'We don't look at the sky anymore': The Air India crash victims who were not on the plane

A grandfather, a survivor, a witness: one year after the crash, the people on the ground tell their stories. Ahmedabad Air India plane crash: Grief shapes lives of people on the ground Copyright current_year BBC. All rights reserved. The BBC is not responsible for the content of external sites. Read about our approach to external linking. Copyright current_year BBC. All rights reserved. The BBC is not responsible for the content of external sites. Read about our approach to external linking. 'We don't look at the sky anymore': The Air India crash victims who were not on the plane Prahlod Thakur's wife and two-year-old granddaughter were killed when an Air India plane crashed into a medical college in Ahmedabad last year Prahlod Thakur sits in his home with framed photographs of his wife, Sarlaben, and granddaughter, Aadhya, who were killed in the Air India crash. Warning: The story contains details some readers might find distressing The photographs are the first thing Prahlod Thakur sees when he wakes up. They hang on the bright green peeling walls of his small Ahmedabad home, among religious icons, brass vessels and fading family portraits. One frame holds the face of his wife, Sarlaben. Another shows his granddaughter, Aadhya, wearing a white dress and smiling. Both of them were in the BJ Medical College hostel complex, less than 2km (1.2 miles) from the Ahmedabad airport, when an Air India plane crashed into it in June last year. There were 260 victims - 241 were on the plane. Sarlaben and Aadhya were among the 19 killed on the ground. A year later, the loss still feels fresh. "I just miss them," says Thakur. "I see the photos and feel like crying." Investigators are soon expected to release a report on the crash. Much of the attention over the past year has focused on the passengers aboard the London-bound flight and the unanswered questions surrounding its final moments. In Ahmedabad, another question lingers: what happens to a place after a catastrophe becomes part of its daily life? Unlike most disaster sites, where the scars eventually disappear, at BJ Medical College grief has become a permanent resident. A year on, the hostel struck by the plane still stands like an open wound. Its upper floors stand ripped open to the sky, concrete hangs in jagged slabs and a smoke-blackened staircase disappears into darkness. Soot streaks the walls, while suitcases and clothes remain buried beneath dust, rubble and twisted steel. Officials have approved plans to demolish the damaged complex and build a new hostel. For now, though, the wreckage remains. Students pass the hostel on their way to lectures as aeroplanes rumble overhead every few minutes. For decades, the sound blended into the city's background noise, as familiar and unremarkable as the traffic on the roads. Since the crash, Thakur says, it carries a very different meaning. "Whenever a plane passes by, we feel the same pain," he says. "We don't even look at the sky." An outside view of the mess building where the plane crashed - the damaged part of the structure is visible An outside view of the mess building where the plane crashed - you can see the damaged, gaping section of the structure A hole in the ceiling of the hostel mess where the plane struck The wing tail of the aircraft was stuck in the building for weeks before it was cleared out The site, with concrete, burnt remains and ashes, serves as a painful reminder of the tragedy Concrete, broken remains and debris lie outside the mess building Inside the hostel mess, the students' belongings still lie untouched A ceiling fan hangs above shattered glass and debris inside the damaged hostel building The hostel was so badly charred in the crash that its walls have blackened A view inside the blackened and burnt corridor of the mess Locals often stop by to look at the crash site, which is visible from the main road of the area A wide view of the charred, ash-covered hostel building A view from inside the building, which is now home to pigeons and stray dogs A smoke-blackened corridor inside the damaged hostel building, littered with debris and broken concrete Twisted metal, broken concrete and personal belongings remain scattered inside the damaged hostel A view of the hostel building that was struck when the plane crashed Several cars and other vehicles were also damaged from the impact of the crash Charrged and mangled remains of vehicles at the crash site For 15 years, the family ran a tiffin service for doctors at the adjoining hospitals, cooking and delivering meals across the medical campus. Their two-year-old granddaughter spent much of her time there, rarely leaving her grandmother's side. Lunch was being served at the mess when the plane crashed. Sarlaben was working there and, when Aadhya needed the washroom, she took her upstairs. Moments later, the aircraft came crashing in. Thakur, who was working in another building, dropped everything and ran towards the smoke. He only remembers fragments now: the explosion, heat, gas cylinders strewn across the kitchen and his desperate search from room to room, calling his wife's name: "Sarla, Sarla." Around him, survivors staggered out from the wreckage while others remained trapped inside as rescue teams battled through smoke and debris. For nearly a week, the family searched hospitals, wards and relief camps across Ahmedabad, chasing rumours and repeatedly asking the same questions. Six days later, they found Sarlaben and Aadhya in a hospital mortuary. Today, when Thakur thinks of Aadhya, he