While he was there, he came face-to-face with the family of Hasib Hussain, the bomber who killed Ms Jain and 12 others on the No 30 bus. Here is his story:

Neetu was an amazing person. I loved her very much. I was planning to spend the rest of my life with her. But that never happened because our future was taken away by a callous killer.

Gous Ali travelled to Beeston with a BBC team

Why would these people from Leeds travel down to London to create this nightmare? This question burns inside my head every day.

We all live in this country, with all our differences, all our views and opinions, religions, faiths and practices. We share that every day.

Yet they felt they had to go out of their way to kill innocent people.

To help with my fight against my own demons, and to search for answers, I went to Beeston, the suburb in Leeds that was home to Hasib Hussain.

Peace and harmony

My hope was that if I could give some time out of my life to talk, maybe listen, maybe give some care and understanding, maybe the 7 July victims' lives wouldn't have been wasted.

Why did Neetu have to die? Why did they take her life? What did it achieve?

Maybe their memories would live on, maybe some peace and harmony would come as a result of it.

There was one person I'd really come to Beeston to meet - Hasib Hussain's father Mahmood.

I'd written asking him to meet me, but received no reply. Instead I decided to simply walk up to his door and knock.

Torn apart

As I got nearer, I saw a man standing outside close to the gate - a Muslim man wearing white robes.

I looked directly at him and said: "Salaam". He replied: "Salaam Alakium". I asked him if he was Hasib's father. He said "yes".

Neetu Jain was 37 when she died

Anger welled up inside me. I looked directly at him and said: "Your son killed my wife".

After his initial agitation subsided, he told me he didn't mind talking, but that even if Hasib had done it he was not responsible.

As I watched Hasib's father speak I could see in his eyes he was torn apart.

I knew he hadn't known what his son was planning and I almost felt sorry for him. The boy he had raised for 18 years had planned and executed an atrocity while living in his house, and he had known nothing about it.

I told him that every day my head spins with questions: Why did Neetu have to die? Why did they take her life? What did it achieve? I told him I came to Leeds to try to find answers.

He said to me: "We are both the same, me and you. We are grieving."

No forgiveness

He's so bewildered and confused - I think he's still numbed by the whole experience. He hasn't come to terms with what's happened.

By the look on his face I could see sheer agony and pain - the same which I suffer. I think he could see that too and that's why we spoke the way we did.

I feel some degree of loss as well for him, but I can't really feel sorry for him, for his son, because I think his son is a murderer and that will never ever go away.

You can't treat hatred with hatred, so I don't hate Hasib. But I will never forgive him for what he's done and that will always be the case.

I found some answers from my journey to Beeston, but there are still many questions.