Tags:
Journalism of Courage
The man lies sprawled out. Blood flows from his head, down the neck, turning his white shirt crimson. A few little rivulets are drying on his left arm that is stretched towards me, as he lies on the road divider. On the other side, a white car blocks traffic at an angle, beyond it is a motorcycle, mirroring its owner8217;s plight. A few men stand around the fallen man, studying him. A man with a worried expression, answering questions, clearly defensive. The traffic slows down before me. I honk hard, before reaching the scene. It8217;s 40 degrees outside but I turn cold when I see the fallen man.
It8217;s a discarded body I sense. His time was up and the soul had moved on, looking for a new body. It could have been hovering around, watching how a tragedy can attract voyeurs, turning what is probably the biggest question we don8217;t ask into a tamasha. Is he sitting with me? Instinctively, I stop the music and send a prayer to his soul, and perhaps one for myself, a sigh of gratefulness. For that body, that soul, could have been mine. I steer my car away, killing the thought. I try and think about financial regulation, spectrum wars, new transport policy. I fail.
Or is it?
Could the last question the yaksha asked Yudhisthira, about what the greatest wonder was and his answer 8212; we see death every day and yet we live as if we were immortal 8212; be the key to unlock the Truth? To know, after all, I8217;m not immortal? Is this immortality the reason why society has created an immortal God, the highest aspiration of the body? I reach the hotel, leave Death behind, and get my story.
