In September 1965, India and Pakistan were caught in a fierce war. The conflict had begun earlier that year in April with border clashes in the Rann of Kutch, located in Gujarat. As the months passed, the confrontation intensified and shifted northward to Punjab and Kashmir by August. By mid-September, the war had reached a point where both countries were battling hard without gaining any major ground. A military stalemate had developed in the north.

Despite the primary war zones being further away, both sides stayed alert in other regions. Pakistan, fearing that India could open a new front in the southern sector, kept its Air Force actively patrolling the Rajasthan–Gujarat border. These combat air patrols were on high alert, ready to engage any aircraft that seemed suspicious or entered airspace near the border.

On 19 September 1965, Gujarat’s Chief Minister, Balwantrai Mehta, a senior leader in the Congress party and a key figure in shaping India's Panchayati Raj system, decided to undertake a visit to border areas to uplift the morale of people and soldiers during the ongoing war. That day, around 1:30 PM, he and his team boarded a Beechcraft Model 18 twin-engine aircraft from Ahmedabad to fly to Mithapur, a small airstrip near the Gujarat–Pakistan border.

The flight was a VIP one and had been cleared to fly despite the active conflict, reportedly due to insistence from Mehta’s office. Even though the destination was considered a sensitive area, the flight was allowed to go ahead. The eight-seater aircraft was piloted by Captain Jahangir M. Engineer, a former Indian Air Force pilot. Also on board were his co-pilot, a radio officer, Mehta’s wife Sarojben, three staff members, and a journalist from Gujarat Samachar newspaper.

The aircraft took off under clear skies and began its 400-kilometre journey westward to Mithapur. The expected arrival time was around 3:00 PM IST.

Unknown to the passengers, their aircraft was detected by Pakistani radar as it flew near the international border in the Kutch region. Around 3:30 PM Pakistan time (3:00 PM IST), radar controllers at Badin Air Force Station in Pakistan identified a suspicious low-flying object southwest of Bhuj, Gujarat.

Reacting quickly, the Pakistan Air Force scrambled two F-86 Sabre jets from the Mauripur airbase in Karachi to investigate. But only one aircraft was able to continue. Flying Officer Qais Hussain, just 25 years old and new to combat flying, launched alone after his flight leader’s aircraft had to abort the mission due to a technical snag.

Following orders from his ground controllers, Hussain climbed up to 20,000 feet and sped towards the border. Once in Indian airspace over Kutch, he descended to around 3,000 feet to visually identify the aircraft.

Soon, Hussain spotted the Indian plane flying close to the coastal village of Suthari in Kutch. It was a light civilian aircraft, with twin engines and a twin tail. It also had a “VT” registration marking, which clearly indicated that it was an Indian civil aircraft. Flying closer, Hussain noticed the plane had four cabin windows, helping him confirm that it was an eight-seater transport.

At that point, the Indian pilot realized he was being followed by a military jet. In a universally understood gesture, the pilot began waggling the aircraft’s wings, signaling surrender or a plea for mercy. This was a desperate attempt to avoid being attacked.

“Clear to Fire” – The Deadly Mistake

Flying Officer Hussain initially held his fire. He radioed his controllers and gave a clear description of the plane. He asked for further instructions on how to proceed. For several tense minutes, he heard nothing. Pakistani commanders were busy discussing the situation and what to do next.

Finally, the reply came through. The command was: “You are clear to shoot.” Hussain, unsure if this was a final decision, requested confirmation. But the answer was repeated: the plane was to be shot down. He later shared that he was “hoping I would be called back” during those anxious moments, but the orders were confirmed.

Carrying out what he believed was his duty in war, Hussain moved his Sabre jet behind the Beechcraft and opened fire. The first burst of machine-gun fire hit the left wing, breaking it apart and scattering debris. Then he released a second, longer burst that struck the right wing. The aircraft, which had still been trying to evade, was now heavily damaged. Its right engine caught fire, and in a matter of seconds, the plane entered a nose-down spiral.

At around 4:00 PM IST, the plane fell in a near-vertical dive, exploded into a fireball mid-air, and crashed to the ground near Suthari village on the Kutch coastline. There were no survivors. In one moment, Chief Minister Balwantrai Mehta, his wife, and all six others on board lost their lives.

Aftermath: Shock and Silence

After firing on the Indian aircraft, Flying Officer Qais Hussain, running low on fuel and alerted that Indian fighter jets were scrambling from Jamnagar to intercept him, made a quick and urgent decision—he turned his jet back towards Karachi. He managed to land in emergency conditions, with his fuel tanks almost empty, narrowly avoiding further confrontation or crash.

At that moment, Pakistani pilots and radar controllers were pleased. They believed that they had intercepted an Indian reconnaissance aircraft—a mission which, in their view, was an attempt “to open a new war front” in the southern sector of the ongoing conflict. The mood in the control room was celebratory. Hussain later recalled, “We were all very happy and I got a pat on the back from my colleagues,” firmly convinced at the time that he had neutralized a threat from across the border.

