A friend just posted an Instagram story—an aerial shot of Mumbai—with the caption: “Landed! Surely ‘landed’ is the most beautiful word in the world?#Thankful.”
We’re all struggling to make sense of the horrific tragedy that was Air India flight 171. The scale of it, the suddenness, the sheer randomness—both for those on board and the ones simply eating a meal on the ground. What a sobering reminder to all of us hurrying around, self-importantly, on the surface of the planet, meeting our goals and targets and deadlines—that death can come anytime and anywhere. Literally, out of the blue.
Stampedes at religious gatherings like the Mahakumbh and joyous celebrations like the RCB win—as well as the many train and bus accidents, collapsing flyovers and crumbling bridges all around us—underline a similar message.
Life is cheap in a country of 1.4 billion people, we fume, stoking our righteous anger in a bid to keep the fear of mortality at bay. The guilty must be identified and swiftly made to pay. And, of course, this is correct and should be done asap. But, also, maybe, take the opportunity this tragedy provides to reflect a little on the only thing we know for sure in this world. That we are all going to have to leave it.
Many religions, certainly Buddhism and Hinduism, recommend meditating on death—the inevitability of it—and the calmness and perspective that comes with accepting this inevitability as a means to lead a fuller and happier life. Reminding ourselves daily of the impermanence of life helps us sift through everything that’s going on and recognise what truly matters—and what is mere distraction.
And, yet, we spend our lives denying death. It starts from infancy. Young parents spin long, made-up tales of Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, ‘one true love’ and some God or the other to their impressionable children but never speak to them of death. I am not sure why they do this—personally, I’ve always loved the way Disney’s The Lion King explained it so simply and so beautifully—“The sun rolling high, through the sapphire sky, keeps great and small on the endless round of the ‘circle of life’.” Or even the scene where Mufasa tells Simba, so matter-of-factly—“We eat the antelope, but when we die we become the grass and the antelope eats the grass.”
I remember my five-year-old son watching the film, and when this scene played out, remarking, very seriously, in his sweet five-year-old voice, “Fair enough!”
It goes without saying that early and untimely death is anything but fair—there were 11 children and two infants on flight 171—their lives have been snatched from them, their loved ones on the ground left utterly broken and grief-stricken. And in a world that practically worships youth and immortality—if the followers of Bryan Johnson and the Kardashians are anything to go by.
And, still, there is a silver-lining. It was quick, being the predominant one. Life was snuffed out quickly, there was no lingering and no protracted suffering. Pain, even if horrific, could not have lasted longer than 32 seconds—surely this is something to hold on to?
To me, Air India’s doomed flight 171 will serve as a sobering reminder of my privilege. I get to live another day while so many others did not. It’s amazing how much this recalibrates my priorities. Get out of my way—I have sunsets to watch, animals to cuddle, flowers to smell, people to call, and things to do.
editor@theweek.in