Power, perception, precision: notes from covering a plane crash

Some assignments outlast deadlines. The recent Air India crash is one such incident. It will remain etched in my memory not only because of the scale of the tragedy — nothing prepares anyone to see an accident site of that magnitude, with so many grieving families — but for other reasons as well.

On the afternoon of June 12, when the Air India flight bound for London crashed into a medical college shortly after take off in Ahmedabad, I was assigned to cover the incident. In this age of technology, where reporters are expected to provide updates in real time, our most vital organ is not the pen and notepad, but the mobile phone. Whether we are covering political rallies, protests, natural disasters, or accidents, we are perpetually tethered to our devices. We use them to mail stories, shoot videos, click photographs, make dozens of calls, and coordinate with the newsroom. As our biggest fear is that our phone battery will die, every one of us has a power bank. This has become as essential as a press card. Many journalists carry multiple backups and some even lug around the monstrous 50,000 mAh power bricks that resemble mini-inverters. Our phones are our lifelines.

I went to the accident site prepared, with a bag full of devices. Yet during the long hours at the crash site and at Ahmedabad Civil Hospital, where bodies were brought in for identification and autopsy, I didn’t use my power bank.

This wasn’t because there wasn’t work. My phone battery dwindled in sync with my energy reserves. Yet somehow, I managed. This is because help came from an unexpected source: the extension boards scattered across the hospital premises. They were not there specifically for journalists, but for everyone gathered there: grieving family members, tireless volunteers, and reporters. The extension boards gave everyone a moment to recharge literally and figuratively.

There were people everywhere offering help in different ways. Volunteers from various Hindu organisations, including the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, the Vishva Hindu Parishad, and local NGOs, along with a few Muslim groups, ensured that food, buttermilk, cold drinks, and glucose-infused water were being supplied at the hospital round the clock. One scorching afternoon, while I was outside the morgue, a man tapped my shoulder and insisted that I drink glucose water. That small gesture and many others like it revealed the depth of the coordinated relief effort.

The premises were always kept clean. Every time someone drank buttermilk or water and leaned to place the empty bottle aside, or looked around for a trash can, housekeeping staff would appear out of nowhere to clear it. Within minutes, every piece of waste was disposed of, no matter how crowded or chaotic the space and the situation.

In short, the worst aviation tragedy in recent times in India was being handled on the ground with precision and thought. In retrospect, I realised that this was not surprising. The crash had made international headlines. Dozens of reporters from national and foreign media had flown into the politically significant State of Gujarat, which has been governed by the Bharatiya Janata Party for decades and is the home turf of both Prime Minister Narendra Modi and Union Home Minister Amit Shah. Any photograph or short video clip of a stray bottle or pile of trash left unattended in one of Asia’s largest public hospitals could have easily gone viral. Apparently, even a stray bottle risked becoming a political statement. And that, it seemed, was not a risk anyone was willing to take.

What stayed with me was not just the sorrow of the families, but also the manner in which the tragedy was handled. Even amid the grief, the quiet control being exercised was unmistakable.

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