The Accident 

When Life takes a turn - From Splashing dream to Smashing Reality

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It was early in the morning, still dark, but I had left home, excited about the day ahead—I was finally going to a 

 

waterfall after such a long time. By the time the sun came up, I imagined I would already be in the forest, drenching

 

in the fresh waters. The night before, as I was packing for the hike, nostalgia hit me, taking me back to those times 

 

when my soul felt truly alive under the refreshing waterfalls, all those days of my monsoon waterfall treks in the 

 

sahyadri range of the western ghats. I always feel that being to Sahyadris is like finding back my lost love ♥️ I had 

 

been craving that feeling—the cool, fresh forest water—for what felt like ages.

 

 

I rode alone on my scooty through dark roads, on my way to meet the group. The little sense of fear that creeped in due

 

to the deserted dark roads was overpowered by the sneaky moonlight that peeped through the canopy of trees. I enjoyed

 

this solitude and then met the group, a new bunch of enthusiastic hikers, and together we continued on as the dawn 

 

started to pick up. The road was narrow, with green fields on both sides, and just at the end of the fields were hills 

 

adorned with low-lying clouds. The sight was pristine, filling my heart with joy. 

 

 

 

I was just waiting to splash into the forest water… but then, in a sudden twist, my scooty smashed onto the road as it 

skidded on loose sand around a sharp turn.

 

 

That moment went blank. When I opened my eyes, I realised I was lying on the road. I wanted to get up but couldn’t.

 

I could hear people gathering around me, my scooty lying on its side. My body was in pain, unfamiliar and unsettling.

 

After a while, I managed to get up, but my knee wouldn’t straighten—it was clear something was wrong. 

 

My favourite trek pants were torn. Still in shock, I was helped into the car, after my scooty was parked safely.

 

 

We resumed our journey toward the waterfall and entered a no-signal zone, where the landscapes gradually turned from

 

village to forest. As much as I admired the scenery, I could feel the swelling in my knee growing, the pain spreading 

 

down to my heel. It hit me then—I wouldn’t be able to go on the trek after all.

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**Witnessing the Duality Within: 

Contrasting Emotions of Despair and Quiet Growth of Acceptance**

As we reached our starting point for the trek, stepping out of the car made my situation painfully clear---I could 

 

barely take a step. At that moment, I wasn't feeling disappointed; I just wanted to return to town to take care of my leg.

People around me suggested I wait until they returned from the waterfalls, but I was worried that the swelling might 

 

worsen. The place was remote, with no signal, situated 28 kilometres from town, and hardly any vehicles travelled 

 

that road, especially so early in the morning. Fortunately, a public bus passed by, and they helped me get on it.

 

 

As the bus took me back through the same beautiful landscape, filled with lush green fields, mango farms, and hills,

 

memories of a similar situation from my past began to flood back. I recalled my trip to Himachal, which I had eagerly

 

looked forward to, despite my dad’s reluctance to support my passion for trekking. There, I had sprained my ankle, 

 

and all my dreams had felt drowned in that moment. Those memories could have shattered me in an instant, 

 

but they didn’t. Surprisingly, I had let them come and go. While I was obviously disappointed, what mattered most 

 

right now was taking care of my knee.

 

 

While the bus moved along, I was struck by how these villages were so close to my town, yet without any signal—

 

places I had not explored, though I had wandered to other outskirts before. I felt a sense of loss that I couldn’t spend 

 

much time there now, it brought my spirits down but there was a parallel uplifting thought that I would come back 

 

once my leg healed. It felt like a sign that trust in my life, which I had nearly given up on, 

 

was slowly finding its way back.

 

 

Then, a grasshopper caught my eye on the window pane. Grasshopper it has to be in the grasses, right ? What is it 

doing inside the bus ? In that moment, I empathised with it deeply, feeling a shared connection in our experiences 

of being displaced. It looked out through the transparent glass, bewildered, navigating this unfamiliar space, 

yet determined to find its way into the grasses. As it clung to the glass, I saw in its struggle a reflection of my own—

reminding me that even in times of uncertainty, there’s a quiet strength in acceptance and resilience.

