While the political landscape of Maharashtra shifts in the wake of the Baramati crash, a quieter, more profound tragedy is unfolding away from the cameras. In the corridors of power, the talk is of succession and seats. But in four modest homes across Thane, Mumbai, and Delhi, the talk has stopped altogether.
When the chartered Learjet met the earth on that foggy Wednesday morning, the fire did not distinguish between a Deputy Chief Minister and his crew. Yet, looking at the news, you would think only one man was on board. We owe it to our own humanity to speak the names that the tickers have scrolled past: Sumit, Shambhavi, Pinky, and Vidip.
Captain Sumit Kapur was a veteran of the skies, a man who had logged over 16,500 hours above the clouds. To the aviation world, he was a seasoned professional; to his son, he was the reason to fly. His son followed him into the cockpit, fueled by a boy’s admiration for his father’s steady hands. Now, every time that young man takes off, he will be looking for his father on the horizon. For him, January 28th wasn’t a political crisis—it was the day his hero fell from the sky.
Beside him sat Captain Shambhavi Pathak. At just 25, she was the daughter of an Army officer, raised with a soldier’s discipline and a dreamer’s heart. She had traveled as far as New Zealand to earn her wings, breaking barriers to sit in that cockpit. Her final communication wasn’t a distress signal; it was a “Good Morning” text to her grandmother. Her father has spent a lifetime prepared for the sacrifices of war, but no amount of military training prepares a parent to bury a daughter whose life was only just beginning to gain altitude.
In a small room in Mumbai, Pinky Mali’s father, Shivkumar, waits. Pinky, the flight attendant, was the heartbeat of her household. Before takeoff, she had promised her father a phone call the moment she touched down, even joking that she might get “Dada” to say a quick hello to him. Shivkumar is still holding his phone. He is a man haunted by a dial tone, staring at a screen that will never light up with his daughter’s name again.
Then there was Vidip Jadhav. Since 2009, Vidip had been a shadow—a Personal Security Officer whose job was to ensure someone else’s safety. He left his Thane home at 6:30 AM with a routine wave to his neighbors, a man going to work to provide for his wife and two young children. To the media, he was “security.” To his kids, he was the center of the universe. He spent his career protecting a VIP, but there was no one to protect his children from the news that their father wasn’t coming home.
A mother’s grief in a crowded chawl is no quieter than the mourning in a palace. An empty chair in a small flat feels just as heavy as one in a cabinet meeting. When we only count the loss of the powerful, we lose our grip on what it means to be a society.
Five people boarded that flight. Five families were shattered. Five lights went out.
Because when the smoke clears, the fire doesn’t care about the designation—and neither should our tears.
Dr Ramakanta's Ideas 