Community visibly emotional during candlelit vigil for Air India crash victims
People attending a vigil in London to remember victims of the Air India plane crash became visibly emotional after learning that two young girls had been orphaned by the disaster.
Faith leaders from the Hindu, Muslim, Christian and Jewish communities led the service on Saturday at the Siddhashram Shakti Centre in Harrow, north-west London, where 20 of the victims are thought to have previously worshipped.
One of the most emotional moments of the vigil came when Harrow Mayor, Councillor Anjana Patel, shared that two young girls had lost their father in the crash, just weeks after their mother died from cancer.
Their father, Arjun Patoliya, had flown to Gujarat to scatter his wife Bharti's ashes following her death.
He was returning home to his daughters, aged four and eight, when the plane went down.
'The saddest incident we have got here in Harrow is one parent had already died here because of cancer,' Cllr Patel said, as the crowd audibly gasped.
'The husband went to do the rituals in India and coming back, he was on board. He has left two little girls behind and the girls are now orphans.
'I really hope that those girls will be looked after by all of us.'
She added: 'Caring is the most that we can do at this hour.
'We don't have any words to describe how the families and friends must be feeling, so what we can do is pray for them.'
She also revealed how her sister-in-law's cousin had been killed in the crash.
Local councillors, a local MP and residents packed into the temple for the ceremony, which included emotional tributes, candle lighting, and a message of condolence from the King.
Bob Blackman, MP for Harrow East, said it was believed to be the highest number of British deaths ever recorded in a plane crash, with 53 UK nationals on board.
'When someone dies in illness or old age, we celebrate their lives,' he said.
'But when an air crash happens – completely unpredictable – people are taken away from us immediately, just like that.'
'We think of all those families sitting by the telephone, wondering if their loved ones were actually on the plane.'
He said the Gujarati community in the UK was deeply affected, with victims having links to Harrow, Leicester, Birmingham and beyond.
'The difficulty the authorities have already got is: who are they visiting? Which family members were they coming to see in the UK?' he said.
Councillor Hitesh Karia, who represents Pinner South ward and is a member of the temple's congregation, also shared the impact of the tragedy.
Speaking to the PA news agency, he said: 'It's nice that the local community can come together – the local support means a lot.
'Twenty devotees that come here have sadly lost their lives.'
'It shows there is a solidarity, and despite the high amount of diversity, we can come together when appropriate.'
The vigil was held at the temple led by Shri Rajrajeshwar Guruji, who previously told PA he knew 20 of the victims personally.
Many in the hall quietly wept as candles were lit by representatives of all four faiths.
'The only feeling left is sadness – we can't do any more,' Mr Guruji said.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Telegraph
2 hours ago
- Telegraph
The London community hollowed out by Air India crash
When Air India flight 171 went down, it sent shock waves across the world, but the grief was particularly acute in a close-knit Hindu community of north-west London. At the International Siddhashram Shakti Centre in Harrow, at least 20 members of the Hindu ashram lost loved ones when the Air India flight hit a medical hostel just seconds after take-off from Ahmedabad airport on Thursday. Shri Rajrajeshwar Guruji, the temple's spiritual leader, led multi-faith prayers and a candlelit vigil in memory of the dead on Saturday. 'We all need to be united to support our community. It is very sad news,' he said, adding the prayer 'God, please do not give this kind of death to others. 'People, they are born, and their death is a normal cycle for the human being, but this type of death is unbelievable.' Representatives from Sikh, Christian, Muslim, Jewish and Zoroastrian communities also led prayers at the ceremony, where the Guruji and Cllr Anjana Patel, the newly elected mayor of Harrow, revealed their personal connections to the tragedy. Shri Rajrajeshwar Guruji recalled his recent encounter with the former Gujarat chief minister, Vijay Rupani, who had visited the temple for tea. 'I remember he was sitting in my office, having tea, and suddenly, on the 12th of June, I heard the message. The person who I know very well, he is no more,' he said. 'Two weeks ago, I was talking to one of the family members [who were on the flight], and he was travelling back to India. He said, 'Guruji when I will be back, we will get together'. Now, the day is never going to come back.' The spiritual leader said the 'big lesson' from this tragedy is 'please be kind with your family and friends'. Attendees became visibly emotional after Cllr Anjana Patel addressed the plight of two young girls from Harrow who were orphaned in the crash. 