But the sense of victory was painfully short-lived. Just a few hours later, at 7 PM that same evening, All India Radio broadcast shocking news: an Indian civilian aircraft had been shot down inside Indian territory, and the person on board was none other than the Chief Minister of Gujarat. The revelation stunned Hussain and his entire team. The smiles faded. The mood turned heavy. The same man who had been congratulated for his action now faced the unbearable truth. Hussain remembered that moment clearly, saying, “Our mood became very sombre. We all repented what had happened,” adding with raw honesty, “it was a senseless death.”

The weight of what had occurred struck hard. The officers involved were deeply troubled by the realization that they had shot down unarmed civilians, including a high-ranking Indian leader and those travelling with him. Hussain, reflecting on that dark day later, said it was “not a very pleasant memory to have shot down an unarmed adversary.” The regret was profound, and the guilt lingered for years.

Back in India, especially in Gujarat, the loss of Balwantrai Mehta caused an outpouring of shock and sorrow. At 66 years of age, Mehta was not just any politician—he was a respected freedom fighter, a man known for his role in building grassroots democracy through Panchayati Raj, and most importantly, he became the only sitting Indian Chief Minister ever killed by enemy action.

Yet, the gravity of this tragedy was overshadowed by the raging Indo-Pak war. As the fighting escalated on multiple fronts, and casualty numbers grew across borders, this incident did not get the nationwide focus it deserved. The death of Mehta and his companions was not widely discussed or followed up in public forums. The news was “lost in the pages of history”, drowned in war reports and political statements. Just four days later, on 23 September, the war officially ended with a UN-mandated ceasefire, and the death of Gujarat’s Chief Minister became, in the words of one account, “an event that fell by the wayside” during the rush for peace.

No Retribution from Delhi

In today’s time, such an incident would provoke immediate retaliation or at the very least, a high-level diplomatic uproar. But in 1965, there was no swift retaliation or public outrage from the Indian government. Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri, leading the Congress administration, was deeply involved in navigating the larger war situation and focusing on peace talks to avoid further damage.

There is no recorded evidence that the Indian government officially lodged a protest or demanded accountability from Pakistan over the shootdown of the civilian aircraft. The national leadership seemed more focused on ending hostilities, rather than seeking justice for Mehta’s killing. Just a few months later, in January 1966, India and Pakistan signed the Tashkent Declaration, which aimed to restore peace and diplomatic relations—but without a single mention of the Balwantrai Mehta incident.

Besides official condolences and a state funeral in honor of the Chief Minister, there was no further action taken against Pakistan. No military reply, no international complaint, and certainly no demand for a formal apology. This inaction has been criticized in hindsight, especially when compared to modern responses to cross-border attacks and intrusions.

An internal investigation was ordered. The Indian government appointed an inquiry committee to examine how and why a civilian plane ended up flying into a combat zone during an ongoing war. According to Pakistani accounts, the Indian Air Force had initially denied clearance for the flight. However, “under pressure from the CM’s office, they allowed the mission at [the flight’s] own risk.” This detail, though never officially confirmed by India, hints at the administrative confusion of that time.

What became of that inquiry remains unclear. The findings of the investigation were never fully made public. Years later, after reviewing Indian reports, the same Pakistani pilot Qais Hussain claimed that, “the findings of an Enquiry Committee constituted by the Indian Government are nowhere near to what actually happened”—suggesting that key truths may have been kept away from public view, either for political reasons or to avoid inflaming tensions.

In the end, the tragedy was shelved quietly. Prime Minister Shastri passed away in January 1966, just after signing the Tashkent peace accord. His successor, Indira Gandhi, did not reopen the case. For decades, this incident was rarely discussed in official forums or political speeches. Only memorials in Kutch and scattered references kept the memory of Balwantrai Mehta and those who perished with him alive in the hearts of a few.

The silence, for many, has been more painful than the missile.

Pakistan’s Stance – and a Pilot’s Remorse

Back in 1965, when the civilian plane of Gujarat’s Chief Minister was shot down, Pakistan’s government did not acknowledge the shootdown as a mistake. There was no public apology from President Ayub Khan’s regime, nor was there any expression of regret from the Pakistani military. On the contrary, Pakistani officials maintained that the Beechcraft’s behavior had aroused suspicion, explaining that the plane was flying “very close to the border for [a] considerable period of time” and could possibly have been engaged in reconnaissance activities. In the chaos and confusion of war, the Pakistani side treated the attack as just another wartime engagement.

It took many years for any quiet admissions to surface. In 2011, long after the war had ended and the world had moved on, a retired officer of the Pakistan Air Force, Air Commodore Kaiser Tufail, conducted a thorough study of what came to be known as the “Gujarat Beechcraft incident.” In his findings, he concluded that Pakistani air controllers had misidentified the Indian civilian aircraft as a military transport plane or a spy plane belonging to the Indian Air Force. That grave misjudgment led to the fatal shootdown of an unarmed, non-combatant aircraft. This acknowledgement, though indirect and unofficial, pointed toward the truth that the attack was a tragic error.

But the most human and remarkable part of this long-forgotten incident came not from politicians or generals, but from the man who actually pulled the trigger. Qais Hussain, the former PAF fighter pilot who had fired on the Beechcraft, chose to break his silence 46 years after the incident. In August 2011, he made the unexpected decision to write to Farida Singh, the daughter of pilot Jahangir Engineer, the man who was flying the doomed aircraft that day.

