In memory of those lost in the Air India Flight AI171 crash, June 12, 2025.

It must have been around lunchtime when the earth broke open.

Inside a quiet hostel mess at B.J. Medical College in Ahmedabad, young students—future doctors—were likely lining up for thalis, chatting about rotations, maybe even grumbling about an exam. That midday moment, so ordinary and intimate, was ruptured by a sound no one should hear: the engine’s failing roar, the impossible thunder of Flight AI171 crashing into their lives—literally, fatally.

Some of those students didn’t make it out. Others now carry wounds they will live with forever.

And on that plane, nearly 250 people were lost—healthcare workers, professionals, elders, children, entire families—all simply trying to get from one place to another. Among them were:

• Dr. Prateek Joshi, a radiologist at Royal Derby Hospital in the UK

• Dr. Komi Vyas, a pathologist from Udaipur

• Their three children: Miraya (8), Nakul and Pradyut (5-year-old twins) 

Also lost was Ranjitha Gopakumar (aka Ranjitha R. Nair), a 38-year-old nurse from Kerala who had just returned home to settle paperwork before rejoining service in the UK.

They were among the many who boarded AI171 that day, unaware that they would never arrive.

I see them in every seat. And I see myself.

Not long ago, I boarded my own international flight, bound for Canada. I had the same kind of nerves and hope I’ve seen in selfies taken by passengers on AI171—eyes tired from preparation, but gleaming with belief in something better. They were like me. Like any of us. Dreamers. Helpers. People trying to build.

This wasn’t just a crash. It was a shattering. A collective break.

It took lives in the sky and on the ground, but also fractured the families, communities, and futures that each of those lives belonged to.

We often talk about tragedies like this with numbers. “241 dead.” “38 on the ground.” “One survivor.” But numbers can’t hold the weight of what’s been lost.

On the ground were Aryan Kirar, Jay Prakash Chaudhary, and Manav Bhadoo—medical students killed in the tragedy during their lunchtime in the hostel.

They were young men studying medicine. Healing was their future. Service was their intention.

The crash devastated the B.J. Medical College campus, striking the intern hostel and mess hall at the worst possible time—when students were finally at rest. Lunch, for many of us who trained in medicine, is the only time in the day that feels normal. That’s what I remembered first. How even our pauses are vulnerable.

This loss doesn’t belong to one group. It is shared. It is layered.

For the families of passengers: we see you. Your grief, your anger, your questions—they are valid.
For the student community in Ahmedabad: your sorrow is ours, too.
For the lone survivor, Vishwash Kumar Ramesh, who now carries the weight of silence and survival—may you find peace in time.

There are no easy conclusions. No tidy ways to process a tragedy like this. But what I do know is that memory matters. Witnessing matters.

Because when we lose healers, caretakers, students, and families—when we lose dreamers—we must make space to remember them. Not just as passengers or victims, but as full people with untold futures.

A plane went down. But with it fell not just bodies, but blueprints for lives that might have changed the world.

Let this be our vigil.

To those who perished: you mattered. Your story matters.
To those who grieve: you are not alone.
To all of us who remain: let us carry the memory forward, with hope, with resilience, and with quiet justice in our hearts.

We remember. We grieve. And we promise, however softly, not to forget.