'The saddest incident we have got here in Harrow is that one parent had already died here because of cancer,' she said, as the crowd audibly gasped. Their father, Arjun Patoliya, 37, had flown to India to scatter his wife's ashes. Bharti Patel, 43, had died of cancer just three weeks earlier. 'The husband goes to do the rituals in India, and coming back on that flight, he also is obviously no more,' said the mayor. 'So he has left two very small little girls behind. The girls are now orphans. I really, really do pray and hope that those girls will be very well looked after by all of us.' The Mayor, whose family is from Gujarat, the Indian state where the crash occurred, revealed she had lost a relative. 'I myself know that my sister-in-law's cousin has passed away in this incident,' she told the congregation. Speaking to The Telegraph afterwards, she reflected on her own personal grief. 'Every life lost is obviously very important, and I feel very sad about it. But when somebody is close to you, if you know them, even from a distance, it makes you even more sad, and it really breaks your heart when it happens,' she said. A patron of the temple's charity, Simon Ovens, who also acts as the King's representative, read out a personal message from His Majesty to the congregation. Signed 'Charles R', it said: 'My wife and I have been desperately shocked by the terrible events in Ahmedabad. Our special prayers and deepest possible sympathies are with the families and friends of all those affected by this appalling, tragic incident across so many nations as they await news of their loved ones.' His Majesty also paid tribute to 'the heroic efforts of the emergency services and all those providing help and support at this most heartbreaking and traumatic time'. The MP for East Harrow Bob Blackman also addressed the congregation, remarking on the scale and brutal nature of the community's loss, the death of 53 British nationals, which he said was 'the highest level of deaths of British nationals in an air crash ever.' 'We come together in mourning. When someone dies of illness, or old age, we celebrate their lives, we mourn the fact that they died. But when an air crash happens, completely unpredictable, people are taken away from us immediately, just like that.' Mr Blackman added: 'And now of course we move onto why did it happen, how did it happen, was there anything that could have been done to prevent this. 'Those investigations will go on and I know that the families will expect the position to be absolutely transparent because without that people will not have closure.'
The Independent
4 hours ago
- The Independent
He flew home to bury his father. The Air India crash took his life
Inside a modest two-bedroom apartment in India's Ahmedabad, Ravina Daniyal Christian clutches the edge of her tear-soaked scarf. The home is crowded with relatives but the only voice that carries through the room is hers – spilling with loss. Just fifteen days ago, she buried her husband. On 12 June, her 30-year-old son Lawrence Daniyal Christian, who had come home from London to perform the last rites of his father, was killed in the catastrophic Air India crash that has claimed at least 270 lives. 'He came only for a few days,' she says. 'He was returning on 12 June. Just a short visit – only to honour his father.' That final act of love has become a mother's worst nightmare. 'My husband is gone. And now, so is my son,' Ravina says, wailing. ' I have no one left to support me.' Lawrence had been working in London and slowly building a future that included his mother. 'He always said, 'Mummy, once I've paid off the loans on our apartment, I'll bring you to London,'' she says. 'That year will never come.' Her last memory of him is a short video call from his seat on the doomed flight. 'He said, 'I'll reach London around 10 or 11pm India time. Then I'll call you. I'm switching off the phone now.'' Ravina had dropped him at the airport that morning and returned to an empty home. 'I didn't feel like eating. I just had a paratha (fried Indian flatbread).' Then the phone rang. 'It was his friend. He told me to check the news – a plane had crashed. ' Panic-stricken, she rushed to Ahmedabad's Civil Hospital, searching every ward until late into the night. 'But I couldn't find him… My daughter gave her blood for the DNA test. But no one has told us anything since.' Just across town, 66-year-old Sarlaben David Christian is also coming to terms with a double tragedy. Her son Rozar and daughter-in-law Rachnaben – both London residents who had returned to India for medical treatment – were among the passengers killed when the Boeing 787 Dreamliner plummeted into a student hostel soon after take-off. 'They had flown in for just a few days,' she says, her voice strained. Her husband had driven them to the airport that morning. After checking in, Rozar called. ''Everything's done. You don't need to wait outside,' he said. 