Ichi-go Ichi-e “Think of all the people you meet in your lifetime. What if you recognized each of those encounters as irreplaceable, once-in-a-lifetime opportunities and give them your utmost presence and attention. It can also be interpreted as ‘once-in-a-lifetime’”. “Ichi-g- ichi-e speaks to the idea that no one encounter can ever be recreated, each moment and each convergence of time, space, light, mood, thought and circumstance is singular and unrepeated. As such, every encounter should be met with one’s full attuned senses. Some encounters plant seeds that take root overtime, while others change the course of one’s life in a single moment”. “No one can trump the Japanese when it comes to philosophy, the entire country thought and lived in Zen mode!” thought Shabri as she browsed through the blog she was reading. It was called Ichi-go Ichi-e and she found the explanation very intriguing. Shabri wondered why she had never seen life through this lens before. She made a mental note of sharing this blog with her girls, actually young ladies who were 33 and 31, so could not be referred to as girls anymore. Both her daughters loved reading and spent a lot of time introspecting and seeking the true purpose of life. Shabri had put them a residential school run by the Krishnamurthi Foundation in India. The quaint school fuelled their appetite to question, to observe and to understand the meaning of human life. Though Krishnamurthi philosophy is not easy to understand, they learnt more by observing the facilitators and the staff at the study centre. They were fortunate to study in an institution where the intent of the school was to encourage children to think, ask questions and grow into sensitive human beings who could be the change in the community in which they lived. Shabri was grateful to be a facilitator in such a school and five years on the hilltop, amidst young minds had enriched the motif of her life’s fabric too. She enjoyed nurturing young girls in the dormitory and was their friend, philosopher and guide. The bonds formed with the students here were so strong that even two decades later the students kept in touch with her. She was surprised that the thought of KFI crossed her mind as she read this blog on her mobile. She wondered if the obese man sitting next to her would let her use the arm rest for a few minutes at least. She was flanked by two huge Russians in the Aeroflot flight as it taxied slowly out of the Moscow Airport. She could see the well lit lounges from the tarmac. It was almost 6pm local time and she wondered if the workshop she was going to attend at Murmansk was going to be worth it. Her school had sent her for the weekend workshop on “Enriching World Lit Studies as Language A in IB Schools”. She had been teaching for four decades now and it was time to hang her boots and do all the things she had put on hold as her day had only 24 hours full of mechanical schedule- teaching for 8 hours, preparing meals, unwinding with music and videos and chatting with her daughters on Skype before she called it a day at 10pm. She was an early bird and woke up at 5am. Her day began with the serene strains of ‘Gurbani’ a morning prayer service offered at the Golden Temple at Amritsar in North India. The Gurbani kirtan never failed to make her feel immense gratitude for the benevolence and bounty He had showered on her. She was happy and content with her lot. As she rested her head on the tall seat, she pressed the lever to slide the chair back and stretch her legs. She hoped the room was comfortable at Murmansk. She was fed up of eating coloured leaves (so called salad) as the meals she had were vegan and that left her with very few choices. As if reading her mind, the airhostess smiled at her and asked her for her choice of meal. She smiled back at her and said ‘vegan’. She prepared herself mentally for the tray she would finally end up with, a colourful extravaganza of shredded vegetables which had neither taste nor flavor. She longed to bite into a delicious ‘butter naan and dal makhani’. She felt like a tiny sardine sandwiched between the huge Russians on both sides. They were in their own heaven, sipping large goblets full of vodka. They had already given up on Shabri when she asked for tomato juice instead. She yearned for the window seat but this colossal human seemed to cover the window and the panel with his chest and abdomen. She lay back, stretched her legs again and tried to close her eyes. She took a deep breath and thought she had come a long way, from a struggle to make ends meet, working two jobs to ensure that her girls would never settle for second best. She smiled softly, what a journey it had been, married at 19, two beautiful girls by 24, royally dumped at 26! Three decades of loneliness on planet Earth were interspersed with many memorable moments. The landscape of her life was quite interesting; however, last year was the strangest encounter she ever had. She happened to meet an interesting author, Raghu Rao, at a book release in Pune. They met on Facebook; she then read some of his books and eventually decided to meet when Raghu came to Pune to release his new book. An established author, violin player, a yoga practitioner, someone who could do a head stand in six different ways had wormed his way into her heart. Raghu had an excellent sense of humour and was a charmer, he knew how to spin a yarn and watch pretty ladies get caught in his web! Shabri was looking forward to meeting him but she didn’t expect anything much. She was planning to be back in an hour or so and call it a day. The next day was a working day so she couldn’t be out for long. What happened thereafter is what fairytales are made of. She heard his interview with the young moderator who could barely conceal her awe for this versatile author. All this time (almost an hour on the stage) he was texting her discreetly, ridiculing everything and everyone he could, his face stoic and innocuous. Finally he came down, walked towards Shabri who was sitting in the third row. They exchanged some small polite talk; he then introduced her to the organizers of the literary festival and asked Shabri to accompany him to the authors lounge. For a man of 56 he was very agile and had a spring in his step as he went all the way to the third floor. She was panting after the second flight and he insisted “Elevators are for people who don’t respect their bodies”. His thumb of rule was never to use the elevator for the first five floors. Shabri was not happy making a spectacle of herself as now she had beads of sweat on her forehead and was breathing heavily. That didn’t stop Raghu from pulling her leg and passing snide remarks about her being an old ‘maduum’ . The AC in the writers lounge was like manna from heaven. There were two authors sitting in the lounge busy on their laptops. Raghu kept talking non-stop as he could sense her awkwardness. She had never met an unknown person like this before. A couple of anecdotes later and laughing at his crazy jokes the two authors sensed something and slowly switched off their laptops and left them alone. The two hours in the lounge were difficult to describe. They both knew that something had