Seven crash victims brought for final farewells.
SDPO Shubham Khandelwal confirmed all seven recovered, families grieving Captain Bhagat, Captain Singh, and five others lost.
The forest floor is quiet now, save for the wind moving through the trees and the distant sound of people making their way through the undergrowth. But just hours ago, this patch of earth in Jharkhand witnessed something no forest should ever have to hold. A plane, carrying seven souls, fell from the sky.
When you hear the words “air ambulance,” you think of hope. You think of a desperate patient being rushed to better care, of families praying by the phone, of medical teams working at 30,000 feet to keep someone alive. You think of a second chance, wrapped in metal and wings.
But Monday evening, over the forests of Simaria, that hope turned to ash.
The Beechcraft C90 had taken off from Ranchi, heading to Delhi. Inside were seven people. Two pilots, sitting up front, doing what they had done a hundred times before—checking instruments, talking to air traffic control, thinking about landing and maybe dinner later. And behind them, a crew of medical professionals. People who had chosen a life of rushing toward emergencies, not away from them. People who had likely spent the flight tending to a patient, someone who needed to get to Delhi for reasons that mattered desperately to someone, somewhere.
We don’t know their names yet. Not all of them. But we know they existed. We know someone is waiting for them. Somewhere, a spouse is wondering why the phone hasn’t rung. A child is asking when mommy is coming home. A parent is sitting by a window, watching the sky.
The crash happened in a deep forest in Bariatu Panchayat. Deep inside. Which means the wreckage isn’t easy to reach. Which means the first responders had to walk, had to push through branches and darkness, knowing what they would find. Knowing they were walking toward seven people who had started the day with plans.
By Tuesday morning, the bodies had been brought to a hospital. A cold, clinical word—”brought.” But what it really means is that seven families are about to get a knock on the door. Seven sets of hands will cover seven mouths. Seven worlds will stop spinning.
An air ambulance is supposed to be a vessel of mercy. But Monday evening, over the forests of Jharkhand, it became something else. It became a reminder that the sky, for all its beauty, does not always catch us. That the ground, for all its solidity, is not always a safe arrival.
And somewhere, in the silence of a hospital corridor, seven bodies lie under white sheets. Not passengers. Not casualties. Just people. People who were loved. People who are now gone.