'You can go home.'' The final conversation ended with four words: 'I am comfortably seated.' Hours later, the family would learn about the crash that killed all but one of the 242 passengers onboard. Sarlaben's nephew William was the first to realise something was wrong. 'He saw a news alert, turned to his wife, and asked if Rozar and Rachna had left today. When she confirmed, he called my husband and said, 'There's been a crash. It might be their flight.'' Family members split into two teams – one went to the airport, another to the hospital. 'We searched every ward, every stretcher, hoping they were among the injured,' she recalls. 'But they weren't.' DNA samples were requested later that night. The bodies of several victims of the plane crash are expected to be released to their families by Sunday evening, following the completion of the DNA sampling process, The Independent has learnt. According to hospital officials, victims who could not be identified visually had their DNA samples submitted on Thursday. Their remains are likely to be handed over once the 72-hour verification window concludes. In the meantime, the bodies of victims identified through visible body marks are expected to be released either by Saturday evening or early Sunday morning. However, not all victims have undergone DNA sampling. For those cases, officials say the identification process may take longer, as DNA analysis typically requires a minimum of 72 hours. 'We found out… no one was alive,' says Sarlaben, hands trembling. 'Their bodies were in no condition to be seen. How do I describe the pain of losing a son I raised in my arms?' Rozar had long planned to settle in the UK. 'He wanted to buy a house there and bring us over one day,' she says. 'All those dreams have gone with him.' Among the dead was also an entire family of five – Dr Komi Vyas, her husband Dr Prateek Joshi, and their three young children. Dr Vyas, a medical professional from Udaipur, had recently resigned from her position at a local hospital to begin a new life in London with her husband, Dr Prateek Joshi. That fresh start was tragically cut short when the Air India flight they were on crashed shortly after take-off in Ahmedabad. A selfie taken on board the ill-fated Boeing 787 by Dr Joshi captures what would be their final family moment. In it, he and Dr Vyas are seen smiling in their seats, while their children – five-year-old twin boys, Nakul and Pradyut, and eight-year-old daughter, Miraya – sit across the aisle. The couple, both doctors, were well known in Udaipur's medical circles. They previously worked at Pacific Hospital before Dr Joshi moved to the UK several years ago. He had returned to their hometown of Banswara in Rajasthan earlier this week to accompany his wife and children back to London, where the family was planning to settle permanently. A close friend and college friend of Dr Vyas, who requests anonymity, shares the devastating news with The Independent. 'Komi was part of our 2004 MBBS (Bachelor of Medicine, Bachelor of Surgery) batch – always smiling, full of charm. Even after college, we stayed in touch. She used to visit my clinic in Ahmedabad when she worked as an assistant professor in Rajasthan. The last time I spoke to her was in December – she had reached out about a consultation for her sister.' He recalls how he found out about the tragedy. 'I was in the operation theatre when the crash happened. Around 2pm, I got a call from my wife, who was also Komi's classmate. She heard from a contact at Civil Hospital that Komi might have been on board the crashed flight. I rushed out of the OT and tried calling Komi, but there was no answer. Soon after, someone on our college WhatsApp group confirmed the devastating news – it was her, her three children, and her husband.' The family had travelled to India for a vacation and were returning to London to begin a new chapter. 'Komi and Prateek had planned to finally settle there now that their twins were turning five in August and their daughter was already of school-going age,' the friend explained. 'With the children a bit older, it would've been easier for Komi to manage in a new country. This was supposed to be their big move.' He also confirms that Dr Vyas's father had arrived in Ahmedabad and had submitted DNA samples for identification on Thursday. 'He's been at Civil Hospital since the day before yesterday, trying to complete the formalities. We've been told the children's bodies were found early this morning, and the process is underway.' As of Saturday evening, the remains of Dr Vyas and her family had not yet been released, pending DNA verification and identification. Some victims' bodies are expected to be released as DNA identification process nears completion. Suresh Patni, 47, stands alone outside the hospital mortuary, waiting for the handover of his 12-year-old son's remains. Akash Patni was charred beyond recognition when a passenger aircraft crashed into the college campus where his family ran a small tea stall. The boy had accompanied his mother, Sitabehen Patni, to their stall as he often did. Tired, he lay down to rest beneath a tree nearby. Moments later, the plane came crashing down, engulfing the area in flames. Akash, fast asleep, had no chance to escape. 