Somewhere between take off and touch,
hope became a plume of fire—
not a scream, but the gasp
of silence being torn apart.
Was it meant to be so sudden,
a moment when breath turns to history?
The sky did not warn them.
Clouds carried no omen,
and the fuselage hummed
its usual lullaby—
families in mid-laugh,
children drawing dreams on foggy windows.
Did they know how fragile
the line between home and never-home can be?
AI171—just numbers
until they wept from every screen,
until they rang through night corridors
in homes where slippers waited
by doors now closed forever.
Did someone say goodbye late that morning?
Did someone forget to kiss her cheek?
Time unravelled midair.
seatbelts buckled like prayers.
A coffee cup trembled before the roar,
and then—the earth remembered gravity
too well. The plane did not land.
it descended into absence.
And what of the hands that reached
for others in that breathless fall?
What of the mother clutching a child
whose name she whispered louder
than the engines screamed?
What is the sound of a life
trying not to end?
The black box tells us facts.
Altitude. Trajectory. Failure.
But who records the tremble
in a man’s voice calling a lover’s name
in a cabin of steel and flame?
Who writes down the moment
when a soul knows it’s leaving?
We live like we are promised tomorrows,
board flights like chapters already written.
But does destiny laugh
when we count on arrival gates?
Does it wait by the runway
with arms open or crossed?
AI171 was just a plane—until it wasn’t.
now it is a question in the night,
a shadow on the sky,
a line of names read
too slow and too fast.
Where do they go,
those undone moments?
The wedding saris in suitcases,
the unread messages,
the songs that never reached
their final note?
Who among us
will hold the weight
of a boarding pass
like a heartbeat,
and ask, ‘Will I return?’
O sky, cruel and wide,
when will you explain
why do you sometimes let go?
And to those who flew
into that merciless quiet—are you still travelling,
just farther than we can follow?
(In memory of those lost on Indian Airlines AI171. May their names be spoken with care and never forgotten.)
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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