How Morarji Desai, while PM, survived an air crash in 1977
The memoirs of Morarji Desai's chief security liaison officer John Lobo offer intricate details of the airplane accident on November 4, 1977 and what followed after
On November 4, 1977, a Russian-made TU 124 plane carrying Desai crash-landed in a paddy field at Tetalgaon village, around 23 km from Jorhat in Assam. Desai, the phlegmatic Gandhian, known for his obsession with urine therapy and prohibition, escaped with minor injuries, and remained unfazed.
Accompanying Desai on the flight was his chief security liaison officer John Lobo. Lobo, a police officer from Maharashtra, was the first IPS officer to head the crime branch of Bombay police, as it was then known. As DCP (crime), he oversaw the probe in the 1959 Commander Kawas Nanavati case in which the Indian Navy officer shot his wife’s lover Prem Ahuja and turned himself in to the police.
Lobo was later sent on deputation to the government of India and was joint director, Intelligence Bureau (IB). Here, he served as chief security liaison officer to prime minister Desai.
Lobo provides a first-hand account of the air crash and its aftermath in his memoirs Leaves from a Policeman’s Diary (1992).
Of the 25 people, including the crew, on this flight, 20 survived, some with minor injuries and some with multiple fractures. “How they came through this experience is a miracle in aviation history worth narration. Five air force personnel who operated this flight did not live to see the next day as the cockpit in which they were travelling disintegrated completely,” writes Lobo in the chapter ‘Miracles Do Happen’.
Desai was flying to the Northeast with Arunachal Pradesh on the itinerary. Wing Commander Clarence Joseph D’Lima was the pilot and Squadron Leader Cyriac the co-pilot. Lobo wrote that around 5 pm, the silver-grey TU 124 ‘Pushpak’ took off from Delhi’s Palam airport in clear weather.
Desai was accompanied by a 13-member party, which included P.K. Thungon, then chief minister of Arunachal Pradesh; Narayan Desai, the Sarvodaya worker and son of Mahatma Gandhi's secretary Mahadev Desai; the prime minister’s son Kantibhai Desai, two correspondents and a photographer, and Lobo. The flying time was two-and-a-half hours.
The weather at Jorhat was cloudy and the plan was to proceed to Tezpur if they could not land at Jorhat. “In the visible range of sight, the lights of Jorhat town and Rowriah airfield twinkled in the darkness of the night as they beckoned us to land. We readied ourselves, collected our papers and closed our briefcases as the cautionary lights came on the panels: ‘Fasten seat belts: No smoking’,” writes Lobo.
“The powerful lights concealed in the wings of the plane came on and in the glow we could see the plane making a low pass close to the tarmac of the airfield. It did not touch down. The captain pulled up the aircraft, his engines throbbing with new vigour and climbed into space to commence a landing circuit. The heavy-bodied TU 124 plane, I was informed, needed a long runway. It appeared the pilot had overflown the marker or there may have been other reasons for the pull-up,” writes Lobo.
Lobo walked to the cockpit to check if there was any change in the plan to land at Jorhat. “I tried to operate the knob of the cockpit door to meet the captain. It would not open easily. Strange things happen sometimes. There is a destiny that shapes our lives. Had I gained access to the cockpit and stayed there to give instructions, I may not have lived to tell this tale. The prime minister had noticed me abortively operating the knob. Pragmatic in his approach, he advised me to return to my seat confident that the local authorities will measure up to requirements,” Lobo noted later.
Back in his seat, Lobo felt the plane was cruising on a longer circuit. “Minutes kept ticking and, after some time, I felt the plane commencing a second descent. Looking out, the view was unfamiliar. The lights of Jorhat or Rowriah airfield were nowhere in sight. It was pitch dark outside. The plane was descending fast, giving out its eerie whistle. An uncertain feeling crept over me. All of a sudden, the plane wobbled. Within seconds, there was a heavy thud and a crashing sound. As the plane careered, all hell was let loose with briefcases and other articles hurtling down,” he recalls in his book.
The aircraft had come to a halt against an earthen mound overgrown with shrubs. Had this not providentially intervened to impede the path of the plane, it would have run into the village huts, causing loss to life and property as the plane was then cruising at a speed of around 300 miles per hour. It appeared that some control or some panel instrument had failed. The left wing of the plane sliced the trunks of the trees like a knife cutting through butter.
