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