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Malaysian Reserve
2 days ago
- Malaysian Reserve
Air India crash points to cockpit confusion as fuel flow cut out
THE Air India jetliner that crashed on June 12 was doomed almost immediately upon taking off, after both engines lost fuel supply and the pilots ran out of time to regain control and avert catastrophe. A preliminary 15-page report filed on July 11 provided the first detailed account of the fateful 32 seconds between takeoff in Ahmedabad and the descent into an urban district just beyond the airport perimeter, where the Boeing Co. 787 exploded, killing all but one of the 242 people on board. Investigators laid out the sequence of events with exact timestamps, providing a harrowing picture of the plane's final moments. But the findings leave unanswered one central question: Why and by whom were two fuel switches in the cockpit moved to a cut-off position as the jet nosed into the air, starving the two powerful engines of thrust just as the plane required the most lift. At the controls for the aircraft's final journey was First Officer Clive Kunder, a pilot with roughly 1,100 flight hours on Boeing's most advanced jet. The report identified him as pilot flying, while Sumeet Sabharwal, the more experienced and senior cockpit occupant in command, was pilot monitoring for the flight. It's common for a captain and co-pilot to switch flying duties, particularly on longer journeys. Under typical pilot protocol, Kunder would have had one hand on the yoke commanding the widebody into the skies, and another on the throttle controlling the plane's speed. The crew captain would have handled air traffic communications and responded to Kunder's instructions. All seemed normal as the Boeing 787 lifted off into a clear sky in the western Indian city en route to London's Gatwick airport. There was no significant bird activity in the flight path, all but ruling out a collision that could have damaged the engines. Then, according to a chronology laid out by Indian authorities, the two fuel switches in the plane's center console were flipped, about one second apart. It's unclear what prompted the maneuver, but it crippled the plane during a critical phase of flight. A fan, known as the ram air turbine, dropped below the plane's belly to provide emergency power, all while the 787 was still within view of airport cameras. On board, the pilots had a brief exchange — the only cockpit conversation mentioned in the report aside from a final 'mayday' call just seconds before impact. 'In the cockpit voice recording, one of the pilots is heard asking the other why did he cutoff,' the investigators wrote. 'The other pilot responded that he did not do so.' The report didn't identify which of the two men asked the other about the move. It would take about 10 seconds for the first switch to return to its run position, restoring the flow of fuel to the engine, and 14 seconds for the second to be turned back on. Given the aircraft had barely lifted off and was at a critical phase of its flight, that's an eternity for pilots only a few hundred feet above ground and facing a life-threatening emergency. 'It's just strange,' said Bjorn Fehrm, an aerospace engineer and former fighter pilot who is a technical analyst with Leeham News. 'I would never, ever wait 10 seconds to put them on again. I would put them on in a jiffy.' While both engines were relit, only the first one started to regain power before the 787 plunged to the ground. The sequence of events was gleaned from different data points, including the cockpit voice and flight-data recorders that were recovered from the wreckage. There's no mention in the report of any additional exchanges in the cockpit or of any noises on the flight deck that the sensitive microphones would have picked up. 'The most important information is the voice dialog between the pilots, and we only get one line, which is totally inadequate,' said Fehrm. That leaves other key questions unanswered, including how the two pilots interacted as the aircraft sagged back to the ground, and who was ultimately in control in those frantic final seconds. Why one of the men would have conducted the unusual and highly risky maneuver of manipulating both fuel toggles also remains unknown. The switches are secured with a mechanism that requires a specific movement to shift them between on and off mode. And they are idled only when the plane is on the ground, or in an extreme emergency during flight, such as an engine fire. Given the trajectory of flight, starving the aircraft of fuel seconds after takeoff made it almost impossible to save the plane because the jet had just left the ground, providing very little recovery room. The Boeing 787 crashed just outside the airport boundary, having grazed some trees before plunging into a hostel packed with students. Some 19 people died on the ground, the report found. The preliminary version hinted at another matter to be explored by investigators, without elaborating. It flagged an airworthiness bulletin by the Federal Aviation Administration from 2018 that said that some fuel control switches on Boeing planes including the smaller 737 and the 787 were installed without their locking mechanism engaged. The Air India jet was not inspected for that mechanism fault as the matter was not mandatory. No defect relating to the switches had been reported since the throttle control module was replaced in 2023, the report said. Investigators said that they found no evidence so far that would require them to take actions over the Boeing aircraft or the GE Aerospace engines powering it. 