Life lessons that never go away

Do earth-shaking events change your life and become a life lesson? Or ordinary, sudden, accidental happenings? For instance, an unexpected death of a loved one, a beautiful, relentlessly hardworking mother in a faded cotton sari and a white bangle (shakha in Bengali), with light eyes and parched feet, and a heart so big and giving that the entire cosmos could not fit in it. So everything you do in life, she remains an inspirational icon, especially her infinite magnanimity, her endless love and compassion.

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Yes, this is a life lesson which, like a tidal wave on a moonlit night, keeps coming. It gets embedded deep inside — it never ever goes away.

One summer morning, I was a student when I reached the JNU up-campus library. At its gate, a crowd of students stood — stunned. A neelgai was lying on the ground, grasping for breath. JNU is full of them, and they always keep their distance. They are elegant creatures, their subtle movements lithe and athletic, their eyes soft, sharp.

Predictably, the crowd seemed paralysed. Shaken and sad. A pack of street dogs had viciously attacked the animal.

I lost no time. I shouted, “Does anyone have a car?” JNU students would mostly walk, no one had cars, and only a handful had bikes. I had a cycle.

Luckily, a day scholar had a car. So we picked up its still-alive body, and placed it in the car, its head resting on my lap. We reached a veterinary hospital in quick time. We moved it onto a stretcher — but the attendant was so rough, so untrained, he banged its head hard on the steel stretcher. My heart sank. The doctor arrived. This sublime creature was dead.

Did I cry? No. I wanted to. The first life lesson was that never ever wait for the crowd to take a decision in a life-and-death situation. They, somehow, become incapable of decisive action. And, second, beware that the injured, human or animal, is treated with sensitivity and softness.

This tragic moment found an action replay in 2015. I was returning home late night in Delhi. A journalist friend had offered to drop me. Near the Akshardham metro station, a crowd had blocked the road. Opposite the road, a police patrol car stood, unaffected by the commotion.

I jumped out of the car, driven by a journalist’s instinct. I saw a young man, blood-soaked, sprawled on the ground. Clearly, a hit-and-run incident. The crowd was, predictably, in awe and shock.

I was going to Boston the next day on an academic stint. This could be a police case and could land me in trouble. Most ‘spectators’ would think like me. The cops did not even look this way, their lights beeping.

Instinct resolved all dilemmas. Perhaps, yes, my mother’s childhood training. I screamed, as in a huge public meeting without a loudspeaker: “Kisi ke paas car hai?”

One college student immediately stepped forward. I screamed again: “Let’s lift him up. Gently.”

A few hands came forward, lifted him, yes, gently, and placed his blood-soaked body in the back seat. One youngster took his head on his lap. The student drove like hell. The crowd disappeared.

I only hope that the young man, still breathing, his heart beating, is alive, and happy.

— The writer is a journalist and teacher based in Delhi