The Duck and his Little Duckling

I am scribbling this story at 4:17 AM in the morning after a dream broke my sleep. The dreams that one sees at this time of the hour are hard to remember once one wakes up. But when I woke up a while back, I was determined that I would not let this one wipe away. A better way of remembering it for a long time would be to pen it down on the iPad. So here goes the dream.

 It was soon to be sunset on the seashore. The sky was lit in orange, with sparse dark clouds adding to its beauty. A father duck and his little baby duck were waiting by the seashore, soaking their fear over the wet sand of the beach. The father duck seemed weak, tired, and wounded. He seemed hurt from a recent fight with a predator which he had managed to escape, a few of his feathers worn out. He had managed to hide his little duckling from the predator. The little duckling was too naive, just learning to walk and swim. The father duck seemed worried for the little one. He looked at its tiny feet that had just started to toddle around him.

“You must be strong, lad, and start finding your own food,” the father duck said.

“Huh huh,” said the little duckling, looking at its father and nodding back. It looked so innocent, unaware of the worldly challenges it could come across when he said so.

“Look, dear, I want you to concentrate and listen to me. I want you to know that your mother and I were fighters. Together we overcame several challenges in our lives. I want you to remember this for the rest of your life. You must keep fighting,” the wounded father kept talking.

The little duckling stopped playing with the waves and gave its father a grave look. It had started to realize that what its father was sharing was serious.

“I wish I could have taught you more life skills. But my time is over and I can no longer serve you, lad. You are on your own from now on,” said the father duck, as he looked at the setting sun on the horizon. He was sure that if he stayed with his little duckling, he would be a burden—unable to find prey on his own. He kept watching the little duckling, which now meant the world to him. It was the only living memory of his partner who had left the family. The father duck had a heavy heart. He was weeping deep inside, yet unable to cry. He did not want to show weakness to his kid. He wanted it to believe that its father was a hero, and that it was the offspring of a heroic duck.

It was a situation he had never been in before. He just wanted the little duckling to leave and fight its own battle. But he kept worrying for its safety—something he had no control over now.

Time had paused. The wind stopped blowing that moment, and the little duckling said, “I’ll go away, Pa! But where are you going?”

“I am going into the sea, lad. Everyone has to go there one day,” said the father duck, seeming to cover the situation.

“Can I come along?” asked the little one.

The father duck had no answer. The waves had calmed down and he knew that they would soon cover the beach. He just wanted his kid to leave the seashore before it was dark. He was unsure of its future after he left, but for the moment he knew the beach would no longer be a safe place for the little one.

I woke up disturbed. It was a dream. A dream for sure. I looked at my hands. I had no wings. Those were my hands. I woke up and walked towards the other room. The kids were asleep with their mother. I stood there for a while wanting to hug them. I did not want to disturb them.

The Scales of Karma - In and Out of the Womb

Once a pregnant woman and her husband visited a doctor with her 3 year old daughter.

“We are not ready for a second child yet”, she told to the doctor.

“Okay”, said the doctor. “Which child do you want to kill?”, he asked.

The mother was shaken by the doctor’s question.

“What!?”, the mother of two was unable to speak further.

“It’s safer for you to kill the elder one”, the doctor said in his attempt to pass a strong message.

Man-made laws are a reflection of society’s current values, fears, and compromises. They are not absolute but relative—what is lawful in one country may be unlawful in another. The definitions of crime, justice, and morality are often rewritten according to time, place, and circumstance. This flexibility gives societies room to evolve, but it also exposes their inconsistencies. Murder is condemned because it violates the principle of sanctity of life. But the same principle is conveniently suspended when the subject is an unborn child. The reasoning is that life before birth can be defined differently—sometimes as "potential" rather than "actual." This definition is crafted to suit human convenience, not universal consistency.

Unlike human laws, the law of karma does not shift with opinion, culture, or political convenience. Karma is impartial and exact. Every action carries its own consequence, regardless of whether society approves of it or not.

From a karmic perspective, taking a life is taking a life—whether it occurs before birth or after. The repercussions flow not from human definitions but from the universal law of cause and effect. Karma is not selective, and it does not bend for debates or parliaments.

By framing laws that separate the killing of a child inside the womb from killing outside the womb, humanity demonstrates its desire to control reality. But in truth, these divisions are illusions. They may protect a person from human courts, but they do not shield anyone from the court of nature, or the silent balance of karma.

This is not merely about abortion versus murder. It is about the broader human tendency to redefine truth for convenience. We build laws that soothe our conscience rather than align with universal principles. We rename destruction as "progress," exploitation as "development," and indulgence as "freedom." But the universe remains unmoved. Its laws remain the same.

The question then is not whether something is legal, but whether it is aligned with the truth of existence. Human law may pardon, but karma never forgets.

What the Ocean Speaks to Me

Being at the ocean always makes me feel guilty — guilty about being one of those rats from the mainland, endlessly racing against each other. One of those people busy accumulating riches without any clarity of where to stop. One of those dopamine seekers who find pleasure only in materialistic things. One of those who value money more than true virtues. One of those who wake up with endless desires and label them as their dreams. One of those who keep chasing so-called goals without a real sense of purpose. One of those who are simply surviving, without truly understanding the meaning of their existence. One of those trying to build a bigger house without realizing the importance of real relationships. One of those seeking happiness in every action, without ever grasping what true happiness really is.

Watching the ocean silences all that noise. It pulls me closer to the truest version of myself. Its vast horizon reminds me that life is an endless journey, with no real destination to arrive at. It makes me realize that the way I’m leading my life feels like an illusion — an endless, exhausting lie. The deep waters humble me; though I know they have a depth, it feels impossible to truly measure.

The sea makes me think. It makes me pause, reflect, and dive deeper within myself. It slows my restless thoughts, helping me see things more clearly. It’s where I stop running, where I breathe, where I find the quiet space to rejuvenate — before returning to the chaos of the mainland.

Celebrating "Papa" at 75: The Journey of 3 Generations

There it sits—one of the rarest photos of my father, lovingly referred to as Papa. Taken in our family home in Navi Mumbai during the 1990s, it shows us both—him smiling, me as a 10th-grader sitting beside him. If you know me, you might barely recognize the face staring back, but the lean frame, the posture—a legacy lived. When Papa was young, his teachers marveled at his frail build and even predicted he might not survive for more than a couple of years. Yet here he stands, strong in his humility and resilience. I, too, inherited that frail build, carrying his old jeans and, along with them, his indomitable spirit.

3 Generations in a Frame

Now, I find myself walking the same gentle path. My son, Sarthak—just nine—shares our slender physique and even our picky food habits. But that isn’t where the resemblance ends. He mirrors more than our frames—he mirrors our love, our values, and our silent admiration for our patriarch. Whether it’s the way he speaks, the little hand gestures he mimics, or the way he holds himself at the dinner table—everything reflects my own youthful echo of Papa’s quiet dignity. In our family, respect for the father figure is woven tightly, unspoken yet deeply felt.

Papa, on this 75th birthday, we celebrate more than your years—we honor the quiet legacy you bestowed on two generations of lean frames, picky eaters, and deeply devoted sons. Your strength lies not in words, but in the lives you've shaped. Sarthak, watching you today, learns not only through what you say, but by the silent example you set. And I—carrying your jeans and your memory—I am grateful beyond words.

To Papa, our silent hero: thank you for the legacy you live in us. Happy 75th birthday.

A rare picture with Papa - 1995