remembers the biscuits he brought home and the way she ran into his arms. When he speaks of Sarlaben, he remembers a woman who spent much of her life feeding others. "Everyone got along with her," he says. "She was a very good woman." Thakur and his daughter hold up photographs of Sarlaben and Aadhya Prahlod Thakur (left) and his daughter hold up photos of Sarlaben and Aadhya in their home At almost the same moment that Thakur was running towards the smoke, students inside the mess were trying to understand what had happened. Arman Khan Pathan was late for lunch. His best friend, Aditya Dayal, was later still. Those few minutes would separate their experiences of the crash, but not their memories of it. Arman had just sat down to eat when a deafening sound erupted. Moments later, part of the building had collapsed around him, and a table pinned his legs down. As cylinders exploded and dust filled the room, rescuers were forced back by fresh blasts. Trapped and struggling to breathe, Arman smashed a window with his bare fist. "It was pitch black," he recalls. "I was suffocating." By the time rescue workers pulled him free, Aditya had reached the scene. He remembers smoke rising above the building where he and his friends had eaten almost every day. Students ran in every direction, trying to understand what had happened. Together with others, Aditya helped carry Arman out on a mattress and into an ambulance. A year later, sitting in their hostel room, the two friends still recall the bodies that arrived that afternoon. As trainee doctors, they were no strangers to death, but nothing had prepared them for this. Many victims were so badly charred they were unrecognisable. The smell, Aditya says, lingered long after he left - and still returns unexpectedly. "It made me want to throw up," he recalls. (From left) Aditya with his friend Arjun and Arman at the crash site From L to R: Adtiya stands with his friend Arjun and Arman at the crash site The conversation drifts to the friends they lost. Arman mentions a classmate who was the only brother to several sisters, the child on whom a family had pinned its hopes. Like so many others, he had spent years working towards a future that vanished in a matter of seconds. For some, the crash lingers in a different way. Brijesh, who was riding a scooter to the mess with two friends when the plane came down, still undergoes physiotherapy for burn injuries. He wears pressure garments through Ahmedabad's heat and struggles to turn the pages of textbooks. "It happened," he says. "What can be done?" He passes the ruins sometimes. Like many students, he has developed a habit of looking away, as if the building might disappear if he refuses to acknowledge it. The people who live around the college have less choice. On the afternoon of the crash, Vijay was at home, about 200m away, when he heard an explosion. He jumped on his bike and headed towards the source. By the time he arrived, the aircraft had disintegrated and fire was racing through the buildings. For several hours, the neighbourhood became a rescue zone as residents joined firefighters, soldiers and emergency workers, carrying blankets and water, covering bodies and helping survivors. "Wherever I look, there is fire," Vijay says. "Someone's head, someone's hands." Arman says that for many days after the crash, he would wake up screaming Arman dressed in a black shirt, sits in his hostel room. There are books and a guitar lying behind him on the table In the weeks that followed, the city's attention slowly moved on. The ambulances left. The television crews did too. The urgency that had consumed the campus gave way to the harder job of the aftermath. At BJ Medical College, life had to resume. And much of the burden fell on Meenakshi Parikh, the dean, who had to keep the medical college functioning even as it grappled with overwhelming grief. Looking back, she remembers not one tragedy but many folded into one: parents searching for children, students healing from injuries, her overworked staff and families awaiting DNA results. "One part of me was occupied with what needed to be done," she says. "Another was trying to understand what had happened." A man who lost his son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter refused to leave until he saw their bodies. Officials explained that DNA testing was needed to confirm their identities. "My eyes are the DNA test," he told them, insisting he would recognise his family no matter what condition they were in. Parikh pauses when she recalls it. "I could see where he was coming from." Over time, the rhythms of college life returned. Classes resumed, exams were held and new students arrived. As the anniversary, 12 June, approaches, the college has planned a prayer meeting, a blood donation drive and the planting of trees in memory of those who died. Yet moving forward, Parikh says, 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." Back at his house, Thakur is trying to do the same. He reaches for his phone. There is a video he often watches, recorded the day before the crash. In it, Aadhya carefully feeds her grandmother a morsel of food. Sarlaben smiles. Outside, another aircraft crosses the Ahmedabad sky. Fifty years after his debut, Ilaiyaraaja remains one of the most celebrated composers in Indian cinema. Former New Zealand wicket-keeper Katey Martin says England's Jamie Smith is already showing improvement after working with new fielding coach Sarah Taylor, after she became the first woman to coach an England men's side in a major sport. 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