In the hush of an early morning, as the first light pierced the veil of dawn, I sat in silence, eyes closed, breath steady. Meditation clears my mind's noise. But on this day, something extraordinary happened. A sudden gush of thoughts flooded in, unbidden and vivid, each was a “what if” that shook me. They were not mere hypotheticals; They felt real, like lives I almost lived. By the time I opened my eyes, tears poured down my face. I was sobbing not from sorrow, but from an overwhelming gratitude. In that moment, I saw clearly that I am so lucky.
What if I had been born from an illicit liaison, got left in trash right after birth? Dumped in garbage, swaddled in filth, my cries lost to the indifferent roar of the world. No mom or dad and exposed to just strangers or the streets. Survival would have been a gamble, my potential crushed under the weight of stigma and neglect. Yet here I am, cradled from the start by caring hands, my origins a story of legitimacy and love.
What if a congenital disease had claimed my body from birth, its grip tightening with every year? Limbs weakening, senses fading, each dawn a battle against debility. Doctors' visits, endless treatments, a life measured in milestones of pain rather than progress. Instead, my body has carried me through courts and classrooms, strong enough to wield a gavel and embrace my loved ones.
What if I had grown up in a broken home, parents splintered by discord, leaving me adrift in emotional chaos. Or worse, orphaned young, thrust into a foster homes or institutions where affection is sparse.
What if persistent abuse had scarred my soul, Childhood stolen by fear and distrust? Childhood, meant for wonder, twisted into survival. Imagine no family means to fund education, the gateway to knowledge slammed shut. Or a catastrophic accident wiping out my kin, leaving me scarred and disabled, piecing together a life from fragments. What if my surroundings brimmed with rascals and scoundrels, their influence molding me into their likeness—a thief, a bully, lost to the underbelly?
Even in youth's innocence, peril lurks. What if a playground scuffle, heat-of- the-moment fury, a blow that proves fatal. Branded a juvenile offender, shackled by law's cold machinery, redemption a distant mirage amid reformatories and stigma. Bad habits could have ensnared me next stealing years in a haze of despair. Adolescence's passions might have led astray as a teenage romance igniting into forbidden fire, ensnared by the POCSO Act's unyielding jaws, freedom lost in jail for years in the midst of dangerous criminals.
The legal path I tread what if it eluded me? Immoral methods for sustenance, dignity bartered in shadows and conscience eroded by necessity. Marriage, that sacred bond, could have crumbled, a child torn between ruins, hearts irreparably fractured. And in the sanctum of power as a judge, what if blinding authority corrupted me? Inhuman verdicts, bribes staining the scales of justice, my soul forfeited to hubris.
Deeper still, what if I lacked the capacity for elevation? Incapable to enjoy good books, speeches, or music? What if I had no opportunity to be aware of spirituality or great ideologies brought forth by great thinkers? No caring parents to guide, no loyal friends to buoy, no loving wife to heal, no beautiful children to ignite purpose. A world devoid of support, my pet Vela's playful nudges absent and always in the pangs of isolation.
These “what ifs” cascaded like a torrent. I saw millions trapped there: street kids fighting to live, sick ones in endless pain, hurt ones hiding scars, poor ones without school, lost ones hooked on drugs or jail. Lives flipped by bad luck.
For once I got up crying thanks after a meditation session. But they were tears of profuse thanks. To my parents who built me. To teachers, sculptors of my mind. To friends, pillars unyielding. To my wife, heartbeat of my home, my Son a star in my sky. To great thinkers whose words lit my path, litterateurs whose verses sang my soul, colleagues who sharpened my justice. Even Vela, that faithful bundle of joy, crossing my life with paws of pure affection. Every soul who brushed my journey—they made my luck.
Some invoke God, others karma's intricate web. For my small brain, humbled by this vision, one word suffices “LUCKY “. A cosmic lottery won not by merit, but by grace's whim. This revelation stunned me. In courts, I see the stories of “what ifs”—juvenile offenders from broken homes, addicts pleading for mercy, families shattered by one fateful error. Now, I realise that I must judge not from afar, but from empathy's edge, knowing how narrowly I escaped their shadows.
This is life's profound irony since our blessings are invisible until contrasted with curses unlived. Meditation gifted me this mirror, reflecting not vanity, but vulnerability. We stride through days assuming our path immutable, blind to the chasms inches away. One illicit birth, one disease, one fracture—and worlds diverge. Yet here we stand, some whole, some healing, all human in our fragility.
Reader, pause now. In your silence, summon your own “what ifs.” The job lost, the love unrequited, the health betrayed, the opportunities denied. Feel the weight, then the wonder of your escapes. Sob if you must, but rise thanking. Parents, mentors, strangers who pivoted your path. Pets who loved without judgment. You, too, are lucky deeply, surprisingly.
In a world of relentless “what ifs,” gratitude is the ultimate rebellion. It doesn't erase pain or injustice; it grows your good. I emerged from that meditative trance transformed, vowing deeper compassion on the bench, richer presence in my home. How lucky I am. How lucky we all are, if only we dare to see.
Author is a Judge at Madras High Court. Views are personal.