It was pitch dark within and outside. The dazed retinue was concerned about Desai, whose cabin was separated from the cockpit by the baggage compartment, which acted as a buffer. Desai said he was all right. The party managed to force open the rear door of the plane, and Desai “slid down the panel onto the waterlogged paddy field into which we had landed”.
Three members of the party had multiple fractures and others had minor injuries or were recovering from shock. Villagers helped organise first-aid. “The stoic PM accepted the incident as just another accident and silenced Narayan Desai when he spoke aloud about an inquiry. Narayan Desai in true Sarvodaya fashion persuaded the assembled villagers to sing bhajans in Assamese till relief arrived. Govindan Kutty and Swamy, press correspondents, oblivious of their injuries, picked up a couple of villagers and made for the nearest telephone. They had a task to perform. Trekking on foot, they found a telephone and filed their despatches. The nation had to be given authentic information of the crash,” writes Lobo.
Flight Lieutenant Ravindran, who was on the plane, borrowed a cycle from the village and with a villager on the pillion seat, made his way, to the Rowriah airfield. He was the first person to give the correct location of the crash to the authorities.
Wing Commander D’Lima, who was found lying on his back with his legs twisted and distorted, passed away soon after. The mangled bodies of the four crew members were also found.
“Dust thou art and to dust shall thou return—as the scriptures say. This truism was never brought home more vividly. Dead men tell no tales. What transpired in the nerve centre of the cockpit in those last tense moments when the plane was racing towards Mother Earth, will never be known,” writes Lobo.
Soon, relief operations began when the location of the crash was known. At the Air Force Hospital at Jorhat, where they were shifted for medical attention, a nurse brought a change of hospital clothes for Desai. The Gandhian promptly enquired if they were khadi! “The nonplussed nurse was about to rush back to her matron when he pointed to his retrieved attach case which had a khadi set of clothes, and relieved her of any further discomfiture,” he wrote.
“For all of us, the gift of a second life was tinged with poignancy and sadness. What went wrong in the planning of men and experts—the man or the machine or both? The Air Force appointed a commission of inquiry, and perhaps they found the answer. The report has not surfaced for public consumption and while it is gathering dust in the archives of the secretariat, the memory of the gallant five will linger on,” writes Lobo, who went on to head the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI) and the Interpol Division, National Crime Bureau, India.
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On November 4, 1977, a Russian-made TU 124 plane carrying Desai crash-landed in a paddy field at Tetalgaon village, around 23 km from Jorhat in Assam. Desai, the phlegmatic Gandhian, known for his obsession with urine therapy and prohibition, escaped with minor injuries, and remained unfazed.
Accompanying Desai on the flight was his chief security liaison officer John Lobo. Lobo, a police officer from Maharashtra, was the first IPS officer to head the crime branch of Bombay police, as it was then known. As DCP (crime), he oversaw the probe in the 1959 Commander Kawas Nanavati case in which the Indian Navy officer shot his wife’s lover Prem Ahuja and turned himself in to the police.
Lobo was later sent on deputation to the government of India and was joint director, Intelligence Bureau (IB). Here, he served as chief security liaison officer to prime minister Desai.
Lobo provides a first-hand account of the air crash and its aftermath in his memoirs Leaves from a Policeman’s Diary (1992).
Of the 25 people, including the crew, on this flight, 20 survived, some with minor injuries and some with multiple fractures. “How they came through this experience is a miracle in aviation history worth narration. Five air force personnel who operated this flight did not live to see the next day as the cockpit in which they were travelling disintegrated completely,” writes Lobo in the chapter ‘Miracles Do Happen’.
Desai was flying to the Northeast with Arunachal Pradesh on the itinerary. Wing Commander Clarence Joseph D’Lima was the pilot and Squadron Leader Cyriac the co-pilot. Lobo wrote that around 5 pm, the silver-grey TU 124 ‘Pushpak’ took off from Delhi’s Palam airport in clear weather.
Desai was accompanied by a 13-member party, which included P.K. Thungon, then chief minister of Arunachal Pradesh; Narayan Desai, the Sarvodaya worker and son of Mahatma Gandhi's secretary Mahadev Desai; the prime minister’s son Kantibhai Desai, two correspondents and a photographer, and Lobo. The flying time was two-and-a-half hours.
