Ahmedabad, last week.

A plane crashes. Catches fire. The horror unfolds in seconds. Two hundred and forty-one people perish in a flaming coffin. And one man—just one—jumps off before the inferno claims him.

He doesn’t pray for the pilot to say something.

Doesn’t wait for the safety card to start glowing.

Doesn’t hope someone else will make the first move.

He sees the flames, sees the emergency door spring open, and jumps. Bruised, yes. But alive.

And as I read about this lone survivor, I couldn’t help but think—not of death, but of life. Not of burning planes alone, but the burning situations we all sit buckled into, hoping—just hoping—that the fire will politely put itself out.

It won’t.

Let’s start with that job of yours. You know the one. The manager gives you heartburn, your inbox gives you ulcers, and the chair gives you a permanent backache.

But you stay on.

You tighten that seatbelt of monthly salary, and you say as the heat becomes unbearable, “Let me wait. Maybe things will improve.” Meanwhile, the flames of stress, stagnation and sleepless nights lick closer.

Then there’s that relationship. You see the sparks. Not of romance—but rage. You hear the smoke alarm, not from the kitchen, but from your heart. You know it’s toxic, you know it’s crumbling—but you don’t jump. “What will people say? I’m already engaged!” you whisper.

Let me tell you—people will be writing your obituary if you don’t leap out of that window that is open, only for awhile.

And yes, the most dangerous aircraft of all—politics. Look around. The flames are not just on runways anymore, they’re at rallies. Hate is being fuel-injected into speeches. Minorities are the new boarding pass to majority votes. The temperature is rising, and many of us are still seated, buckled into our ideologies, nodding loyally while our country burns.

But once in a while, someone jumps.

They jump off WhatsApp forwards. They jump off hate groups. They speak up. They shout “Enough!” They may land with bruises—social ones, maybe professional—but they walk away breathing. And in that breath is life. And change. Not just for you, but for the country!

That man in Ahmedabad didn’t plan his escape. He saw death at his elbow, and life through an open door. So, he moved. He didn’t shout “Follow me!” He didn’t conduct a risk analysis. He just acted.

And that’s the lesson.

Sometimes, in life, you don’t need a seatbelt. You need a door. You don’t need a speech. You need a leap. You don’t need to wait for permission—you need to run before the fire makes the decision for you.

So, I ask again:
What’s your burning plane?
And what’s keeping you buckled in?

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