Varanasi Commissioner, DM laud cultural heritage work at Gyan Pravah
Varanasi: Divisional Commissioner S. Rajalingam and DM Satyendra Kumar visited the Cultural Study and Research Centre, Gyan Pravah at Samne Ghat, on Saturday. The visit focused on reviewing the institution's contributions to preserving India's cultural and artistic heritage.
During the museum tour, both officials took keen interest in the rare collections of copper plates and coins. They also viewed ancient manuscripts housed in the library and appreciated the meticulous preservation efforts undertaken by the centre.
While touring the campus, the officials visited the Yagyashala, where they were briefed by executive administrator Lalit Kumar and assistant director Neeraj Kumar Pandey about its cultural and ritualistic significance. Commissioner Rajalingam directed that the institution communicate its requirements to the administration so that appropriate support could be extended. The delegation also visited the craft workshop, where coordinator Pramod Giri demonstrated the traditional techniques involved in making Ashtadhatu statues.
Both the Commissioner and DM praised the centre's role in sustaining ancient craftsmanship. tnn
Follow more information on
Air India plane crash in Ahmedabad here
. Get
real-time live updates
on rescue operations and check
full list of passengers onboard AI 171
.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Time of India
43 minutes ago
- Time of India
‘How do I talk to him, he is in the box': Mother mourns AI crash victim as body arrives in city after time-consuming DNA confirmation process
Pune: As a sombre crowd gathered at Sant Tukaramnagar in Pimpri on Saturday to bid a final farewell to 22-year-old Irfan Shaikh , a crew member of the ill-fated Air India plane that crashed moments after takeoff in Ahmedabad on June 12, his mother, Taslim, sat frozen in grief, clinging to the coffin containing her son's lifeless body, her eyes fixed and hands trembling as if unwilling to let go of her child. With relatives and her husband Samir trying to console her, Taslim gazed at the coffin and and murmured, "How do I talk to him? He's in the box." The family performed the last rites at the Hazrat Bilal Eidgah cemetery in Nehrunagar, Pimpri Chinchwad, around 10am. Irfan's mortal remains were handed over to the family late Friday evening after DNA confirmation. The family brought the body to Pune airport around 7am on Saturday. A large crowd comprising relatives, friends and politicians from various parties gathered to pay their respects. The 22-year-old, who was very attached to his mother, made it a point to call his mother before every takeoff and after every landing. Having spoken to her before the ill-fated flight took off, the family knew he was on board when the crash occurred. Upon hearing the about the crash, the family rushed to Ahmedabad that evening, but the DNA matching process delayed the handover of his body, relative Taher said. by Taboola by Taboola Sponsored Links Sponsored Links Promoted Links Promoted Links You May Like What She Did Mid-Air Left Passengers Speechless medalmerit Learn More Undo Azhar Khan, another relative, said Taslim was still in a state of deep shock and unable to come to terms with the irreparable loss. "She has not shed a single tear, she is still in trauma," he said, adding that she continued to dial Irfan's phone number, clinging to the hope that he might somehow respond. "Taslim's silence is concerning us. We want her to express her emotions, to cry or talk, as this numbness is worsening her state," Azhar said. Irfan, a dedicated aviation professional, joined Air Vistara as cabin crew nearly two years ago after completing training in Pune. He initially flew domestic routes and later transitioned to international flights after Vistara merged with Air India. Tragically, his third day back on duty after a short break to celebrate Bakri Eid with his family in Pune turned out to be his last, as Air India Flight 171 crashed in Ahmedabad on June 12. He lived in a rented flat in Mumbai while his family resided in Pune. Among those who gathered to bid him farewell were also his childhood friends from DY Patil School, where Irfan studied up to Std X. "He was one of the few from our group who began working early and made us proud," a friend said, adding, "Even with his hectic schedule, he made time to meet us whenever he was in here." Irfan's father runs a shop in Sant Tukaramnagar, while his elder brother, Amir, is an IT professional and his mother is a homemaker.