'At this stage of investigation, there are no recommended actions to B787-8 and/or GE GEnx-1B engine operators and manufacturers,' according to the report from the Aircraft Accident Investigation Bureau. The National Transportation Safety Board referred any questions to Indian authorities. Air India said it's unable to comment on specific details of the investigation and it was cooperating with officials. Boeing said it continues to support the investigation and Air India and referred questions to the AAIB. The people conducting the probe are also looking at the backgrounds and experience of the pilots — a normal step for this kind of investigation. Sabharwal had about 8,500 flight hours, according to the report. Both pilots were based at Mumbai and had arrived in Ahmedabad the previous day with 'adequate rest period' prior to the flight, the report said. 'We now know — with some degree of confidence — that both engines rolled back because these fuel switches were activated,' said Jeff Guzzetti, a former accident investigation chief for the US Federal Aviation Administration. 'We just don't know why or how these switches were activated and that's going to be a big part of this investigation.' A final report that seeks to determine the cause of the incident will take months to compile. –BLOOMBERG
New Straits Times
2 days ago
- New Straits Times
True grit: Malaysia's first Indian policewoman during the Emergency
HER wrinkled hands hover uncertainly over the organ keys before pressing a chord. There are faltering starts, a few wrong notes, but memory works in curious ways. Though her mind may be clouded, muscle memory guides her fingers to familiar places. From the tangle of discordant notes, a song slowly knits itself together in Malayalam. Her voice — still melodious after all these years — carries echoes of her Carnatic training. She once played the harmonium, and the discipline lingers. Glancing up from the keys, she says softly: "It means… 'How great is God's love'." It's the translation of the old Malayalam hymn she'd just sung. Then, she turns back to the organ, playing a few more notes, her brow furrowed in quiet concentration as she searches her memory for hymns from long ago. Emily Koshy, who turns 91 this October and was once among the first seven policewomen in Malaya, may be slower to recall names, dates or even musical notes — but her focus remains steady. Age has brought hesitation, not taken away her resolve. At the organ, she sits quietly, piecing together the music of her past. We're not related, despite sharing the same surname. But years ago, when my late father met her during her posting in Melaka, he was struck by her presence and professionalism. So much so that when his youngest daughter (my sister) was born, he named her Emily Koshy. That's how the name found its way into our family. She smiles when I share the story. She doesn't need help walking from the organ to the couch. The three-footed walking aid is there, just in case, but Koshy refuses to use it. Now seated beside me, she falls into a thoughtful silence, her gaze distant as she reaches for fragments of a life lived long ago. Her story is a familiar one, occasionally retold in the news — and for good reason. With a sterling career behind her, it's no surprise that Koshy still draws attention. After all, being a policewoman at a time when few women served — and even fewer in roles demanding grit and courage — is a story worth telling, again and again. "They scolded him!" she exclaims with a chuckle. By "him," she meant her father — the man who had made the bold, unconventional decision to encourage her to join the police force. "Friends and family were worried. They told him he was making a mistake by sending his only daughter out there!" But her father wasn't worried. "It was a job," she explains simply, with a shrug. "He believed I could do it. He knew my character." And he had every reason to. As a student, the young Koshy was active and driven — head girl at Sultan Abu Bakar Girls' School in Muar, a debater and an athlete who played both hockey and netball. She was also impressively multilingual, speaking eight languages: English, Malay, Tamil, Malayalam, Punjabi, Hindi, Hokkien