In a stunning display of diplomatic footwork that would make a hungover ballerina weep with envy, British aviation experts have waded into the Air India crash dispute, demanding an independent investigation. Because nothing says 'we trust you' like a bunch of gin-soaked engineers from a country that can't decide if it wants to be in Europe or not telling India how to conduct its aviation forensics.
The crash, which has already claimed more victims from the realm of logic than from the actual passenger manifest, has descended into a farcical tug-of-war between national pride and the brutal, unforgiving physics of metal hitting earth at high velocity. The Indian Directorate General of Civil Aviation, in a move that surprised absolutely no one, has insisted that its own investigation is 'comprehensive and unimpeachable' – which is bureaucratic code for 'we will find whatever makes the government look least incompetent'.
Enter the British experts, a motley crew of retired air marshals, former crash investigators, and one man who claims to have 'a feeling' about the 'mood of the black box.' They have called for an independent probe, arguing that national interests should not interfere with the cold, hard truth. This, from a nation whose own aviation history includes the infamous 'Hat, coat, and black box' incident of 1989, where a plane crashed because the pilot was distracted by a malfunctioning lavatory light. But who's counting?
The dispute has now escalated to the point where the only thing missing is a celebrity boxing match between the Indian Minister of Civil Aviation and the head of the UK Air Accidents Investigation Branch. Sources close to the matter suggest that the minister has been practicing his 'disappointed uncle' look in the mirror, while the Brit has been perfecting a stiff upper lip that could double as a trampoline.
Meanwhile, the families of the victims – those poor souls who just wanted to get from Delhi to London without having to listen to a TED Talk on the history of chai – are left in a state of agonising limbo. They are not interested in sovereignty or national pride. They want to know why their loved ones are no longer here. But in the great game of nations, such pedestrian concerns are often trampled underfoot by the stampede of political grandstanding.
The independent probe, if it ever happens, will likely be led by a Swiss neutrality expert with a Swiss Army knife and an unhealthy obsession with punctuality. He will produce a report that is so thorough it will include a footnote about the colour of the co-pilot's socks. But will it satisfy anyone? Of course not. Because the truth, when it finally emerges from the twisted metal, will be just another casualty in a war where everyone is too busy fighting over the wreckage to actually learn from it.
So raise a glass of cheap airline gin – or a chai if you must – to the brave men and women who will spend the next few years arguing over who gets to say 'I told you so.' And to the dead, who have the dubious honour of being the pawns in this grotesque chess match of international diplomacy. Cheers.
