There’s a peculiar silence that follows a goodbye. It’s the kind that lingers in the air long after the honk of the cab has faded or the aircraft has vanished into the sky. A quiet emptiness that whispers with hope, ‘they’re on their way now.’
But what happens when that silence is shattered—not by a reunion, but by the news that they will never reach their destination?
That their plane crashed.
I don’t think there’s anything more devastating than waving to someone with a smile, only to find out hours later that it was the last time you’d ever see them. That yesterday’s cheerful “Take care!” has become today’s cruel punch to the gut. The families of those who boarded that ill-fated flight in Ahmedabad are living that horror right now—and no words, no matter how poetic or heartfelt, can truly capture what they’re going through.
I watched the video. And I wish I hadn’t.
There it was: the plane, gently gaining speed on the runway like any bird of steel should. You expect it to lift, to soar. But instead, it staggered. It faltered. It dropped like a weary bird whose wings had suddenly remembered the weight of the world. And then... the fire. That greedy, angry fire that took not just metal and rubber, but fathers and mothers, daughters and sons, dreams and dinners that will never be had again.
We’ve all seen people off—at airports, bus stations, railway platforms. We wave, we smile, we send emojis and photos saying “Landed safe!” or “Train reached!” We assume that all goodbyes are temporary. But for those who waited at the other end of this journey, it was a silence that answered.
A haunting, deafening silence.
There’s a cruel irony in travel these days. We’re given seat belts, snack trays, emergency exits, and smiling crew who tell us it’s all going to be fine. But even the most state-of-the-art aircraft can’t promise tomorrow. And yet we continue to fly, to travel, because life demands movement, and love demands presence. Weddings, funerals, work calls, college admissions—all of life packed into suitcases and wheeled across terminals. And sometimes... tragically, into eternity.
To the grieving families—I don’t know your names, but I grieve with you. We all do. This isn’t just your pain; it’s ours. Because the ones you lost could’ve been ours too. They were just like us. They laughed, loved, booked tickets, checked in, maybe even took a window seat hoping to glimpse the sunset. Instead, they were taken from us, not in sleep, but in smoke and flame.
May God, in His infinite tenderness, gather you in His arms. May you find strength in the days ahead, comfort in memories, and peace in the knowledge that you are not alone.
You saw them off. Now, we bow our heads…!
The Author conducts an online, eight session Writers and Speakers Course. If you’d like to join, do send a thumbs-up to WhatsApp number 9892572883 or send a message to bobsbanter@gmail.com
