The
news of the death of an acquaintance in a paragliding accident in Bulgaria
recently triggered so many thoughts. Given the risky nature of his choice of
sport, he had been in several accidents, the last of which, had immobilized him
completely for nine months. His family had begged him to hang up his gliding
sails that last time but he didn’t pay any heed. It seemed implausible that the
wellbeing of his two young children never crossed his mind. Were his priorities
so misplaced that wisdom couldn’t prevail? Was it incurable deep-rooted angst
that led to the self-destruction? Was there really a line between risk-taking
and inflicting self-harm?
My
head was already buzzing with all these contemplations when a friend phoned.
She’d visited his family and while they deeply grieved his departure from their
lives forever more, there was also a feeling of overwhelming gratitude for his
provision for all of them even after his demise, she said.
This must indicate
that he had weighed the consequences of pursuing his passion after all. Was
this what they called intelligent risk-taking? But did this calculation really
soften the blow? Maybe, I'm so gauche that I still can't see any upside or
gains like the risk pundits advise. While his family might never have to worry
about mundane things such as finance, his absence from their lives is
such an irreparable loss that no money in the world can assuage.
