It has been 12 months since the Air India flight 101 plunged into the hillside outside Mangaluru, killing 158 souls. For the families of the victims, time has not healed. It has calcified into a state of suspended disbelief. The crash site, a scar of twisted metal and broken lives, has long been cleared. But the questions that arose from the ashes remain, six in particular, gnawing at the edges of an investigation that has stalled like an engine on a wet runway.
First, why did the pilot, Captain Zlatko Glusica, a veteran, disregard standard procedure and attempt a landing from the wrong end of the runway? The report suggests fatigue and a culture of complacency. But that explanation feels too neat, a convenient scapegoat for a system that failed at every level.
Second, why did the co-pilot, First Officer H.S. Ahluwalia, remain silent? In the final seconds, as the plane overshot, he said nothing. Was it deference to seniority? Fear? Or a deeper, systemic silence that pervades the cockpit? These are not just technical questions. They are about the human dynamics of power and obedience, a social psychology that can turn a cockpit into a crucible.
Third, why did the Air Traffic Controller, a man with years of experience, clear the plane for an approach he knew was non-standard? The tape reveals no alarm, no urgent correction. Just a quiet clearance. The families want to know: was he following orders, or ignoring them?
Fourth, why did the airline, in the immediate aftermath, issue contradictory statements about the flight's route? Some families were told their loved ones were on a different plane. The chaos of the initial hours became a fog that has yet to lift. The truth, it seems, was the first casualty of the crash.
Fifth, where is the final investigation report? The civil aviation ministry promised it in six months. A year later, it remains under wraps. The families suspect a cover-up, a whitewash to protect reputations and avoid litigation. They gather at the memorial in Mangaluru, a neat stone plaque with all the names, and they hold up pictures of the dead. Mothers in saris, fathers in suits, children who never grew up. They say: we just want the truth.
Sixth, and perhaps most hauntingly, why did it take so long for authorities to inform the next of kin? Some waited hours, others days, to learn that their relative was on that flight. In the age of instant communication, this delay feels like a further insult. It speaks to a bureaucracy that sees numbers, not people. The human cost is reduced to a statistic.
On the ground in Mangaluru, the crash has left a cultural shift. The city, once a sleepy coastal town, is now marked by tragedy. The airport, quiet and functional, is a ghost for some. Locals avoid looking at the hillside. The families have formed a support group, demanding answers, holding the government to account. They have learned to navigate the labyrinth of officialdom, filing RTIs, writing letters, staging protests. Their grief has become a political act.
But the questions remain, hanging over the investigation like a bank of monsoon clouds. The families do not want vengeance. They want accountability. They want to know that their loved ones did not die in vain, that the system will change, that the next pilot, the next air traffic controller, will make a different choice because of this tragedy.
As the one-year anniversary passes, the silence from the authorities is deafening. The families wait, their demand for answers a steadfast echo against the hills. The crash site, now overgrown, speaks only in whispers. But those whispers carry the weight of 158 unreconciled lives.
