From Farewell Smiles to Heartbreaking Despair: A Father’s Quest to Identify His Daughter After the Ahmedabad Plane Crash

It was a bright afternoon in Anand, Gujarat, when 22-year-old Kinjal Mistry and her father, Suresh, set out on what they believed would be a routine journey. For over a month, Kinjal had been in Ahmedabad receiving specialized dental treatment—part of a long recovery from a serious car accident that had shattered her jawbone. Now, the next chapter lay in the United Kingdom, where she held a work permit and dreams of building a career that would honor her family’s sacrifices. On August 12, they arrived at Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel International Airport, shared a final selfie at 11:03 AM, exchanged promises to write, and parted with laughter.

But fate had other plans. Flight AI171, the sleek Boeing Dreamliner bound for London, never cleared the runway. It plunged into the grounds behind the doctors’ hostel, erupting into a towering fireball that engulfed the tarmac and sent shockwaves through nearby neighborhoods. Among the 280 souls aboard were Kinjal and countless dreams, aspirations, and stories. As official numbers climbed—265 bodies recovered—the media focused on statistics. Yet, behind each number stood a family suspended in uncertainty, grappling with the unthinkable question: “Is my child among the charred remains?”

This is the story of one such family—the Mistrys—and a father’s desperate race for answers, as he stood on scorched earth, DNA kit in hand, waiting for hope to emerge from embers.

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1. A Daughter’s Determination and a Father’s Pride

Kinjal was more than a patient; she was a fighter. Six months earlier, a high-speed car crash had wrecked her jaw in two places, obliterating bone structure. In Anand’s modest apartment, her father would watch his daughter endure weeks of pain, surger ies, and endless doctor visits. While her peers partied and traveled, Kinjal lay in a hospital bed, regaining the ability to chew and speak. When local doctors said bone grafts might take ten months to heal, the family explored options abroad.

London beckoned with its reputed orthodontic specialists. There, cutting-edge implants could restore her jaw strength in a fraction of the time. Determined to graduate from her trauma—and soon return to university for the final year of her psychology degree—Kinjal secured a work permit that doubled as medical access. She would spend one month in Ahmedabad, one month in London, then embark on a career helping others.

Her father, Mr. Suresh Mistry, 50, had pinned all his hopes on this plan. A hardworking engineer in a small unit on the outskirts of Anand, he had saved every rupee from overtime and weekend jobs. If she recovered fully, he told friends, Kinjal would support them both. And as any doting parent, his pride was boundless: “My daughter is not just any daughter,” he would say. “She is my daughter, your daughter.”

2. The Final Goodbye: Selfies and Sweet Promises

On the morning of the crash, Kinjal slipped into her favorite white T-shirt, the one with pastel embroidery and a tiny heart stitched on the pocket. She brushed her hair, checked her passport photo, and walked hand-in-hand with her father through Anand’s bustling streets toward the airport coach. They paused at a cafe for a last cup of masala chai. At 10:45 AM, a student recognized them and playfully asked for a selfie—her father, tall and sturdy; Kinjal, glowing with hope.

By 11:03 AM, they were inside the terminal. Kinjal held her boarding pass—Flight AI171, Gate 4. She looked at her father. “I’ll call you as soon as I land,” she said, hugging him once, then again. He kissed her forehead. In that instant, they took a final photograph: Kinjal’s phone displayed 11:03 AM; the airport’s glass wall, the runway behind; her eyes bright, his eyes proud. Then she vanished through the security gates, waving over her shoulder.

As she disappeared into the crowd, Suresh felt a sudden emptiness. He texted her a heart emoji, then sat down at a bench, sipping the remains of his chai and scrolling through photos on his phone. He watched the flight status board: “AI171 — Scheduled — On Time.”