In his message, Hussain tried to express the remorse he had carried all these years and to explain what really happened on that fateful day. He wrote, “I wanted to tell them I was not a trigger-happy person and this happened in the confusion of war.” In his detailed email, he explained how he had been scrambled on an intercept mission, how he had seen the Indian plane “seeking mercy” by waggling its wings, and how he had even delayed firing in the hope that the mission might be aborted. But eventually, he had acted only after repeated orders from his superiors to shoot.

It’s important to note that Hussain never used the word "apology." Instead, he clarified in an interview with BBC, “It’s not an apology, it’s a condolence.” He explained that he had only followed orders as a soldier in wartime. With heartfelt honesty, he added, “I did not do anything wrong… But I feel sad about the civilians who were on board that plane. It should not have happened.”

In his letter to Farida Singh, Hussain also wrote, “I feel sorry for you, your family and the other seven families who lost their dearest ones,” and expressed his willingness to meet her in person to convey his feelings. This personal gesture was, in many ways, the only acknowledgement of the mistake that Pakistan as a nation never officially made.

In response, Farida Singh showed incredible grace. She replied a few days later, accepted Hussain’s condolences, and even chose to forgive him for his role in her father’s death. In her words, she explained that she held no grudges against him and saw the tragedy for what it was—an unfortunate outcome of war.

Their deeply moving exchange, which was brought to light through the efforts of peace activists and covered by the press, gave the world a rare moment of empathy and closure. Observers saw it as a small “healing touch” between two individuals, divided by war but united by loss. Meanwhile, the governments on both sides—India and Pakistan—never officially apologized or acknowledged each other’s pain in this matter.

Then and Now: A Tale of Two Responses

The incident that took place in 1965, when a Pakistani Air Force fighter jet shot down the plane carrying Gujarat Chief Minister Balwantrai Mehta, killing him, his wife, and six others, remains one of the most serious peacetime attacks ever faced by India’s political leadership. And yet, it was one of the most passively handled.

Despite the fact that the civilian aircraft was shot down inside Indian airspace, the Indian government, led by the Congress party under Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri, took no retaliatory action. No protest was filed at the United Nations. No diplomatic pressure was applied. No Pakistani official was held accountable. The entire matter was treated like an unfortunate wartime casualty and was quietly laid to rest amid ceasefire talks. Even when Indira Gandhi came to power later, the issue was never revisited. The life and loss of Balwantrai Mehta and those with him were simply mourned—not defended, not avenged.

But fast forward to recent years, and the contrast in how similar incidents have been handled is striking. Consider the February 2019 episode where Wing Commander Abhinandan Varthaman, flying a MiG-21, was captured by Pakistan during an aerial dogfight. Within hours, the Indian government responded. Diplomatic efforts were activated. Military preparedness was heightened. International channels were engaged. And within just 60 hours, Abhinandan was released and returned to India through the Wagah-Attari border. His return was televised. He was celebrated as a national hero. His safe return was seen as a major moral and diplomatic victory for India.

Even more recently, in April 2024, another incident occurred. BSF jawan Purnam Kumar Shaw, who had been captured by Pakistan Rangers on April 23, was returned to India at 10:30 AM on 14th May through the Joint Check Post at Attari. Once again, the Indian government did not keep the matter quiet. It ensured diplomatic pressure was mounted behind the scenes. His safe return was treated as non-negotiable. The public was informed. The truth was not hidden. And the soldier came home.

These modern responses show that India no longer tolerates such incidents silently. Whether it is a fighter pilot or a border soldier, every life is treated with national urgency. Each time, the government has shown that it will demand accountability. This strong contrast to 1965, when a Chief Minister and seven others died without even a formal protest, reveals how far India has come in defending its citizens.

Conclusion

The tragic death of Balwantrai Mehta in 1965 was far more than an accident of war. It tested how a sovereign and democratic nation protects the dignity of its leaders and citizens, even in conflict. Shot down without warning, denied mercy despite signals of surrender, and then largely forgotten without retribution, Mehta’s story exposes a painful silence—not just from the enemy, but from his own government.

While the Pakistani pilot eventually expressed remorse, and the daughter of the Indian pilot chose to forgive, the Congress-led Indian government at the time never made a formal objection, never demanded justice, and never pursued truth through international forums. There was no diplomatic protest, no tribunal, and no fitting reply.

In contrast, today’s India is different. Whether it was Abhinandan’s swift repatriation in 2019 or BSF jawan Purnam Kumar Shaw’s return on 14th May, the message is crystal clear—every Indian life counts. And the nation will not be quiet when that life is threatened or taken. This is not aggression. This is dignified governance with a backbone. A kind of respect that Balwantrai Mehta never received from the very country he served.

Let this story not disappear as just another forgotten war memory. Let it be remembered as a call for accountability, a demand for justice that was never answered, and a lesson in what happens when a government chooses silence over sovereignty. Because in the end, dignity in death is the least a nation owes to its own—if it truly values them.