and Cantonese. "She likes to go. Let her go and see whether she can manage," her father told the naysayers, unmoved by their concern. But did she even want to be a policewoman? She shakes her head. "I actually wanted to continue my studies… go to university and all that. But that meant more money, or I'd have to get a scholarship. My father was getting old and retiring that year. I didn't want to trouble him — he was a teacher, after all." The recruitment couldn't have come at a more improbable — or dangerous — time. She leans forward, eyes sharp with memory. "There were so many 'hot' spots around the country, you know!" she says, then repeats, more firmly: "Very hot! Communism was strong in many places — curfews everywhere…" It was the height of the Malayan Emergency; a turbulent period between 1948 and 1960 marked by armed conflict between Commonwealth forces and communist insurgents. Police officers stood on the frontlines, grappling not just with everyday criminal cases, but with guerrilla warfare, sabotage and an ever-present atmosphere of fear and uncertainty. For a young woman just starting out, it was anything but an ordinary job — certainly not something most girls growing up aspired to become. Born in Johor Baru and raised in Segamat, she admits she had no real ambition as a child. If not for that advertisement, she says, she would likely have followed her father and brother into the teaching profession. The recruitment ad in The Straits Times called for women aged between 18 and 35, with a "Cambridge School Certificate" — the equivalent of today's Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia. Applicants also needed to have normal eyesight (no glasses) and stand at least 147 centimetres tall. "Why don't you apply?" her father had asked. "You don't have to spend anything, and the future is good. If you do well, you can rise." At the time, Koshy was in the middle of preparing for her Higher School Certificate at Melaka High School. "I left that halfway to attend the interview," she recalls. Koshy boarded a bus from Melaka to Kuala Lumpur, her mind racing with uncertainty. She'd left her studies midway to attend the interview — a gamble, but one she was willing to take. The oral interview was held at the Federal Police Depot on Jalan Gurney, now known as Jalan Semarak. "I couldn't believe how many girls were there," she recalls, adding: "The place was packed. I was shocked to see just how many wanted the job!" Back then, the depot was a major hub for police operations, overseen by British officers — a colonial-era compound where recruits were trained and deployed across the country. For many, it marked the beginning of a tough, disciplined life in service. For Koshy, it was the first step into an unknown future — one she hadn't planned for, but would come to embrace. Around 600, maybe even 700, had turned up for the interview — a number that left the young girl both nervous and amazed. But to her surprise, the response came swiftly. "I got a call within the week," she says, pride evident in her voice. "I was one of the seven selected." Alongside three Malay and three Chinese recruits, Koshy officially joined the police on Oct 8, 1955. As one of the seven selected, she was provided with free room and board, along with a monthly allowance of 200 dollars — a generous sum for the time. Training lasted six months and followed a strict routine. Recruits were up by 7am for an hour of exercise or marching drills. From 9am to 1pm, they attended classroom sessions on criminal law, court procedures and police investigation techniques. Afternoons were reserved for more physical training, such as weapons handling and target practice — with the pistol being the standard issue sidearm. "How did you enjoy handling weapons?" I ask, curious. She bursts into laughter and replies blithely: "I had a pistol at home. But, of course, I've sold it since." She quickly adds: "We were all treated equally. The female recruits weren't given any special treatment. We trained just like the men." In fact, before the standard six-month training began, Koshy's batch of seven underwent an additional three months of specialised instruction focused on investigating and prosecuting cases involving women and children. The course was led by a visiting specialist from London — Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP) Barbara Wentworth, an expert in handling sensitive cases. STERLING CAREER Two years after her recruitment, Koshy was given an extraordinary honour — she led the platoon of female police officers in the historic Merdeka parade on Aug 31, 1957, marking the birth of an independent Malaya. Under the proud gaze of the nation's first prime minister, Tunku Abdul Rahman Putra al-Haj, and dignitaries from across the world, Koshy marched down the field at Stadium Merdeka, representing not just the police force, but a new era for the country and for women in