Picture this: it has been twelve months since twisted metal and shattered lives scattered across a tarmac that should have held nothing more dangerous than a luggage trolley. A year since Air India flight AI- something or other (does the number matter when the bodies are counted?) went from being a Tuesday afternoon commute to a national tragedy.
And what have we learned? About as much as a committee of garden gnomes could deduce from a crash site. The official report smells of whitewash and bureaucratic brush-offs.
Families still clutch photographs to their chests, waiting for answers that may never come. The airline? They have moved on.
The government? They have appointed a taskforce, which is civil service code for 'we will file this under things we hope you forget.' Meanwhile, the grieving are left to navigate a labyrinth of insurance forms and condolence letters that read like they were written by an intern who got their empathy training from a vending machine.
It is a disgrace, a shambles, a monument to institutional incompetence. And the rest of us? We glance at the headlines, mutter a prayer for the departed, and turn the page to read about a celebrity's pet chinchilla.
Because nothing says 'we value human life' quite like a news cycle shorter than a mayfly's attention span.