Time of India
an hour ago
- Time of India
‘How do I talk, he's in box': Mother of AI's Shaikh mourns as body arrives
Pune: As a sombre crowd gathered at Sant Tukaramnagar in Pimpri on Saturday to bid a final farewell to 22-year-old , a crew member of the ill-fated Air India plane that crashed moments after takeoff in Ahmedabad on June 12, his mother, Taslim, sat frozen in grief, clinging to the coffin containing her son's lifeless body, her eyes fixed and hands trembling as if unwilling to let go of her child. Tired of too many ads? go ad free now With relatives and her husband Samir trying to console her, Taslim gazed at the coffin and murmured, "How do I talk to him? He's in the box." The family performed the last rites at the Hazrat Bilal Eidgah cemetery in Nehrunagar, Pimpri Chinchwad, around 10am. Irfan's mortal remains were handed over to the family late Friday evening after DNA confirmation. The family brought the body to Pune airport around 7am on Saturday. A large crowd comprising relatives, friends and politicians from various parties gathered to pay their respects. The 22-year-old, who was very attached to his mother, made it a point to call his mother before every takeoff and after every landing. Having spoken to her before the ill-fated flight took off, the family knew he was on board when the crash occurred. Upon hearing the about the crash, the family rushed to Ahmedabad that evening, but the DNA matching process delayed the handover of his body, relative Taher said. Azhar Khan, another relative, said Taslim was still in a state of deep shock. "She has not shed a single tear, she is still in trauma," he said, adding that she continued to dial Irfan's phone number, clinging to the hope that he might somehow respond. "Taslim's silence is concerning us," Azhar said. Irfan, a dedicated aviation professional, joined Air Vistara as cabin crew nearly two years ago after completing training in Pune. He initially flew domestic routes and later transitioned to international flights after Vistara merged with Air India. Tragically, his third day back on duty after a short break to celebrate Bakri Eid with his family in Pune turned out to be his last.
Time of India
an hour ago
- Time of India
'That moment when I didn't know how to be a journalist'
Ahmedabad : Grief is supposed to be personal. But when it emanates from an accident playing out in the public, it ceases being private. At the crash site of Air India flight AI171 in Ahmedabad, grief played out under the intense eye of the world. Families clung to photos, whispered prayers, and searched desperately for pieces of their loved ones, surrounded by rescue workers, police, journalists, and the curious. by Taboola by Taboola Sponsored Links Sponsored Links Promoted Links Promoted Links You May Like Play War Thunder now for free War Thunder Play Now Undo I had come to cover the story. To document the first draft of history. To ask questions. But what I discovered standing outside the gates of BJ Medical College , was that, in that place and at that moment, I didn't know how to be a journalist. What I saw refuses to leave me: Two Manipuri sisters had arrived to call back the souls of their loved ones - cabin crew members who had died when the aircraft crashed into a hostel. Live Events One collapsed, wailing. The other stared at the blackened walls. They performed a ceremony - Thawaimi Kousinba - lighting incense, laying out marigolds, and delicately saying words that felt like a goodbye. I stood there, teary-eyed, clutching my notebook, unable to write. It was a story. A human story. And that too an 'exclusive' one. But I couldn't bring myself to speak to them. FLIGHTLESS WINGS On June 12, I was at an office event when my phone buzzed. A plane crash in Ahmedabad. For a moment, I had dismissed it - probably a training aircraft, I had assumed. Then another message: Air India Dreamliner. International flight. Crashed into a hostel. My boss had found me before I found him. "Forum, go to Ahmedabad. Now. We need the human story. We need the aviation story". It should have been an adrenaline rush for any journalist. But I couldn't shake off the feeling - I was chasing a story built on someone else's tragedy. What was the difference between me and an ambulance chaser? By the time I arrived at about 1 am, the fire had long been extinguished, but the search continued. Gloves and masks were strewn across the wide lane leading up to the site. Against the wall lay a 200-feet clipped wing and scorched, with wires spilling out and metal torn to shreds. Perched atop was a hyper-local journalist, performing into a phone mic as his partner filmed him. Aviation journalists all carry their own quiet bucket lists. Some chase cockpit rides, others dream of making an in-flight announcement over the crew phone. For me, it was standing on the wing of a parked aircraft - a simple, almost childlike aspiration tied to the