Yes, I want to talk about some close shaves - and, I am not referring to the fulfilling tonsorial experience I have every morning!
It is only last night when my wife and I were driving home in the rain when a car in front of us spun completely out of control and was coming at us. Fortunately, there wasn't much traffic on the road, I was sufficiently alert, and we avoided a head-on collision. And, it hasn't been long since we drove across a desolate railroad track only to be surprised by a loud hoot of an engine that passed across the road behind us. Some close friends and relatives have survived serious health situations; others haven't.
The incidents are not as important as the awareness they bring about the fragility of life, and the miniscule distance between being and not being. An immediate response can be to not drive across railroad tracks (slowing down to a stop at an open crossing of a railroad track is guaranteed to invite a rear-end collision, unless you are a school bus or a gasoline tanker!), or not to drive in the rain, or not to drive at night. This reminds me of a couplet from a ghazal sung by Jagjit Singh:
The lesson to myself from these experiences is to be in acceptance of the unknowns and surprises that lurk around us and to enjoy them in amusement, rather than suffer a paranoid shock. Drink to the celebration of (yet another) survival.
Much that we may want to think that our ceasing to exist is a catastrophe like no other, the reality is that it is just another minor statistic. A philosopher has put life in the right perspective as the less-than-a-handful of lines between "Born: mm/dd/yyyy" and "Died: mm/dd/yyyy" on a tombstone. And, how many people will ever care to read those few lines? That is all it is worth, when all is said and done.
Without being unduly reckless, I will continue to drive at night in the rain and enjoy the raindrops glide up the windshield. I will go on roads that cross railroad tracks - possibly, slow down a bit and look more carefully in both directions even when there isn't a flashing light to alert. I am sure there will be more such surprising experiences. And every one of them will bring along an amusement about life to relish for a long time.
It is only last night when my wife and I were driving home in the rain when a car in front of us spun completely out of control and was coming at us. Fortunately, there wasn't much traffic on the road, I was sufficiently alert, and we avoided a head-on collision. And, it hasn't been long since we drove across a desolate railroad track only to be surprised by a loud hoot of an engine that passed across the road behind us. Some close friends and relatives have survived serious health situations; others haven't.
The incidents are not as important as the awareness they bring about the fragility of life, and the miniscule distance between being and not being. An immediate response can be to not drive across railroad tracks (slowing down to a stop at an open crossing of a railroad track is guaranteed to invite a rear-end collision, unless you are a school bus or a gasoline tanker!), or not to drive in the rain, or not to drive at night. This reminds me of a couplet from a ghazal sung by Jagjit Singh:
लोग हर मोड़ पे रुक रुक के संभलते क्यूँ हैं ?
इतना डरते हैं तो फ़िर घर से निकलते क्यूँ हैं ?
Why do people stop at every step to see if they have (lost their balance and) to recover?
If they are so afraid, why do they even step outside their house?
The lesson to myself from these experiences is to be in acceptance of the unknowns and surprises that lurk around us and to enjoy them in amusement, rather than suffer a paranoid shock. Drink to the celebration of (yet another) survival.
Much that we may want to think that our ceasing to exist is a catastrophe like no other, the reality is that it is just another minor statistic. A philosopher has put life in the right perspective as the less-than-a-handful of lines between "Born: mm/dd/yyyy" and "Died: mm/dd/yyyy" on a tombstone. And, how many people will ever care to read those few lines? That is all it is worth, when all is said and done.
Without being unduly reckless, I will continue to drive at night in the rain and enjoy the raindrops glide up the windshield. I will go on roads that cross railroad tracks - possibly, slow down a bit and look more carefully in both directions even when there isn't a flashing light to alert. I am sure there will be more such surprising experiences. And every one of them will bring along an amusement about life to relish for a long time.
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