{"id":2893,"date":"2026-08-28T21:49:06","date_gmt":"2026-08-28T16:19:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/anilsinghal.com\/manan\/?p=2893"},"modified":"2026-08-28T21:49:08","modified_gmt":"2026-08-28T16:19:08","slug":"a-sinister-plot","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/anilsinghal.com\/manan\/english\/a-sinister-plot\/","title":{"rendered":"A Sinister Plot"},"content":{"rendered":"Reading Time: <\/span> 6<\/span> minutes<\/span><\/span>\n\n
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For the last two days, I have been watching the news from Nepal. Again and again, the same pictures return to the screen. Mountains, water, debris, broken structures, frightened faces, rescue teams, families waiting for some news, and names slowly becoming numbers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

Somewhere behind every number, however, there was a person. A person who had awakened that morning, spoken to someone, eaten something, planned something, worried about something, perhaps smiled at something. That person had no idea that the ordinary rhythm of life was about to stop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Whenever such a tragedy occurs, something within me becomes quiet. I do not know those people. I may never have visited their homes. I do not know their language, religion, profession, beliefs, dreams, or family circumstances. Yet their departure troubles me. I feel sorry for every life lost, because before being Indian, Nepali, Japanese, European, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, rich, poor, educated or uneducated, each was simply a human being.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps living in India makes some tragedies easier for me to relate to. The Ahmedabad air crash in 2025 felt close. The images, the city, the people, the circumstances, all belonged to surroundings I could easily imagine. The tsunami of December 2004 remains another painful memory. The sea, which normally attracts us with its beauty and calmness, suddenly became a force that swept away families, homes and entire settlements along the coast of South India and far beyond.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then there are tragedies elsewhere in the world. Earthquakes bury cities. Floods carry away settlements. Cyclones enter homes. Fires surround people who have nowhere to run. Aircraft fall. Trains collide. Bridges collapse. Crowds become trapped. Sometimes nature appears responsible, sometimes human error, sometimes technology, and sometimes a combination of causes. Geography changes, language changes, and the faces change, but the human sorrow remains strangely similar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every time, explanations follow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Scientists explain the movement of tectonic plates. Experts explain weather systems. Engineers examine structures. Investigators reconstruct the final moments of an aircraft. Committees study errors. Reports identify causes, contributing factors and failures. All this is necessary. Human beings must understand what happened so that another tragedy may perhaps be prevented.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But somewhere inside me, another question remains unanswered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Why these people?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Why was this particular person in that particular place at that particular moment? Why did someone board that flight while someone else cancelled the journey? Why did one family remain at home while another stepped outside? Why did somebody leave ten minutes earlier and survive, while another arrived ten minutes later and became part of the tragedy? Why did hundreds of completely different lives reach the same point at almost exactly the same time?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Science explains the event to me, but it does not answer this question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have believed in God throughout my life. Someone else may call that reality a supernatural power, a Supreme Being, divine consciousness, universal intelligence or simply something beyond human understanding. Names are less important to me than the feeling that existence cannot be reduced only to what my eyes can see and my instruments can measure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yet these tragedies disturb that belief in a way that ordinary questions do not.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If there is a divine order, where do I place such events within it?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hesitate even while writing these words, because I do not wish to question God with arrogance. I do not know enough to do that. I am only a human being trying to understand human suffering with the small understanding given to me. Faith does not necessarily remove questions. Sometimes faith makes the questions deeper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

People often use the word destiny.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“It was destined.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“His time had come.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“It was written.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps these words bring peace to some grieving hearts. Perhaps they help people accept what otherwise appears impossible to accept. I respect that belief. I would never take away from another person the thought that gives strength during unbearable grief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Still, my mind continues to ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If the time was decided, was the place also decided? If the place was decided, were the circumstances decided? And if hundreds of people reached that place together, were they somehow part of the same arrangement?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is here that an uncomfortable expression sometimes comes to my mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A sinister plot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I do not use these words to accuse God. I cannot imagine God sitting somewhere and designing suffering with cruelty. That would contradict the very faith through which I have understood compassion, mercy, prayer and goodness. Yet when I look only at the visible arrangement of certain tragedies, it can appear frighteningly organised.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

An aircraft has to be at one exact location. Hundreds of passengers have to be inside it. Each passenger has to reach the airport in time. Each has a different reason for travelling. One is returning home. Another is beginning a holiday. Someone is travelling for work. Someone is going to meet children. Someone may have postponed the journey from the previous day. Someone else may have booked the ticket only a few hours earlier. Separate stories quietly gather inside one machine, and then, within seconds, everything changes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How can the human mind look at this and not wonder?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The same thought comes when an earthquake strikes at night. Thousands of people are sleeping beneath different roofs. Some have just returned from work. Some children have finished their homework. Someone has been caring for an elderly parent. Someone has just spoken to a relative on the telephone. Someone has made plans for the morning. Then the earth moves for a few seconds, and hundreds or thousands of individual futures disappear together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It feels almost like an appointment that nobody knew had been made.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That thought frightens me more than the scientific explanation of the disaster.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps the problem lies in the limitations of my mind. I see life from one small point in time. I see birth as a beginning and death as an ending. I see eighty years as long and eight years as painfully short. If there is something beyond this life, perhaps the meaning looks different from there. I do not know. I can believe, hope and pray, but I cannot claim knowledge that I do not possess.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is another thought that comes whenever I see these tragedies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The disaster does not ask for identity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The falling building does not ask which religion is being followed. The wave does not check nationality. The earthquake does not read surnames. The fire does not distinguish between wealth and poverty before it reaches a room. An aircraft carrying people from different backgrounds carries them all under the same laws of gravity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At such moments, so many divisions created by human beings suddenly appear very small.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then something beautiful often happens within the tragedy. Another human being runs towards the danger. A rescuer lifts a stranger. A doctor treats someone without asking about religion. A neighbour opens a home. Someone gives blood for a person whose name will never be known. Food arrives from strangers. Prayers rise from temples, mosques, churches, gurudwaras and homes for people belonging to every possible faith.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps there is something here that I can understand, even if I cannot understand the tragedy itself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I cannot answer why certain lives end together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I can decide how I respond while I am still alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can become a little less concerned with the labels that separate human beings. I can value an ordinary morning more deeply. I can speak gently because I do not know which conversation may be the last one. I can postpone anger rather than affection. I can remember that every person passing beside me is carrying a complete world within himself or herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And when another terrible headline appears, perhaps I do not need to solve the mystery immediately.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps I can simply feel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can feel the loss of a mother I never met, a child whose language I do not speak, an elderly man living in another country, a young traveller with plans that remained unfinished. I can allow their unknown lives to matter to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can pray for each life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can pray for those who remain behind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can pray for the rescuers searching through debris, for the doctors receiving the injured, for families waiting beside telephones, and for those who will return to homes where one chair will remain empty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The expression “A Sinister Plot” may continue to trouble me. Perhaps someday I will understand it differently. Perhaps it is not a plot at all. Perhaps it is destiny. Perhaps it is the working of natural laws. Perhaps it belongs to a divine design too large for my small window of understanding. Perhaps some questions are meant to accompany us rather than be answered by us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For the present, I have no answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have only sadness, faith, questions and prayer. And somewhere between them, I continue my own journey, more conscious than before that life is precious precisely because none of us knows how long the journey is, where the road will turn, or which ordinary goodbye may quietly become the last.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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