lost loved ones.
"Whenever a plane passes by, we feel the same pain. We don't even look at the sky."
Prahlod Thakur
Fragments of a day that changed everything
Thakur's family had run a tiffin service for doctors at the medical campus for 15 years. On the day of the crash, Sarlaben was working in the mess when she took two-year-old Aadhya upstairs to use the washroom. Moments later, the plane struck.
Thakur, working nearby, ran toward the smoke. He recalls the explosion, the heat, and gas cylinders scattered across the kitchen. For nearly a week, the family searched hospitals and relief camps before identifying Sarlaben and Aadhya in a mortuary six days later.
"Everyone got along with her," Thakur says of his wife. "She was a very good woman."
Students caught in the chaos
Arman Khan Pathan and Aditya Dayal, medical students at the college, experienced the disaster from different vantage points. Pathan was trapped under debris in the mess when the plane hit, smashing a window with his bare fist to escape. "It was pitch black," he recalls. "I was suffocating."
Dayal arrived later to find smoke rising from the building. Together with others, he helped carry Pathan to safety on a mattress. The aftermath left them with haunting memories-charred bodies, the stench of burning, and the loss of classmates who had spent years preparing for futures that ended in seconds.
Neighbors and survivors carry invisible scars
Brijesh, a student who was riding a scooter near the hostel when the crash occurred, still undergoes physiotherapy for burn injuries. He wears pressure garments in Ahmedabad's heat and struggles to turn textbook pages. "It happened," he says. "What can be done?"
Vijay, a resident who lived 200 meters from the site, rushed to the scene after hearing the explosion. He spent hours helping rescue efforts, carrying blankets and water. The images of fire and dismembered bodies still haunt him. "Wherever I look, there is fire," he says. "Someone's head, someone's hands."
Rebuilding amid grief
Meenakshi Parikh, the dean of BJ Medical College, faced the daunting task of keeping the institution running while supporting grieving students, staff, and families. She recalls one father who refused to leave until he saw his son's body, insisting, "My eyes are the DNA test."
As the anniversary approaches, the college has planned a prayer meeting, blood donation drive, and tree-planting ceremony. Yet Parikh acknowledges that moving forward 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."
Memories preserved in video
Thakur often watches a video from the day before the crash, showing Aadhya feeding her grandmother. Outside his home, another plane crosses the Ahmedabad sky. He does not look up.
