Some people describe it as waiting outside your boss' room before your annual appraisal after a particularly bad year.
Some people describe it as a bowler coming in, with your team on strike needing two to win, with one wicket left.
Some people describe it as sleeping alone at night.
Some people describe it as the wait for exam results.
Some people describe it as popping the question, and the painstaking wait as she thinks it over.
Some people describe it as waiting for the 'Price' slide of the annual Apple gadget presentation.
I thought of many of those too, and more.
On July 10, 2011, my definition changed for ever.
Imagine being woken up from your reverie in the backseat of a car, totally out of control and the driver unable to get a grip. Imagine seeing a huge truck in front of you. And you're speeding towards it, with no sign of slowing down.
That one second when you know you're going to crash.
That one second when you don't know whether you'll be alive at the end of it.
That one second when your entire life - from peeing in public to raising your hands in triumph after conquering Maharashtra's tallest peak - flashes in front of you in ultra-fast-forward.
That one second where you wonder whether all you've worked for - all your hopes and dreams - will just reside in pieces of a useless cerebellum, whose best future could be inside formalin.
That one second where you want to scream, cry, curse, hope, pray all at once.
That one second where you know something terrible is going to happen, and you don't have the power to do anything - anything about it.
That one second.
Everything else - job, cricket results, bugs at home, marks, rejection, iPad prices - seemed so inconsequential.
That. Is fear.
One year ago, each one of us involved in the accident is alive. And well. And in a position to work just as before without any problems. We can think about iPad prices and cricket matches again.
I just hope none of us - or any of you reading this - are needed to be given a reminder on how fragile life is.