3. The Crash: Flames, Smoke, and Unimaginable Horror

At precisely 11:15 AM, Flight AI171 began its takeoff roll. Witnesses later described the plane struggling to gain altitude, brushing the tops of palm trees planted at the runway’s edge. A moment of silence, then a deafening explosion. The Dreamliner cartwheeled across the adjacent grounds, piercing through the fence behind the doctors’ hostel.

From the vantage point of Sita’s tea stall—just 200 meters away—an employee recorded the final seconds: a concrete explosion, a burst of orange flame, debris raining down like hellfire. Within seconds, the entire area became a maelstrom of fire, twisting metal, and pitched screams. Thick black smoke billowed upward, blotting out the sky.

Inside the terminal, airport alarms rang. Passengers gasped as screens blinked “Emergency.” Some rushed toward windows, hoping to help—or at least see what had happened. Others froze in terror. Meanwhile, on the runway perimeter, families with loved ones boarding Flight AI171 watched in horror as the wing sheared off and flames engulfed the fuselage.

4. A Father’s Frantic Search

Back in the terminal, Suresh’s phone vibrated. A friend’s frantic message: “Flight crashed near runway. Are you okay?” Blood froze in his veins. He dashed through the terminal, ignoring instructions to stay put. Outside, chaos reigned. Fire trucks screeched, water cannons aimed at the inferno. Paramedics straddled stretchers loaded with scorched bodies. Military trucks formed makeshift morgues.

He pushed past cordons, asking every officer, “Where is my daughter? My daughter was on that flight.” Each reply was the same: we’re still identifying. He collapsed beside a pile of charred wreckage, sobbing. The air reeked of burning plastic and jet fuel. People around him were shouting in English, Hindi, Gujarati, even Bengali—names of missing loved ones.

In the confusion, Suresh noticed a group of technicians huddled around a table labeled “DNA Identification.” Plastic vials, swabs, and forms lay waiting for families. He wiped tears from his eyes and approached them. “I need to identify my daughter,” he stammered. “My daughter’s name is Kinjal Mistry. Here is my ID. Please, I’m ready to give a DNA sample.”

5. The DNA Sampling: Hours of Agony

Within minutes, Suresh found himself seated at a folding chair. A lab technician pressed a cotton swab between his cheek and gum. He barely felt it; his mind was numb.

Technician (softly): “Sir, please wait. We have conflicting estimates. Some say results in two hours, others say 72 hours.”
Suresh (voice cracking): “Two hours or 72 hours—just tell me when.”

He watched as another family—a mother from Mumbai—consoled her husband, both in identical agony. A handful of volunteers distributed water and biscuits, but none could quench the thirst of a thousand racing questions.

Outside the makeshift tent, forensic teams sifted through thousands of bone fragments, personal belongings, and charred suitcases. Every so often, they brought out a body bag, zipped it shut, and rolled it toward refrigerated trucks.

For Suresh, time stretched into an eternity. He thought of the selfie at 11:03 AM—her white T-shirt, her bright smile. Would the investigators find her body? Recognize her phone? Or would they need his DNA to confirm?

At 2 PM—three hours later—his phone buzzed. A text from his wife: “Have you heard?” His heart sank. No one had answers. He raced back to the tent. A new technician took more samples—blood from his arm, a fingernail clipping. “These will help confirm identity,” she said, eyes full of pity.

6. Between Hope and Despair: The Waiting Continues

By late afternoon, the sun was swallowed by the smoke plume. The crash site had turned into a grim carnival of grief:

Families wandering among cordons, clutching missing-person photos.
Children crying, unsure why mommy or daddy never returned.
Volunteers praying on flattened cardboard mats.
Reporters broadcasting live, voices betraying their own sorrow.

Suresh retreated to a nearby garage that had been converted into a refugee camp for the bereaved. He sat next to a young couple from Odisha, both clutching the same DNA forms. They spoke in whispers. A nurse brought them tea. No one ate.

He tried to call his sister in London. Her number clashed between roaming services. He left raspy voice messages: “Kajal? It’s Bhabhi. I’m so sorry. I don’t know if Kinjal…” His sobs cut him off.

