A year on from the Air India disaster that scattered metal and misery across a field in Kerala, the official probe remains mired in the kind of bureaucratic fog that would make a pea-souper proud. Six questions, meanwhile, rattle about like loose rivets in a dying airframe, and the UK's aviation authorities have now joined the fray, barking for transparency with the sort of flustered indignation normally reserved for a missed gin delivery.
Let us first set the scene: a Boeing 777, flown by a captain whose name now graces the footnotes of calamity, attempted a landing at Kozhikode airport during the sort of monsoon that makes Noah look underprepared. The plane aquaplaned off the runway, plunged into a gorge, and killed 18 souls. But the real horror, the enduring horror, is the silence that followed.
Question One: Why did the cockpit voice recorder stop minutes before impact? The black box, that sacred oracle of aviation truth, apparently suffered a memory failure. One might suspect a convenient case of amnesia. The manufacturer, Honeywell, has been evasive. The Indian authorities have been mute. The UK's Air Accidents Investigation Branch, however, is now demanding to know why their counterparts in India have not shared the full technical analysis. Cue the sound of bureaucratic tumbrels rolling.
Question Two: Who authorised the landing in such weather? The captain, a man of 32,000 hours, apparently ignored the standard operating procedures for a non-precision approach. The first officer, a junior with a mere 1,200 hours, reportedly cautioned him. The cockpit voice recorder, had it been working, might have captured this exchange. But it wasn't, so we are left with the testimony of ghosts.
Question Three: Why was the runway's ‘displaced threshold’ not properly communicated? Kozhikode's runway has a downslope that, in wet conditions, is about as forgiving as a tabloid columnist at a charity dinner. The landing distance available was less than needed. The airline, Air India, has a reputation for patchy training. The regulator, the DGCA, has a reputation for… well, existing.
Question Four: Why did the approach briefing omit the go-around procedure? The crew, it seems, were fixated on landing. They were tired. The flight had been delayed. They were perhaps thinking of a gin and tonic in the crew bar. But this is speculation. The facts, like the cockpit voice recorder, have gone missing.
Question Five: What role did ‘pilot fatigue’ play? The captain had been on duty for over 12 hours. The airline’s rostering system is under scrutiny. The UK's Civil Aviation Authority has now written to its Indian counterpart demanding documentation on this very point. It is the sort of polite but firm note that precedes a diplomatic row. One imagines it smells of stale tea and smugness.
Question Six: Why has the final report been delayed for a year? The Indian probe submitted a draft in January, but it was rejected. Revised, resubmitted, rejected again. The families of the dead have been left in a limbo of unanswered calls and polite deflections. The UK, which lost one of its own in the crash, a British businessman named Richard James, is now flexing its regulatory muscle. The British High Commission has asked for ‘full transparency’. This is diplomatic code for ‘stop faffing about’.
The tragedy, when all is said and done, is not just the loss of life but the loss of truth. The crash site itself, a steep ravine, is now overgrown with weeds. The wreckage has been removed. But the questions remain, buffeting like monsoon winds. And as the UK authorities demand transparency, one wonders if they will get anything more than the usual bureaucratic shrug.
In the meantime, the families wait. And the rest of us pour another drink, because the only thing more bitter than bad news is the absence of good answers.