'He was burnt alive while sleeping,' Patni says. 'I have not even seen his body yet. It is not in a condition to be seen. It is so burnt that it cannot be identified.' Patni says he has submitted identification documents to the hospital, including a PAN card in lieu of Aadhaar, to claim his son's body. 'The officials have told me they will hand it over by tonight or tomorrow morning.' His wife, Sitabehen, remains in the intensive care unit with serious burn injuries. 'She doesn't know he's gone,' he says. 'She's had more than 40 stitches to her face. The bleeding had to be stopped. I can't even begin to tell her what's happened.' Hospital authorities tells The Independent that most of the bodies recovered from the crash site have been shifted from the post-mortem room to cold storage, awaiting DNA confirmation and family handover. 'I am all by myself here. I don't know how I can bear to see him like that. How do I ask them to show me my son's body?' Patni says
Daily Mail
6 hours ago
- Daily Mail
He was chased by dogs, racially abused and faced brutal interrogations, but MELVYN DOWNES reveals how one VERY embarrassing moment almost scuppered his chances to become Britain's first black SAS soldier
Escape and evasion is at the heart of what the SAS is all about. The regiment often operates behind enemy lines so its men are much more likely to be separated from comrades or captured, and need to know how to evade a larger enemy force. This was the climax of the gruelling SAS selection course that had seen many ejected already, for which I – a black, working-class kid – was one of the few survivors. We returned to the freezing Welsh hills where we'd begun the selection process, to be pushed to the edge of our physical and mental capabilities. We were blindfolded and driven to an unknown mountain and moorland spot, handed a sketch map and told to rendezvous with an 'agent' at a particular location. When we reached the first checkpoint, we would be given another location, a mouthful of bread and cheese, and sent on our way. This process was then to be repeated over and over. Each wearing just an old Second World War-style greatcoat and a pair of laceless boots, we were let loose to be hunted by more than 1,000 soldiers who'd been promised a bonus if they captured us. They were accompanied by helicopters and police dog-handlers. The local farmers had been told to inform our hunters if they spotted anyone suspicious on their land. It was only possible to move at night; if you tried during the day you were guaranteed to get caught. And if you were spotted anywhere near a road or a track, you were instantly off the course. So we had to try to navigate over marshes and hills in the dark. If caught, you'd be beasted for a few hours, then released again. On the first night I split up with the man I'd been paired with as we sprinted blindly away from hunters whose torches we'd spotted approaching us. For hours I splashed across streams to throw dogs off my scent. Then I found a ditch, made a tunnel by pulling branches over myself and had lain there through the day lashed by constant rain. By the evening I was hungry, cold and wet and shivering uncontrollably. My legs and arms had been ripped to shreds by thorns. The greatcoat wrapped around my shoulders was so sodden that I doubted it offered any warmth at all, but nor could I contemplate abandoning what was my only piece of outerwear. Then I heard high shrieking yells. The dogs were near again. The hairs on my arm stood on end, my heart pounded. I knew this wasn't real, yet I had persuaded myself it was. That I was being chased, that I might be tortured or killed if I was captured. I'd figured that if I raised the stakes like that, I'd be less likely to throw in the towel when I was tired or hungry or cold or fed up. The barks grew closer, accompanied by the muffled sounds of men talking as they swarmed through the area, their feet bringing them closer and closer to my hideout. I needed to control my breathing and rein in my fear. That way I would be less likely to give off the pungent scent we produce when frightened and which the dogs would pick up. The voices were more distinct now, I heard the dogs panting. Damn, was this the end? I'd chosen a spot so choked with nettles and rotting mulch I was sure nobody would stop to investigate it, but what if I'd made some stupid error that led them to me? My mind cycled through all the possible options. They were just metres away. Twigs snapped, grass tore. My heart started to thump, so I turned my attention to my breathing again. Please, I thought, don't let me be captured. Then the sounds grew more distant, before disappearing. They were somebody else's problem