For the past few days, the entire Isha community has been living with a heaviness that is difficult to explain to anyone outside it. The Ishanga leading the group of 77 was my Shoonya teacher. I had friends, people I deeply care about in other groups. This personal connection brought the tragedy unbearably close. But even without it, the people who were at the immigration centre in Gyirong would not have felt like strangers. Most of us may never have met them, spoken to them or even seen their faces. Yet, from the moment we heard that they remained unaccounted for after the devastating flash flood, they felt like our own people. Like members of our own family. Some within the community had relatives or friends travelling with other Isha groups. They waited anxiously for messages saying they were safe. Every delayed call brought fear. Every update was read and reread. Every uncertain piece of information carried enormous weight. And then there was the concern for Sadhguru. He was still in Tibet, with roads blocked, communication disrupted and the situation changing constantly. The fear for his safety felt deeply personal. It felt as though our own father or mother was standing in a dangerous place while we were far away, unable to do anything. According to Isha Sacred Walks coordinator Maa Gambhiri, Sadhguru and over 700 Isha participants were still in Tibet. He wanted a safe land route to be secured for them. He also wanted to reach the affected area and assist in every way possible. The original update said that, of the 21 groups, 495 people had already returned safely, 743 remained in Tibet, 148 were in Nepal, 77 had been at the immigration centre and three volunteers were in Timure. To the world, these may be numbers in a news report. To Ishas, every number is a person. Someone’s spouse. Someone’s parent. Someone’s child. Someone who sat beside us in a programme. Someone who volunteered with us. Someone who walked the same path. A Gurubhagini or a Gurubhrata. Many people today may not understand these words. Perhaps even we do not use them often. But we have definitely imbibed their essence. During moments like this, it becomes visible. We may come from different countries, speak different languages and have completely different lives, but the connection is real. This is when the meaning of community becomes apparent. It is easy to celebrate community during programmes, festivals and joyful moments. Its real strength is revealed when tragedy strikes. It is seen when people pray for those whose names they do not know. When volunteers work without rest. When families comfort one another. When thousands of people wait together for one hopeful update. Perhaps this is what it truly means to experience the world as one family. It cannot remain a beautiful idea meant only for good times. It must mean that another person’s pain can enter our heart, even when that person is unknown to us. For the past few days, the entire Isha family has carried this fear, grief and helplessness together. We continue to hope. We continue to pray. We stand with every person and every family affected by this tragedy. Because when a community truly becomes a family, no one’s suffering remains somebody else’s tragedy.