A Normal Day, Until It Wasn’t

We don’t see tragedy coming. That’s what makes it a tragedy. We wake up, make chai/coffee, scroll through headlines, send a “reached safely” text—never knowing which of these could be the last thing we ever do.

On June 12, 242 people boarded an Air India Dreamliner in Ahmedabad, heading to London. Some were flying for work, some to reunite with loved ones. They carried chargers, snacks, and half-read books. Maybe someone had just flicked their phone to airplane mode when everything changed. Minutes after takeoff, the plane crashed. No warning. No time to process. What began as a normal Thursday afternoon turned into headlines, into obituaries, into calls that went unanswered.

But the month had already begun with another tragedy. On June 4, Bengaluru had erupted in celebration.

After 18 long years, Royal Challengers Bengaluru finally lifted their first IPL trophy. The streets turned red and gold. Fans shouted, danced, waved flags, and sang at the top of their lungs. It was joy on a massive scale—until it wasn’t. As the crowds swelled, a barricade gave way. The cheering turned to screaming. A stampede followed. Eleven people died. Forty-seven were injured. They weren’t protesting or marching—they were just celebrating. They died in a crowd that was supposed to feel like a community.

Go back a little further. In April, the hills of Pahalgam in Kashmir were quiet and calm. Tourists roamed pine-lined paths, clicked photos, sipped kahwa, and breathed mountain air. It was supposed to be peaceful. It was supposed to be safe. Then, terrorists opened fire on tourists. What was meant to be a holiday turned into a massacre. Blood spilled where there should have been laughter. People came seeking healing and left with horror.

Different days. Different places. But the same brutal reminder: none of them saw it coming. Why would they

These weren’t people living on the edge. They weren’t in war zones or taking big risks. They were just flying, celebrating, sightseeing—living ordinary lives on ordinary days.

That’s what makes it so terrifying. We build our lives around routine. We plan our days like they’re owed to us. Book a flight. Join a crowd. Pack a bag. Trust the world to behave. But sometimes, it doesn’t. Sometimes the randomness is the point. You don’t have to do anything wrong. You just have to be there.

And yet, most of us still are. Still here. Still breathing. Still scrolling through stories like this one. That alone is extraordinary. Not because we earned it, but because so many others didn’t get the same chance.

So what do we do with this day—the one that didn’t unravel? We don’t waste it waiting for a better one. We stop saving the “good moments” for special occasions. We say the thing we’ve been holding in. We wear the outfit we think we’re not ready for. We stop putting life on layaway.

We call our parents. We forgive someone. We show up. We say “I love you” without needing a perfect reply.
Because the people on that flight had plans. The fans in Bengaluru had playlists. The tourists in Kashmir had more hills to hike. And then they didn’t.

You’re still here. You still do.

So today, this boring, ordinary, safe-feeling day?

Live it like it’s borrowed.

Because it is.

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