“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle” – Albert Einstein

Miracles, Missteps, and the Magic of Chance

They say miracles are like shooting stars—rare, fleeting, and a spectacle that defies the odds. I had always thought of miracles as the stuff of old wives’ tales or clickbait headlines, the kind of thing people use to escape the mundane chaos of life. Until, of course, life decided to serve me one on a silver platter.

But before I get into my story of misplaced baggage and moments of sheer panic, let me share a tale that planted the seed of “what if” in my mind—a story that came rushing back to me on that fateful morning

The New York Miracle

It was an article I read years ago, buried in the back pages of some forgotten magazine. An old man, alone in his New York apartment, suffered a massive heart attack. Writhing in pain, blinded by panic, he stumbled around for help but could not locate the emergency numbers his wife had carefully written down before stepping out for some errands. This was before mobile phones turned us into walking directories.

Desperate and delirious, the man found a crumpled newspaper on the table with some phone numbers printed on it. Without a second thought, he dialed one, mumbled something incomprehensible, and passed out.

Across the country, his daughter—a surgeon—was in New York that very day for a last-minute meeting. Late for her appointment, she was rushing through the hospital deserted corridors when she heard a faint, muffled ringing. It was coming from a room no one had any business being in. At first, she dismissed it. It wasn’t her job to answer random calls, and she was already running behind. But something nagged at her—a feeling she couldn’t shake. So, she pushed open the door and found an old telephone buried under a pile of dirty linen.

She answered the call.

On the other end was the faint, gasping voice of a man in agony.

Miraculously, he survived.

Analysts later calculated the odds of this sequence of events: one in 10 followed by 36 zeros—a number so mind-bogglingly improbable it makes winning the lottery look like child’s play. And yet, it happened.

Delhi Railway Station: My Turn for a Miracle

Now, fast forward to my story of 2015, set in the grimy, chaotic reality of New Delhi Railway Station. It was one of those misty mornings when the air smells like equal parts smog and chai. I was catching the Shatabdi Express to Lucknow, lugging around  me two bags—a backpack and an airbag. After passing them through the security scanner, I sauntered over to Platform 9 and waited for my train

It was not until ten minutes later, as I idly glanced at my backpack, that my heart sank faster than the Titanic. It was not my bag pack.

Let me spell this out for you: this was not just a backpack. It was the backpack. The Holy Grail of my seafaring career. It held my passport, my Continuous Discharge Certificate (CDC), and every single document I’d painstakingly collected over 30 years of service. For a seaman, losing these papers is worse than losing your wallet, your phone, and your mind all at once. Without them, you are not just unemployed—you are unemployable. It would take me months before some of the documents could be made.

To make matters worse, I was scheduled to fly out of the country in seven days to join a ship. Seven days. Losing my backpack was not just an inconvenience—it was a ticking time bomb. Adding to the chaos, the bag also contained my credit cards, debit cards, and a handful of cash, but those were not even on my radar. Money can be replaced, cards can be blocked and reissued. But the documents? They were irreplaceable, the lifeblood of my entire career.

I froze.

Panic set in like a tidal wave. My thoughts spiraled out of control. What if I never found it? How would I join the ship in seven days? What if my entire life, everything I had worked for, was undone by a moment of carelessness?

And then, something strange happened.

A wave of calm washed over me.

I could feel my breath slowing, my pulse steadying. My Vipassana meditation practice kicked in, like an old friend showing up in my darkest hour. I reminded myself: “It is not the end of the world. At worst, it’s the end of my career. And if that’s the case, so be it.”

With that clarity, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. I wasn’t going down without a fight.

The Search for a Needle in a Haystack

The image of the couple standing ahead of me at the security scanner flashed in my mind—those unsuspecting bag snatchers (well, accidental ones, I hoped). They must have taken my bag. But seriously, how on earth was I supposed to find them in the chaotic labyrinth of New Delhi Railway Station, with its 16 platforms and a population density rivaling that of a small country? Suddenly, every person I saw looked vaguely familiar—like a carbon copy of the couple ahead of me at the security scanner, as if the universe had decided to flood the station with their lookalikes just to mess with me.

I rushed back to the security scanner and enlisted the help of a sympathetic cop. Together, we rummaged through the bag I had mistakenly picked up, hoping to find some clue about its owner. No ID, no phone number, no address. Just when I was about to give up, the cop noticed something—a white envelope tucked into a corner

To me, it looked useless, but at that point, I wasn’t in a position to ignore anything.

Inside was an old invoice for a laptop, dated six months back. At the top, scrawled in barely legible pencil, was a 10-digit number. My heart leaped. Could this be it?

With trembling hands, I dialed the number. A man answered on the third ring.

“Are you Swaminathan?”- the name on the invoice, I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Yes,” he replied.

I have heard a lot of sweet things in my life—my wife’s laughter, the first cry of my newborn daughters, the sound of waves crashing on a quiet shore—but in that moment, nothing, and I mean nothing, came close to the sheer, almost tear-jerking relief of hearing that single word.
Honestly, if a group of Bollywood playback singers had appeared out of nowhere, belting out an AR Rahman masterpiece with full orchestration, I would have told them to pipe down so I could soak in the sheer bliss of that moment properly.

We arranged to meet on the overbridge at the stairs of Platform 4. When I saw the man running towards me with my backpack in hand, I felt a flood of emotions—relief, gratitude, and an overwhelming urge to cry, laugh, and hug him all at once. It was as if the universe had conspired to give me a second chance. After the exchange, he rushed back without a single word, as if time was chasing him. I stood frozen, clutching my backpack, and glanced down to see him leaping onto a moving train, disappearing into the crowd like a fleeting shadow.

A Crisis of Faith

Later, as I narrated the whole episode to my wife, she smiled and said, “God helped you.”

I would not call myself an atheist, but I hold the belief that God is not a watchful guardian hovering over our every move. Instead, I see the divine as a creator who set the universe in motion with a handful of fundamental laws, leaving it to unfold through the intricate web of causality. Naturally, her comment stirred a philosophical storm within me, nudging me to question the very nature of fate, free will, and the unseen forces at play.

If God truly intervened to help me, then I could not help but wonder—whose God was it? Was it the Hindu, the Muslim , or the Christian? And if divine intervention is real, why were thousands left unanswered, buried under the rubble in Nepal after the recent devastating earthquake? Surely, amidst that tragedy, there were countless souls who prayed with a fervor and faith far deeper and more sincere than mine could ever be. Why was their plea met with silence? This question lingered, not as doubt in the existence of God, but as a reflection on the profound and mysterious ways of the universe—a reminder that faith and fate don’t always walk hand in hand

The truth is, I don’t know. And maybe that’s the point.

What I do know is that life is an absurd mix of randomness and resilience. Whether you call it luck, fate, divine intervention, or sheer coincidence, sometimes the universe aligns in ways that defy explanation

And maybe that’s the lesson here. Life does not owe us anything. It does not promise us fairness or guarantees. But every once in a while, it throws us a lifeline. It is up to us to grab it.

When life blindsides us—whether with a misplaced bag or a metaphorical heart attack—take a deep breath. Trust that you will find a way through, even if the odds are stacked against you. Maybe, just maybe, you will stumble upon your own miracle.

And when you do, do not question it. Just be grateful.

Because whether it is a fluke, fate, or the benevolent hand of some higher power, one thing’s for sure: miracles does not come around every day.