brought them here and though they spoke about nondescript things their eyes spoke another language. Shabri went home wondering what was the significance of this chance meeting. He used his persuasive powers to convince her to meet again the next day before he flew off to Delhi for a workshop. Initially she was reluctant but later she gave in and they met for brunch at Marriott where he was staying. This time he didn’t bother to make small talk, he persuaded her to recognize the fact that they had been chatting for months now and this meeting, it couldn’t be for nothing. He did tell her that he lived alone as he was separated and he had a son who worked in the U.S. Several attempts to convince Shabri to accept that this was meant to be were not successful. He was emphatic that his past was of no significance, neither was his future. He believed in living one day at a time and often made arguments about relationships based on unconditional love. This was a language which was alien to Shabri and she couldn’t comprehend. He insisted on coming back to Pune after his conference in Delhi if she gave her consent. Shabri couldn’t fathom how anyone could claim serious affection and feelings yet get cold feet when it came to commitment. She left the restaurant with a heavy heart and he did not make any attempt to conceal his disappointment either. So all this hype and hoopla of four months of wooing culminated in both of them feeling hurt and let down. She tried to read to keep her mind from meandering back to his riveting eyes and tempting offer. He reached Delhi and called her; he did not lose time but tried to use cogent and cohesive arguments to win his case. Since she did not comply, he went back home without coming back to Pune. Another 8 weeks flew by; he finally accepted the fact that her conventional upbringing and fear of social norms would never let her give in to his requests. He never stopped chiding her about not giving importance to her own thoughts and becoming a prey to outdated social norms. It had been six months since she met him, yet he was in her thoughts everyday. Now she had learnt to live with that as if it was an extra appendage she carried in her. An appendage only she could see and feel. The messages between them had dwindled to just a few a week. He was busy with his new book, though she went on with her life, his thoughts always found a hidden nook in her heart. She now asked herself why this entire event of meeting him flashed before her today. She wondered if his new book had been released or had he decided to visit his son for the summer break. She was shocked when she heard a loud bang. Almost jumping out of her skin, she looked out to see what had caused the loud noise. The cabin lit up with a bright flare, there was sudden activity and everyone seemed to be talking at the same time. The airhostess made an announcement that they were experiencing bad weather and had been hit by a sudden bolt of lightning. The announcement was cut off mid stream, it became dark in the cabin, the decibel of noise grew exponentially. Panic could be felt in the rushed medley of three to four languages. Shabri was a hypertension patient and could feel her BP rising rapidly. She tried to remain calm, but the collective vibes from the panic stricken passengers was not comforting at all. The chaos was interrupted by the static noise followed by a seemingly calm voice with a heavy Russian accent “ladies and gentleman, we are making an emergency landing, you are requested to keep your seatbelts on, the oxygen masks will drop down if the oxygen level gets depleted. Please remain calm, should there be a requirement to evacuate urgently, you are requested to follow the instructions given by the airhostesses”. The announcement had the exact opposite effect. All hell seemed to have broken loose. Everyone was trying to call their loved ones and apprise them of the emergency. The next ten minutes will remain etched in her memory for ever. She didn’t know whether they would make a successful landing, as they headed back to the Moscow airport. The loud agitated voices, people yelling into cell phones and some crying hysterically seemed like a scene from a Hollywood movie. Shabri could feel the altitude diminishing rapidly. Her ears seemed to have got blocked. That turned out to be a blessing in disguise as the agitated voices were now muffled and unclear. She clenched the armrest; the massive Russians had finally moved their chubby arms away as they braced themselves for the landing. Her knuckles were white, “is this how it ends?” she wondered. She almost fainted when the plane bounced 2-3 times on the tarmac. This was worse than a nightmare. The rear under carriage was smashed and the debris got into the rear engine and set it ablaze. People could see black smoke billowing out of the rear end of the plane. The cabin was getting swiftly enveloped in a thick black smoke. It was dark and extremely hot in the cabin, the airhostesses ran around like efficient robots, they had fixed the chutes in the front exits and were pulling people out and helping them towards the chutes. The rear end was ravaged by the flames. Shabri walked as fast as she could and slid down the chute, the heavy Russian seemed to be right behind her, his feet digging into her back. Her beautiful tassar silk saree slid all the way up exposing her knees! As soon as she touched the tarmac, she was pulled up and asked to run. All she had was her handbag; she almost tripped on her saree. As they reached the waiting ambulances, she lost consciousness and when she came to next, she was in the hospital. She looked around and could hear the beeping of the medical apparatus around her. A huge blue eyed nurse turned to look at her and smiled. Her name was written in Russian on her uniform. Shabri asked her in English why she was in the hospital. The nurse, in her halting English, told her that her BP had elevated and she had fainted. She told her that she was lucky to have survived the accident. Out of 78 people on board, only 37 had survived. Shabri took this information in quietly. A hundred thoughts rushed through her mind. She knew her daughters would be worried about her as the news flashed all over the globe. She asked the nurse if she could use the hospital Wi-Fi, her hands were shaking, the monitor displayed her BP reading -190/110. The nurse gently took the phone from her and typed the password and returned the phone. Shabri decided to type a message instead of calling. She sent the same message to both her daughters – “Alive and kicking in the Moscow Hospital. All well, shall travel soon to India, talk to you tonight”. Two days later, she was discharged and the officials had made arrangements for her to travel home. They had packed a few clothes and basic necessities as she had lost everything in the aircraft which had gutted down. In a voice that exuded clarity and confidence she informed the officials that she wanted to travel to Bangalore. As the airline executive was typing in her information, she texted Raghu, “Survived the Moscow air crash, arriving Bangalore, 3pm Friday. Is the offer still open?” There was an immediate response from him – “Ichi-go ichi-e!”