NOW
We were travelling to Delhi. Almost there. Close enough to begin mentally rehearsing the day ahead—close enough to believe the journey had already been secured. About three hours before my birthday, a heavy vehicle struck the rear right side of our car.
In a split second, certainty dissolved.
The brakes locked. The steering swerved. Glass shattered like a thousand decisions breaking at once.
The car zig-zagged violently from one edge of the road to the other. Airbags burst open with a force that felt both protective and punishing. Inside that metal frame, I was no longer a traveller with a destination—I was simply a body inside momentum gone rogue. The sounds were not just mechanical; they were primal. Thuds. Crashes. A deafening clash of metal, shattering glass and gravity.
And then—stillness.
People rushed toward the wreckage. Hands pulled at warped doors. Faces scanned for injury, for life, for confirmation. In that moment, everyone becomes both witness and rescuer. The unspoken question lingered in the air: Who survived?
We opened the doors. We stepped out. Miraculously unharmed.
I brushed shards of glass from my clothes, watching them fall to the road like remnants of something I had just escaped. Behind me stood a mutilated car—a machine that minutes earlier had been carrying us toward Delhi, toward a vacation, celebration, and timelines. In an instant, it had nearly carried me elsewhere.
I was “almost there.” But almost is not guaranteed.
Walking away from that wreckage did not feel dramatic. It felt clarifying. Sometimes survival is not just about living through impact. It is about emerging with perspective.
We continued our journey. Two hours away from what I call our “transit house” in Delhi, and then onward to Agra for my birthday. The accident did not paralyse my mind enough to make me miss the surreal experience of seeing the Taj Mahal. Life, it seemed, insisted on moving forward—and so did I.
Change unravelled within me- instead of fear and phobia, I began to feel safe. As though God had gently assured: this life is yours to live—fully, fearlessly, unapologetically.
A couple of days later, I was on a homebound flight from Delhi to Adampur. Despite logging countless transatlantic miles since my early twenties, every takeoff still carried the same familiar edge of fear. But that day I slipped into a brief catnap. There was no anxiety as the aircraft lifted off, no surge of unease—only a quiet steadiness. Even when turbulence set in, there was a surprising calm, as if the mind had chosen not to engage with fear. Two weeks later, against expectation, I followed through on a pre-planned road trip to Manali with my office team—catching everyone off guard with my decision to get back on the road so soon, tiding over the fear of being hit again, of ending up in another wreck, of losing control.
Despite my deep-seated fear of heights, I chose to take a hot air balloon ride—rising above roads, above ground, above the very idea of collision. Suspended in the sky, I felt a quiet but powerful shift.
That day, Delhi was no longer just a destination. It became a reminder: every arrival is a privilege, not a promise.
There is no board meeting with Destiny scheduled for you. No calendar invite from the universe marked “Special Occasion.” There is only this moment. Now.
We postpone joy as if it were a luxury. The silk dress stays wrapped. The fine China waits in the cabinet. The perfume remains sealed—reserved for someday. Stop deferring delight—own it NOW!
