An Open Letter from a Fellow Pilot (AI Generated)
The captain’s last transmission still echoes in our ears: “Mayday! Mayday! Thrust not achieved. Falling.” Even before the investigation concludes, the blame game has begun. They say it’s the pilot’s fault.
But those of us who have sat in that seat know better. We know the weight of that locked cockpit door. We know that every takeoff is a promise and every landing, a silent prayer answered. And it hurts when the world forgets that.
Because we don’t just operate machines. We carry people to weddings, to funerals, to children waiting with handmade welcome signs. We carry hopes. Goodbyes. Second chances. And we do it knowing our own families are waiting on the other end, counting the minutes until we land.
When turbulence hits and we say calmly, “Nothing to worry about, just a rough patch,” that’s not just protocol. That’s training. That’s reassurance. That’s control, comfort, confidence, all delivered in a single voice. But when tragedy strikes, so fast, so final, and no checklist can save you, it’s easy to forget the pilot tried. Not just as a professional. But as a father, a son, a friend. As someone who didn’t want to become a headline.
If Sumeet could look back, would he have done something different? That’s a question none of us can answer now. Because he’s gone. What remains is a mayday call and a silence heavy with grief.
Yes, we take responsibility. But we also ask for compassion. Because the skies are not always kind. And we are humans trained to near-perfection, but still vulnerable to machines, weather and fate.
With tears in his eyes and folded hands, as I see Captain Sumeet Sabharwal’s father paying tribute to his son, it’s heartbreaking beyond words as it could be any of our families right there.
So before you point fingers, remember this: Captain Sabharwal had just 32 seconds. And in that time, he tried. We owe him that much. To remember him not for the fall, but for the fight.
– A fellow pilot
