There are some things about life that we take for granted. Sometimes that list includes life itself, whether we realise it or not. On Wednesday, May 21, I boarded an Indigo flight from Delhi to Srinagar. Just another day in public life. Just another flight. I take my usual seat at 19F, at the emergency exit. Opting for that seat is an old habit.
I'm on autopilot, doing all the things I normally do on a flight. Forty-five minutes in the air. Halfway to our destination. Then, there is an announcement over the PA, asking us to fasten seatbelts.
But there's no turbulence. About five minutes later, we see lightning, clearly visible as it stabs through daylight. Now there is some turbulence, but it progresses rapidly. I realise this is not your regular turbulence. This is severe, the likes I've never experienced on my ‘frequent flyer miles' before.
Not Your Usual Turbulence
The plane is scarily tilting to the right. I am acutely aware of this because I am seated on the right-hand side of the Airbus A321neo. I'm accustomed to planes banking for a variety of reasons, but this does not feel like a normal situation.
It is not a series of bumps or jerks. The entire aircraft starts tilting precariously. We are hurtling down, seemingly to a sickening drop. Not a minute or two, I would say, at least ten terrifying minutes. Outside, all we can see are clouds, ripped apart by angry streaks of lightning and constant hail. My mind is racing.
Now there are other noises in the passenger cabin. Not the normal buzz of conversation or a meal service. No, now people are screaming. Praying. Chanting. Some are actually screeching. The wave of sound creates added tension and fear. I am conscious of passengers trying to film on their phones. But a voice - was it male? Female? Passenger? Flight attendant? I can't remember. The voice says, ‘Stop filming'.
My life doesn't flash before me. Instead, I'm consumed by the thought that if something goes terribly wrong, I will miss the wedding in a few months of my only daughter. I think of my daughter, wife, stepdaughters, brothers, colleagues, friends. I think of what a tragedy it would be to leave them all behind, without the chance to say goodbye to any of them.
Sadness. The sadness is overwhelming. It is a deep, abiding sorrow for relationships and friendships that will not progress beyond this fraught afternoon.
Counting My Blessings
Yes, I am aware of how blessed my life has been. Perhaps - I honestly don't know - it had something to do with going to a dingy lane in Kolkata in 1990, which housed the worldwide headquarters of a congregation of nuns. The setting was spartan, almost awkward: four tackily painted wooden stools set out on a verandah overlooking a quadrangle. My first meeting and touching the hand of Mother Teresa (now St. Teresa of Calcutta).
So, what else ran through my mind? I didn't think about politics. I didn't think about Parliament. I didn't think about the number of followers I had on X or Instagram. I was focused on the people I love. People who mean the world to me. People who have been an important part of my life.
I prayed to a higher being. I made a pact. A pact to be good.
My colleague, a few seats away, had felt the tension too. We had battled our own fears in our ways. Bathed in perspiration, he looked as if he had just stepped out of a shower. At the time, I didn't think to ask him what I looked like.
It was probably thirty minutes before we landed. Before we touched down, a member of the cabin crew asked us to pull down our window shades, because we were landing at a military airfield. After taxing to a halt, the engines were switched off and everyone began to deplane.
A Newfound Gratitude
I didn't follow. I remained seated. Alone. Why? I'm not sure. Perhaps to let it all sink in. Perhaps to process it all. Perhaps to decompress. I don't know why exactly. But it gave me a chance to speak to the pilots before they left the aircraft. I thanked them on behalf of all the passengers and crew. The captain told me that it had been the most difficult flight in his forty-one years as a pilot. We kept speaking, but I promised him that the rest of our conversation would remain private forever.
I only saw the damage to the nose when I deplaned. I still have no idea what that damage could have done, or the potential danger it posed to our collective safety.
I am home now. It's been a week. I thought I'd dealt with it in my own way. But I was wrong.
Then, a few hours ago, I spoke to a childhood friend. He did the best thing any friend could ever have done. He listened. I had to stop several times as my emotions welled up repeatedly. All he said, amid the prolonged silence and my stifled sobs, was a simple, quiet, "It's all right. I'm here." I had to stop several times to regain my composure.
That flight changed who I am. It changed how I regard every aspect of my life. That experience was unforgettable. Deep. Life changing. Now I fully comprehend that life is a gift. It is to be cherished. I haven't forgotten my pact. It will be the basis of the new profound gratitude I have for life.
(Derek O'Brien, MP, leads the Trinamool Congress in the Rajya Sabha)
Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author