Night fell. Police halted rescue operations, but the flame-retardant water kept steaming on the wreckage. The next day, they would resume, scouring every inch for remains. But for the families, each hour felt like a lifetime.

7. The Moment of Truth: Identification and Farewell

At dawn on the second morning, a plain white van arrived at the DNA tent. Inside, forensic scientists unrolled a laminated chart. Suresh’s name was on it. Next to it, a small green box: “Positive Match.”

A doctor approached him gently. “Mr. Mistry, we regret to inform you that your daughter, Kinjal Mistry, was among the passengers. We have DNA confirmation.”

He walked in a daze toward the morgue trucks. They unzipped a body bag—only a fragment of a torso remained—and placed it on a stretcher. Beside it lay a scorched passport with the name “K. MISTRY”, its photo’s ink almost incinerated. A half-melted boarding pass fluttered in the breeze.

No one told him how he managed the funeral arrangements. Neighbors from Anand sent blankets, sweets, and cardamom tea. Relatives urged him to cremate her remains quickly, before decomposition set in. They hired a hearse, draped in white cloth, and carried her to a private crematorium.

As the fire crackled, Suresh stood alone, chanting the sacred “Om Shanti” mantra. A single tear coursed down his ash-smudged cheek. The flames consumed everything—her bones, her dental implants, the little T-shirt she adored. In its place, only ashes remained.

8. Aftermath: Healing a Wound That May Never Mend

Weeks have passed since that fateful day, but the memory of Flight AI171’s crash still smolders across Ahmedabad. Investigations continue, with black box data pointing toward engine failure. The DGCA has issued interim safety advisories. Victims’ families have been offered ex gratia payouts—₹1 crore each—but no amount of money can replace a lost child.

For Suresh, life has taken on a new, unbearable dimension. Each morning, he wakes up expecting to see her smiling face. Her empty bedroom is still painted in pastel pink; her textbooks lie untouched. He can’t bring himself to remove the framed airport selfie—the one that captured their last moments together.

Friends have urged him to seek counseling. Volunteers from the airport chaplaincy check on him, bringing home-cooked meals. But true solace seems as distant as the stars in the smoke-laden sky that afternoon.

And yet, amid the devastation, he clings to one hope: that Kinjal’s memory will light the way for others. He has begun setting up a small foundation in her name to support young accident survivors seeking overseas treatment. If she could fight to rebuild her jaw, he reasons, then her spirit can inspire countless others to rebuild shattered lives.

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9. Epilogue: The Fragility of Human Dreams

The Ahmedabad plane crash was more than an aviation disaster; it was a shattering of human narratives. Behind every charred seat and mangled suitcase lay a story of love, ambition, and sacrifice. Families from Mumbai, Delhi, Kolkata, and beyond found themselves united in grief here on Gujarat’s red soil.

For a fleeting moment, the world watched in horror as video clips of the inferno looped on social media. But behind those clips were fathers like Suresh, who lost more than luggage—they lost the future. Mothers who would never again hold their child’s hand. Siblings who would spend lifetimes filling the void of shared laughter.

In the end, DNA became the final arbiter of identity. But DNA cannot heal a broken heart. It cannot bring back the last selfie, the tearful hug, or the whispered promise to call. It only confirms what every family already suspects: that a beloved life has passed beyond return.

And so, as Ahmedabad moves forward—rebuilding runways, enacting new safety protocols, and hoping the skies grow kinder—let us remember the human toll. Let us carry in our hearts the image of a father stooped over a DNA kit, waiting in silence, water-stained forms clutched in his trembling hands, longing to know if his daughter’s laughter will ever echo again.

In that moment between DNA swab and confirmation, a father became every parent in the world, standing at the precipice between hope and despair. May we never forget his story—or the countless other stories that lay buried in the ashes of Flight AI171.