now. A few minutes passed, I dared a glance through the thatch of plants. Night was falling. It was time to move. One, then two, then three and four days and nights went by. It was the last day of this stage. The end was in sight, though we knew that in a sense our suffering had just begun. If we made it through, ahead were countless hours 'in the bag' – meaning the bags placed over our heads before an interrogation process that would test us to the limit and maybe beyond. I'd never felt so feeble or alone. I wasn't sure if I was ready for this. It was a daunting prospect. I knew they'd do everything to break my mind. If they break your body, you can almost always find a way back. If they break your mind you risk being lost for ever. I was contemplating this as I walked in the dark through ragged woodland. I thought I spotted a face leering at me through foliage. There was someone there, a man with wild eyes and sunken cheeks, his skin almost black with dirt. The face broke into a crooked smile. It was Sammy, one of the oddballs on the course, a Marine in his mid-30s – towards the upper age limit – trying to get into the SBS, the Special Boat Squadron. We'd joked that he looked like Krusty the Clown from The Simpsons. He still did, though only if Krusty had spent the best part of a week hiding in a filthy trench while packs of dogs hunted him. I giggled at the thought, then realised I probably looked just as repellent. He came towards me and asked: 'Did you see that farm over there?' 'Yes,' I said. 'What have you had to eat?' 'Hardly anything, just a few roots.' Sammy had an idea: 'Let's go see what food we can find.' He had a point. We didn't know what exactly we were going to face while being interrogated but it stood to reason we'd need as much energy for it as we could muster. He went off to investigate and rushed back a minute or two later with a triumphant smile. Good, he's found some food, I thought. My mind ran away with me; a loaf of bread perhaps, or even brown bananas. I wasn't picky. 'Look at this,' he whispered, brandishing a plastic bottle in my face. Salad cream. I examined the label. 'It's three months out of date. No way am I eating that. I don't want to get ill.' 'Come on, have some!' he insisted. As I shook my head, he picked up a stick and started jabbing it into the bottle, bringing it up coated with thick gobbets of the salad cream. 'This is lovely.' Sammy and I stuck together, right up to when we were stopped by masked men who grabbed us, planted bags on our heads and shoved us on to the back of a truck of horse manure. As more and more candidates were picked up, they were hoisted on to the truck, thrown carelessly so they landed painfully on the blokes below. The truck rattled, our nostrils filled with the stink of excrement and the bodies of men who'd spent days living in the wild. I reminded myself of the instructions we'd been given about what we were allowed to reveal. Name, rank, number. Nothing else. And if we signed any piece of paper put in front of us we'd fail the course immediately. Straightforward enough, you'd think, but when you're exhausted and disorientated and on the wrong end of the tricks of experienced interrogators, it's anything but. After a while we were bundled off the truck and led to the interrogation centre, where our blindfolds were removed. It was dark and I could see very little. But I could instantly feel a change in the air temperature. For the first time in a week, I was warm. Instantly I began to feel drowsy, almost swaying on my feet. Perhaps I dozed while standing there, waiting for my turn, perhaps I didn't; I cannot be sure. I do remember being led into an even warmer office and the way the interrogator deliberately started talking to me in a soothing Canadian accent. I tried to focus but everything in my mind seemed fogged. I began to drift off. I was going deeper into sleep. Then his voice broke into my consciousness again. 'Thank you for telling me about your wife and kid.' I came to with a start. Had I? No, this is a trick. I turned to the man sitting beside him, trying to work out whether I'd really given this information away. This didn't help because he appeared to have turned as silent as Mickey Mouse. The interview ended and I was hauled out, bewildered and not confident I hadn't betrayed myself. I'd learn later that an officer on the course had been persuaded to put his signature on a document. Once he'd crossed that line, he started cheerfully signing paper after paper. That was the end of him. When we weren't being interrogated, we were forced to sit blindfolded in a stress position, cross-legged, back upright, with our hands on our heads. If at any point you slumped, or fell asleep, a guard would be on you in seconds, slapping you to bring you back up. Before long, every limb was filled with excruciating pain, our discomfort made worse by strobe lights flashing in our eyes and white noise blasting in our ears. Occasionally a cup of water would be brought to our lips to sip. We