fascination of being an aviation journalist. Irony was, when I finally stood before one, the wing was charred, clipped, and lifeless. It was right there, just a few feet away. But no part of me wanted to stand on it now. This was not how I imagined it would feel. We reached the hospital at 2 am. It was still buzzing. Sirens of ambulances screeched through the night, cutting through the silence, carrying the weight of smoke, dust, and grief that lingered in the aftermath. At the hospital, my colleague and I found a crack in the window near the post-mortem room and peered in. "That is...", I asked. He nodded. A charred arm slipped out of the white cloth and hit the floor. The doctor picked it up, still in conversation with his colleague, and cut into the flesh for DNA testing. My stomach churned. I looked away. GRIEF'S DNA By the second day, the crash site and the hospital had turned into a spectacle. Grieving families jostled with reporters shoving microphones, cameras clicked relentlessly, security personnel barked orders to push people back, but the curious climbed walls to get a better view. The crash brought a media frenzy of over 700-800 journalists from across the globe. Tragedy had become content. Anilbhai, a widower, sat on a hard bench outside the post-mortem room. He'd lost his only son and daughter-in-law. He told me their story as he had told many others before me. "They were going to take me with them," he said. "Now I am all alone. Now I am all alone." Neither of us could hold back our tears. Inside the DNA testing room, I was speaking to a family member of one of the crew when an Air India staffer quietly asked me to step aside. No argument. Just a quiet assertion that I didn't belong there at that moment. I stepped away. Some lines didn't need to be crossed. SHARED EXHAUSTION Over the next few days, the hospital became a revolving stage of familiar faces - cops, hospital staff, volunteers, Air India employees and journalists. We barely knew each other, but we recognised each other's exhaustion. A quiet nod, a shared bench - small acts of unspoken solidarity in the middle of a catastrophe. In most cases we didn't know each other's names, but familial smiles and offering a seat or a bottle of water came naturally. Including the Air India staff that asked me to step aside a few days ago. In the heat that refused to relent, I found a two-star female officer near a barricade outside the hostel. She hadn't been home in over two days. Her shift was about to end when she was told to stay put - a political leader was coming, and the site needed to be secured again. She didn't complain. She didn't have time to. On one of the days at the crash site, I heard a cat-like howl. It went on for more than 15 minutes. I thought two cats were fighting. I tried peeping from above the wall and spotted a black and white dog covered in soot, howling and whining softly. I later learnt he was sitting under the handcart of a tea-vendor, his usual haunt. In a viral video from the crash site, a woman can be seen running towards the man shooting the video. She was the tea stall owner. Her only son had gone to serve tea inside. Later, it was known he lost his life too. The dog which was inside too, had eventually been rescued. On the other side, I watched as a group of men tried to scale a broken wall to get closer to the crash site. The female officer banged her stick on the ground, ordering them to leave. They laughed and said: "Aagad jaiye, tyan thi saaru dekha se." Which translated to, let's go ahead, we'll probably get a better view from there. Even in the middle of unimaginable grief, someone is always trying to get a better view. Between curiosity and cruelty, the line is always thinner than we think. Sitting in the investigator's office, I noticed the deep lines etched into his face, the kind exhaustion that seeps into your bones. He told me he had spoken to the first responders - the airport staff, the ATC officials, the police, the emergency crews. "They are shattered," he said quietly. "Some of them saw it happen with their own eyes. They can't unsee it. The sound, the fire, the falling - it plays on a loop in their heads." A TOUGH ASK I spent a week in Ahmedabad. Before I went to the airport, I made one last stop at the crash site. By then, as DNA matches trickled in, families had begun to find closure. On the way, I passed at least six row houses, each holding the same quiet ritual. A white cloth laid out like a sacred square. A garlanded photo. A burning incense stick. A prayer muttered to the heavens. Grief had spilled from the crash site into homes, into streets, into the air. When my car pulled up near the barricades, I saw flower petals scattered across the road. Someone told me that a family had paused here on their way to the cremation ground. Maybe it was closure. But closure, like everything else in this tragedy, was going to be a tough ask.
