Brightest Star In The Sky

We all have our worst fears. And it usually entails loss. Depending on one's personal insecurities and priorities, people are most afraid of losing life, limb, property, job, health, spouse, reputation, sweetheart, vision or beauty. The trouble with worst fears is that they have a nasty habit of coming true. The chances of one's darkest fear coming true seem directly proportional to its intensity. It's as if by thinking so much about it, you literally make it happen. They become self-fulfilling prophecies.

Two decades of covering disasters lead me to believe that people often tend to lose what they are most attached to. One wonders if it is bad luck or the worst fear coming true when Superman Christopher Reeves is confined to a wheelchair, when world champ Mohammad Ali suffers from the painful Parkinson's disease, dancer Sudha Chandran loses a leg in a bus accident, Kapil Dev sobs uncontrollably when his reputation is damaged, when singers are stricken with throat cancer or athletes become cripples.

Most parents dread losing their children. Recently, my best friends' worst fear came true. Their 20-year-old daughter Pooja died in a car crash. Pooja was my son's rakhi sister, the daughter I never had. With tenderness and pride, I had watched her grow from a gawky, bespectacled child to a gorgeous woman poised to conquer the world. She was no ordinary girl; she was a princess blossoming into a queen. Bright and beautiful, sensitive and street-smart, witty and fun-loving. But then, so are a lot of Indian girls these days. Pooja had something more, something very special. She was a star. She had charisma and radiance that glowed from a fire burning deep within, pure and strong. That kind of smouldering radiance is rare. Smita Patil had it. Actresses Rekha and Kajol have that molten star quality.

After watching a 12-year-old Pooja dance on stage, I predicted joyously to her disbelieving mother Pritha: "She is going to be a star". Eight years later, over just four months as television's hottest new anchor, Pooja had shown viewers her incredible talent. I was sure she would hit Hollywood.

But she was hit by a speeding truck. She and her four young, talented friends were killed on the spot, the car mangled beyond recognition. How many times has one lain awake at night indulging in pointless pursuits, hastening or slowing the car's fatal final run so that it reached that dreaded spot just three seconds after or before the truck passed by. In the dark terrors of the night, the grieving mind becomes a kaleidoscope—fragments of Pooja's conversation, the high octave of her full-throated laughter, her impossibly wild curls, her flashing eyes, her bouncy gait, her affectionate hugs, her pimple marks. Shards of images lacerate the unblinking inner eye that sees her in exquisite and excruciating detail. And you weep blood.

Wounds heal not so much with time as by adopting a positive attitude. It is the best, the only balm. It is life-reaffirming, strengthening. In this lies the triumph of the human spirit. When tragedy struck them, Reeves and others coped with exemplary courage and determination—qualities that made them achievers in the first place. They realised their tragedy is not the end of the world, that life must go on. They picked up the pieces, moved on with grace and grit. Their true-life stories are inspirational. But what's remarkable is that we don't have to look up into the stratosphere of human existence to find such heroes. They exist right in our midst, ordinary people with extraordinary courage. People who never knew they had the inner strength to cope with adversity only because life never really tested them. But when tested, they too become shining examples of courage. Like Pooja's parents. Seeing them cope, you realise that everyone can deal with their worst fears.

Pooja's father Gautam says: "I face a fork in my life. One is the path of negation and negativity, thinking why did this have to happen to my daughter. Why like this? Why now? Nothing can explain, justify or rationalise her death. If I think these thoughts I'll go mad. The other is the positive path—think of the 20 great years she had, how much she did, achieved and enjoyed in this short span, how much she impacted on other people, how much joy she brought all of us. This is the path I will take because this is the path Pooja would have wanted me to take. I will not think of her death. I will think only of her life."

It is always harder for the living. Love makes it so much harder. But not if love is the "detached" and "not attached" variety. One of the most misunderstood Hindu concepts is "detachment". As Swami Swaroopananda explains, detachment does not mean being uninvolved or unemotional. It means detaching your ego from the love. In other words, it means selfless love. Only such love can bring true happiness. When love is selfless, you care only for the one you love, not yourself. But when you are "attached" to someone or something, it is a selfish love, the underpinnings of which is usually the gains you derive from that person or thing, or your desire for taking rather than giving pleasure. As psychoanalyst and social philosopher Eric Fromm says, the art of loving is the art of giving.

When tragedy strikes, it is natural to be hurt, to withdraw, to wallow in self-pity, to succumb, to despair. But what is therapeutic and genuinely healing is to think of the other. Actually, that ability, that inner strength, that compassion lie buried in all of us. Often we don't know it—it takes tragedy for it to surface. Now that his worst fear has come true, the bereaved father does not think of his loss, but of his daughter's short, rich life. I learn from him. Pooja will always remain a star. For me, the brightest star in the night sky now is the spirit of a radiant girl I once knew.

(The author can be contacted at post@anitapratap.com)