had to p*** where we sat. Sometimes they strode over and started beating us. The worst was a guy who seemed to enjoy it. Finally, I was brought into an interview room, where they told me to strip naked. There was a bloke I'd seen before and a new inquisitor, a good-looking blonde woman. I couldn't help but notice how tight her black top was. They made me open my legs, touch my toes, pull my butt cheeks apart. It was nasty, humiliating, though nothing I couldn't cope with. Then the interrogation began. To begin with it was standard good cop, bad cop, switching between threatening me and offering hot food and a shower if I signed the piece of paper they slid across the table to me. I imagined standing beneath a cascade of warming water that soothed my aching limbs and washed off the dirt that encrusted every inch of my skin. My hand twitched. My God, it was tempting. It couldn't hurt, could it? With an effort I dragged my mind back to the room and shook my head. 'No,' I said, smiling. My sense of reality felt frayed. But I had one thing to hold on to. It would soon be over. I knew that in July it got light at about 4am. I also knew the interrogation phase usually finished at around 11am. And that would be it, I'd have done it. I was sure I'd seen a glow of light through my blindfold and that an entire rotation had passed since then. This was the last block of four hours I needed to survive. The woman leaned across the table. Something in her face changed, her eyes filled with malice. She pointed to my penis. 'Pull your foreskin back.' I did what I was told. 'Now pull it forward.' I obeyed. She repeated the instructions. Baffled, I carried on. Then she sneered: 'Are you w****** over me, you disgusting n*****?' Right, I thought, this is the game, is it? To be honest there was no word she could say that I hadn't heard as a black kid growing up on a council estate in Stoke-on-Trent. Her insults took a more demeaning turn. Then, somehow, as she edged that bit closer to me, and I saw her chest in my eyeline and smelled her perfume, I imagined her naked. It was just for a fleeting second, but it was enough. Blood rushed to my penis; it jerked upwards. Oh, God. She noticed immediately and did her best to control her reaction. A smile flashed across her face, then after a brief struggle, she laughed. And I did too. It was all so ridiculous. And yet it could mean me failing the course, even at this late stage. We'd been told we had to take it all seriously. The idea that this might be the reason I got chucked off felt cosmically unfair. And yet, I wondered, maybe it was a weakness in me they'd managed to find. That's what they were here to do. Panic mounted in me. As I contemplated this, she managed to master herself. 'Get that black b****** the f*** out of here!' I was blindfolded, dragged out and thrown on to concrete by a man screaming obscenities in my ear. I heard the hiss of a hose and suddenly a high pressure jet of icy water slammed into me. The jet was so strong it lifted my blindfold and to my horror I saw it was still dark. I'd convinced myself it was about 8am but it was still the dead of night. My miscalculation devastated me. There were still hours to go. The finishing line was in sight but I was so tired, so addled, I came closer in those moments to quitting than at any other point of the course. I saw no way I could go on. It was precisely at that moment I heard one of our guys being pulled past me, sobbing like a baby. I heard some shuffling and pushing, then sensed that whoever he was had been placed in the stress position. He's in a worse state than me, I thought. I wonder who it is? That's when I got an unmistakeable whiff of salad cream. It could only be Sammy. I thought of his funny sad face, his clown's tuft of filthy hair. For the second time in 30 minutes I found myself giggling. Somehow, this was exactly what I needed. No matter how bad I was having it, it was nothing compared to what he was going through. It wasn't much, but it was enough to get me through the last stretch of the ordeal. And then it really was over. Just a handful of us had passed. We were told the news in a cold hangar in the same flat, emotionless way all information had been delivered to us over the past weeks. There were no congratulations, no pats on the back. I looked around at the handful of other soldiers, including, I was pleased to see, Sammy, who'd made it. Every single one of them looked crazy, their eyes enormous and spaced-out, their cheeks hollow. These defeated, wasted blokes were unrecognisable from the strong, healthy specimens who'd started the course. And yet they were the ones who had passed. I was too broken to react immediately. It was only later that I felt my spirits soar as, in front of the clock tower at the regiment's headquarters in Hereford, we were given the sand-coloured berets we'd worked so hard for. I'd made it. The black working-class kid was in the SAS, one of the first British-born black men to join. It was a dream come true.