The weather at Jorhat was cloudy and the plan was to proceed to Tezpur if they could not land at Jorhat. “In the visible range of sight, the lights of Jorhat town and Rowriah airfield twinkled in the darkness of the night as they beckoned us to land. We readied ourselves, collected our papers and closed our briefcases as the cautionary lights came on the panels: ‘Fasten seat belts: No smoking’,” writes Lobo.
“The powerful lights concealed in the wings of the plane came on and in the glow we could see the plane making a low pass close to the tarmac of the airfield. It did not touch down. The captain pulled up the aircraft, his engines throbbing with new vigour and climbed into space to commence a landing circuit. The heavy-bodied TU 124 plane, I was informed, needed a long runway. It appeared the pilot had overflown the marker or there may have been other reasons for the pull-up,” writes Lobo.
Lobo walked to the cockpit to check if there was any change in the plan to land at Jorhat. “I tried to operate the knob of the cockpit door to meet the captain. It would not open easily. Strange things happen sometimes. There is a destiny that shapes our lives. Had I gained access to the cockpit and stayed there to give instructions, I may not have lived to tell this tale. The prime minister had noticed me abortively operating the knob. Pragmatic in his approach, he advised me to return to my seat confident that the local authorities will measure up to requirements,” Lobo noted later.
Back in his seat, Lobo felt the plane was cruising on a longer circuit. “Minutes kept ticking and, after some time, I felt the plane commencing a second descent. Looking out, the view was unfamiliar. The lights of Jorhat or Rowriah airfield were nowhere in sight. It was pitch dark outside. The plane was descending fast, giving out its eerie whistle. An uncertain feeling crept over me. All of a sudden, the plane wobbled. Within seconds, there was a heavy thud and a crashing sound. As the plane careered, all hell was let loose with briefcases and other articles hurtling down,” he recalls in his book.
The aircraft had come to a halt against an earthen mound overgrown with shrubs. Had this not providentially intervened to impede the path of the plane, it would have run into the village huts, causing loss to life and property as the plane was then cruising at a speed of around 300 miles per hour. It appeared that some control or some panel instrument had failed. The left wing of the plane sliced the trunks of the trees like a knife cutting through butter.
It was pitch dark within and outside. The dazed retinue was concerned about Desai, whose cabin was separated from the cockpit by the baggage compartment, which acted as a buffer. Desai said he was all right. The party managed to force open the rear door of the plane, and Desai “slid down the panel onto the waterlogged paddy field into which we had landed”.
Three members of the party had multiple fractures and others had minor injuries or were recovering from shock. Villagers helped organise first-aid. “The stoic PM accepted the incident as just another accident and silenced Narayan Desai when he spoke aloud about an inquiry. Narayan Desai in true Sarvodaya fashion persuaded the assembled villagers to sing bhajans in Assamese till relief arrived. Govindan Kutty and Swamy, press correspondents, oblivious of their injuries, picked up a couple of villagers and made for the nearest telephone. They had a task to perform. Trekking on foot, they found a telephone and filed their despatches. The nation had to be given authentic information of the crash,” writes Lobo.
Flight Lieutenant Ravindran, who was on the plane, borrowed a cycle from the village and with a villager on the pillion seat, made his way, to the Rowriah airfield. He was the first person to give the correct location of the crash to the authorities.
Wing Commander D’Lima, who was found lying on his back with his legs twisted and distorted, passed away soon after. The mangled bodies of the four crew members were also found.
“Dust thou art and to dust shall thou return—as the scriptures say. This truism was never brought home more vividly. Dead men tell no tales. What transpired in the nerve centre of the cockpit in those last tense moments when the plane was racing towards Mother Earth, will never be known,” writes Lobo.
Soon, relief operations began when the location of the crash was known. At the Air Force Hospital at Jorhat, where they were shifted for medical attention, a nurse brought a change of hospital clothes for Desai. The Gandhian promptly enquired if they were khadi! “The nonplussed nurse was about to rush back to her matron when he pointed to his retrieved attach case which had a khadi set of clothes, and relieved her of any further discomfiture,” he wrote.
“For all of us, the gift of a second life was tinged with poignancy and sadness. What went wrong in the planning of men and experts—the man or the machine or both? The Air Force appointed a commission of inquiry, and perhaps they found the answer. The report has not surfaced for public consumption and while it is gathering dust in the archives of the secretariat, the memory of the gallant five will linger on,” writes Lobo, who went on to head the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI) and the Interpol Division, National Crime Bureau, India.
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