uniform. "I was very proud," she says softly in recollection. Having joined the police force at the tail-end of the Malayan Emergency, which lasted from 1948 to 1960, Koshy said she and her fellow women recruits weren't sent to deal with the communists. "We weren't sent to guard the borders or face off with the communists," she says, adding: "That was handled by the Home Guards and other special units." Instead, her work took a different path — one that demanded just as much grit. She was assigned to handle criminal investigations, particularly those involving vulnerable groups. She shares: "My focus was on cases affecting women and children. Assault, rape, domestic violence — those were the kinds of cases that landed on my desk." A pause, and she murmurs: "Some of the cases were quite pitiful. Children being abused and all that…" She was known for her strict, no-nonsense approach — the kind that sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to cross the line. "If they lied to me, especially those who'd raped women, I'd give them two tight slaps," she recalls matter-of-factly, then adds with a dry chuckle: "They'd come into the interrogation room already shivering." "Tell one more lie and I'll give you a tight slap!" she'd warn them, unflinching. Says Koshy: "I was very strict with them. I didn't like men who were bullies." Though age has softened her pace, there's still a quiet steel in her voice and in the way she remembers. But discipline wasn't her only defining trait. She was also fiercely principled — clean, incorruptible and firm in her refusal to take bribes. It was this unwavering honesty that earned Koshy a promotion to deputy superintendent of police (DSP), a rare achievement for a woman in the force during that era. While building her career in the police force, Koshy's personal life took an unexpected turn during a visit home to Muar. It was there that she met her future husband — a teacher introduced to her through her parents. "Muar is a small place," she says, before adding with a chuckle: "He was very friendly with my parents — he liked me. I wasn't so keen at first!" But love eventually caught up. In 1957, she married Koshy Kunju and took on his surname, tying the knot at the age of 23. Her late husband, she insists, was her greatest support. While she devoted herself to a demanding career with long hours and heavy responsibilities, he was the one who held the fort at home — raising their two sons and daughter with quiet strength and unwavering patience. "He managed them so well. He took the children out for walks, spent time with them, especially when I was on night shifts," she recalls fondly, adding: "It was such a blessing to have a supportive spouse. For this kind of work, you really need that. It's a tough job. When you're single, it's fine, but once you're married, you need someone strong enough to stand by you and help carry the load." Over the decades, her journey through the police force took her from small-town stations in Muar and Melaka to the central command at Bukit Aman in Kuala Lumpur. She rose steadily in a field once seen as out of bounds for women, eventually retiring at 55 as a DSP. After leaving the force, Koshy continued to serve the nation, spending seven years with the Film Censorship Board. In recognition of her dedication and integrity, she was honoured with several national awards, including the Ahli Mangku Negara and the Pingat Jasa Pahlawan Negara. As she sits in her home in Petaling Jaya, Koshy smiles while recounting the days gone by. The exact dates and names sometimes escape her, but the memories linger. She flips through yellowing photo albums, pausing at pictures of a younger version of herself — in uniform, smiling, eyes full of purpose. Are you proud of what you've achieved? I finally ask her. "Not just proud," she replies without hesitation. "I'm very proud." She pauses, then adds with quiet conviction: "With my strength and determination, I can still manage." Looking me squarely in the eye, the grandmother-of-six continues: "If they need any special help, even today, they can call me. I'm ready." Even at her age, Koshy's sense of duty hasn't faded. She's still willing to serve — a quiet reminder that for some, commitment doesn't end with retirement. My sister, Emily Koshy, grew into the name with grit of her own. It was our late father who chose it — a decision shaped by a moment, an impression and perhaps a deep respect that never left him. That may be the real legacy. Not just of a woman in uniform, but of a life that left its mark — and a name that still carries weight after all these years.
The Star
2 days ago
- The Star
The Plan must be to benefit all
Urgent attention needed: Unlike this vernacular school in Petaling Jaya, many of the Tamil schools in the country are in a bad state. Furthermore, 12% of Indian children are born underweight and 18% suffer from stunting. — ART CHEN/The Star
