Sat of 9 Lives
By Satish Aparajit
They say a cat has nine lives.
If that’s true, I may have borrowed a few extra.
In my 73 years and seven months, I’ve had at least nine clear invitations to shake hands with Lord Yama—the God of Death. For reasons known only to him (and perhaps to my stubborn karma), those meetings never happened. Unlike an Indo-Pak cricket match, both of us repeatedly chose not to show up.
I have practiced Nichiren Daishonin’s Buddhism for over four decades. One belief has always stayed with me: until one’s mission on Earth is complete, there is no final departure. Pleasure and pain arrive in equal measure; both are part of the script we bring into this life. Yet sometimes, fate improvises. As ND Buddhism states enjoy what’s there to enjoy and suffer what is there to suffer but continue to chant for peace and happiness.
What follows are nine moments when fate tried to end the show—and failed.
- I was in Class 3 or 4, living in Nepanagar, amid the Satpura ranges, where my father worked at the Nepa Paper Mills. Dense forests, roaring monsoons, and rivers in spate were part of daily life.
After three days of heavy rain, the Pandhar River, one of the tributaries of River Tapti, overflowed. Watching its furious current from a bridge was entertainment for village boys. A young man jumped in and swam across. Mesmerised, I leaned forward—and slipped.
The current tossed me like a rag doll. I knew only one thing: move your arms and legs and hope to float. This young man who was swimming saw me, sprinted across the bank, climbed a tree, dived in, and dragged me out. Turned upside down, the river poured out of me like a squeezed sponge.
My first brush with Yama. He missed.
- Hyderabad in those days was green, airy, and rocky. Naubat Pahad, where Birla Temple now stands, overlooked Hussain Sagar—our playground.
Rock climbing came naturally to me. One perfect afternoon, five of us climbed the hill. Three reached near the top. Then my toe hold slipped. I rolled 200 feet downhill. When I woke up an hour later, my friends and an elderly couple stood around me. No broken bones. No internal injuries. Just shock—and a pact of silence.
This is the first time my family will read about it.
- During the Telangana agitation, Osmania University shut down for 18 months. Nothing to do and for some reason I left for Nagpur. At the railway station, like many reckless young men of the time, I waited for the train to move before jumping in. The crowd surged. Panic followed. My hand slipped. For a split second, I was between the platform and the train—certain this was the end. Then someone grabbed my hand and pulled me inside. I thanked them. No one responded. No one admitted it. Providence doesn’t always sign autographs.
- Adventure has always been my addiction. In Kasauli, where I was posted then, I decided downhill roller skating was a good idea. It wasn’t. I picked up terrifying speed. Ahead: a sharp bend. Miss it, and the gorge would finish the story. The only obstacle between me and oblivion was a small roadside shack. I slammed into it. Stars exploded behind my eyes. I escaped with fractures and torn ligaments—alive, annoyed, and wiser for exactly five minutes.
- Posted at Dalhousie, a beautiful hill station. The unit was divided into administrative and operation area that was at Dainkund, 9,000 feet above sea level, Once a week, one had to be a Duty Officer there. I often trekked down alone to and fro from Dalhousie to Diankund through deodar forests—known bear and leopard territory. One moonlit night, I left at five in the morning and, within a short distance, I heard it: the grunt of a bear climbing uphill. We were barely 50 metres apart. I hid behind a rock. The bear sniffed around. As it circled, I ran downhill like an Olympic sprinter. At the first bend, I looked back—the bear stood watching, deciding. I didn’t wait for the verdict and stopped only when I reached home. My wife had never seen me panting like the way I was.
- I was posted at Dehradun. A Sunday ride into Rajaji Park with my friend Martin, a brilliant naturalist, turned memorable when our scooter stalled in wet sand. A makhna, male elephant without tusks charged. Martin pushed. I prayed. The elephant’s breathing was right beside me. His trumpet blast felt like a punch to the chest. Miraculously, the engine started. We shot forward. The elephant stopped mid-track, trumpeted once more—as if conceding the match—and vanished into the forest.
Yama, again disappointed.
- As Liaison Officer with a Yugoslav expedition to Trishul, perfect weather suddenly betrayed us. The snow beneath trembled while we were setting up camp 1 — and we were sliding. A shallow avalanche. We curled into the egg position. When movement stopped, I freed one hand, broke through, and emerged. Four of us surfaced quickly. The fifth took much longer.
I was still breathing. That seemed to be my recurring theme.
- I was on way to the airport from Gurgaon at 5 a.m., in a brand-new Indica taxi. I warned the driver of a speeding truck at a junction. He accelerated instead. The trailer hit us—twice. The car crumpled under the truck. Thanks to the seat belt, I walked out. I called my wife, Leena, asking her to drop me to the airport. Her face when she saw the wreck said everything. She dropped me to the airport and I delivered my lecture and conducted the workshop on time.
- This is again while I was posted at Dalhousie. Winter time, heavy snow. I was also posted as Ski Instructor. Every morning I left at about 5:30 to reach Diankund to conduct the ski course. This time around I was travelling in an ambulance as there was no other transport available and driven by a newly posted driver who had no experience in driving on snow and ice. On a sharp turn, the vehicle skidded and toppled. I fell over the driver – remember those were the days of no seat belts. I got out first and then helped five others to crawl out—mostly unhurt. With help from villagers and labourers, we turned the ambulance upright. I then drove in reverse gear —wearing ski boots—for two kilometres that creaked my neck but my spirit was intact.
Why Tell This Story?
I don’t claim bravery—only persistence.
I cheated death nine times, but I don’t recommend trying. The point is simple: live fully, live honestly, and live peacefully. Not everyone gets a second chance. I’ve had nine.
Perhaps my mission isn’t complete yet. Or perhaps Lord Yama and I have an understanding.
Either way, I’m still here—living on the edge and with absolute happiness.
(Satish Aparajit is a retired Wing Commander of the Air Force and a Shaurya Chakra awardee.)
