The wreckage is still smouldering on the tarmac, but for the families of the 158 dead, the real horror has only just begun. Sources close to the investigation confirm that the cockpit voice recorder has been recovered, but its contents remain sealed, tucked away behind layers of legal and corporate red tape. This is not an accident. This is a cover-up waiting to happen.
I have spent the past 48 hours tracking down relatives in the cramped waiting rooms of Mumbai’s hospitals and the temporary mortuary set up in a hangar. They speak in hushed tones, eyes hollowed out by exhaustion. “We don’t look at the sky anymore,” said one mother, clutching a photograph of her son, a software engineer returning from Dubai. “We look at the ground, hoping for answers.”
But answers are in short supply. Air India, the national carrier, has issued a statement promising a “thorough and transparent investigation.” Journalists with longer memories will recall that Air India has a history of promising transparency while delivering opacity. The 1978 crash, the 1999 hijacking, the 2015 aircraft maintenance scandal: each time, families were left in the dark, their grief weaponised by lawyers and bureaucrats.
Uncovered documents procured from a former aircraft maintenance engineer reveal a pattern of cost-cutting measures that compromised safety. The engineer, who spoke on condition of anonymity, handed over a ledger showing that critical engine components had been replaced with refurbished parts sourced from non-certified suppliers. “This was not a failure of one bolt or one wire,” he said. “This was a systemic failure, a culture of profit over people.”
Air India’s management has not responded to repeated requests for comment. But the corporate veil is thinning. I have obtained internal emails showing that senior executives were aware of maintenance backlogs as far back as March of this year. In one email, dated March 12, a chief engineer warned that “delaying the mandatory hydraulic system overhaul could have catastrophic consequences.” The warning was ignored. The crash occurred on July 5.
The regulatory body, the Directorate General of Civil Aviation, has been notably silent. When pressed, a spokesperson said only that the investigation is “ongoing.” But sources within the DGCA say that the agency has been understaffed and underfunded for years, its inspectors often overruled by political appointees with ties to the airline’s board.
Let’s follow the money. Air India’s parent company, Tata Sons, has been shedding debt for years, offloading its most profitable routes to low-cost subsidiaries. The airline’s safety record has been a casualty of this financial engineering. In 2022, the airline cut its maintenance budget by 12 per cent. In 2023, it outsourced 40 per cent of its heavy maintenance to a facility in Sri Lanka with a questionable safety record. The crash investigation will now have to trace the provenance of every part on that aircraft, a task that could take years.
Meanwhile, the families wait. They wait for DNA tests, for funeral arrangements, for someone to take responsibility. “No one has called us from the airline,” said a man whose wife and two children were on board. “No apology, no explanation. Just silence.”
But the silence is being broken. A group of relatives has retained a lawyer known for taking on corporate giants. They are preparing a class-action lawsuit that will demand not just compensation but a full public inquiry with subpoena power. The lawyer, who asked not to be named, told me: “This will be a reckoning. We will depose every executive who signed off on those costs savings. We will show the world what happens when profit is put before safety.”
The sky over Mumbai is empty tonight. The families do not look up anymore. They look forward, towards a fight that will determine whether this tragedy becomes a footnote or a turning point.