Instead of being overwhelmed by the flashes of past disappointments that came in response to this present accident, 

I allowed myself to observe them, much like the grasshopper exploring its new perspective. 

Though the memories of Himachal could have shattered me, they didn’t. With each moment that passed, I felt the 

quiet growth of acceptance taking root within me, recognizing that my journey will not be solely defined by the 

setbacks I face, but by my resilience and willingness to adapt. 

 

Trust in life, once lost, can rebuild again when we tap into our grounding emotions. Trust in life, though fragile, 

was indeed finding its way back—gently, quietly, like the grasshopper returning to the grasses.

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**The Release: Tears as a Moment of Healing**

Dissolved in those moments of appreciating the subtle yet powerful grounding emotions that have built up in me, 

I have not noticed that the bus almost reached my town. Getting off the bus was excruciatingly painful. The conductor

 was kind enough to give me enough time to get down without hurrying me up though he was not completely aware of 

my injury.

 

 As I got down and sat on the footpath, the weight of my situation overwhelmed me, and tears streamed down my face 

as I waited for my friend to come. When my friend arrived and took me to the hospital, the reality of my condition began

 to sink in. After the X-ray, the doctor confirmed there was a fracture—a huge blow to my spirits. I asked how long it 

would take to heal, knowing the standard recovery time for any fracture is at least three months. The doctor 

mentioned the possibility of surgery, and I felt a rush of despair that all those I have planned to do for the coming days

nature education, health workshops and weekend hikes all will again come to an hault. I have held the feelings inside 

without expressing it.

  

In the midst of this despair, I had been silently building a sense of acceptance about the accident and its consequences.

Yet, it wasn’t until I reached home and saw my mother that I truly let go. At that moment, I burst into tears, 

overwhelmed by the flood of emotions. It might appear that by crying I was breaking down the acceptance that 

I have built upon. But I was just bringing out those heavy emotions. It became clear to me that crying is not a sign of

weakness or inability to cope. Rather, it is a powerful expression of our humanity. Confronting our heavy emotions 

rather than suppressing them, allowing ourselves to feel deeply and expressing vulnerability, is a vital part of 

connecting with ourselves as well as with others.

 

I can still feel the sense of acceptance within me even stronger than before. Those tears allowed me to begin the 

process of healing, acknowledging my feelings and giving myself permission to be open and authentic. They served

 as a reminder that healing is not just physical; it involves emotional release too, helping to transform despair into a

 pathway toward acceptance and growth.

 

**The Situation Unfolds: A Sudden Shift in Wings**

I walked into the home limping using one leg and I was joking around saying this is why we need to play the hopping

 

games in childhood. But like a storm cloud quietly brewing on the horizon, the full weight of my new reality spread 

 

its wings as soon as I returned home,and in an instant, my world contracted, confining me to a bed and a room with 

 

just a window to the outside. The outside world is where I truly feel lively—in the embrace of dense forests, 

 

watching birds, hiking along winding trails, and feeling the Earth beneath my feet. Now through my window, 

 

the only view of distant hills and the wide blue sky dotted with bright clouds is both a comfort and 

 

a reminder of lost freedom.

 

What was once simple—walking, sitting, —now became monumental tasks. Every gesture required assistance. 

 

Every slight movement now required a call to my mom for help. Meals arrived at my bedside, and I washed my hands

 

in the plate itself—small signs of what’s to come. The realisation that these will be my new norm. The situation 

 

didn’t unfold gradually; it spread its full wings immediately and enveloped me. This is a reality that will persist 

 

not just for today, but for days and possibly months to come—a stark reminder that life will not be the same.

 

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Throughout the day, the warmth from people has softened the weight of these changes, even as moments of sadness 

 

pair unexpectedly with moments of gratitude. This is just the beginning of my 90-day journey (as the doc said it takes 

 

3 months)—I am open to the experiences and emotions that these days might bring, getting ready to embrace 

 

this unknown new phase of my life.

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