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.

Human beings have always lived in two realms - the physical world governed by natural and universal laws, and the social world governed by man-made laws. While the laws of nature are impartial, consistent, and unbending, human laws are often shaped by convenience, cultural conditioning, and political debate. This divergence creates deep contradictions—none more controversial than the way societies treat life itself. Take, for instance, the issue of abortion. If a mother ends her pregnancy within the boundaries of what human law permits, she is not considered a criminal. Her choice may even be legally protected. But if the same mother takes the life of that child after birth, it becomes a crime of the highest order—murder. The child inside the womb is, in the eyes of human law, not equal to the child outside it. Yet, in the eyes of universal law, of karma, or of the natural order, can such a distinction really exist?

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.

She always wears a smile of kindness on her innocent face. Her black, mystic eyes always held many untold stories. They seemed to speak only to those who cared to look into them—with a vision of understanding. Whenever I met her, she always seemed to be striving to make things perfect—for everyone around her, for every occasion.

"Can I call you - Mumma?" I asked her during our very first call. This was the kind of question one asks only once in a lifetime. Of course, you do not ask this question to your own mother. But yes, she was my mother-in-law to be.

With her in 2023

"Yes, certainly!" she responded, with a deep sense of happiness. To me, it felt as if she had spread her heart wide open to welcome me—her prospective son-in-law.

It was such a beautiful feeling. Before our marriage was finalized, Priya had already enchanted me. And although I had not yet received a full-fledged 'Yes' from her, getting such a warm welcome from Mumma was a sign of acceptance—a grand one.

Life took a dive into a dark tunnel when she lost her husband in 1996, after just fifteen years of marriage. While the world was heading towards the 21st century, life as a single woman with three young children was far from easy. Though Mumma and her children lived in a joint family, discrimination was apparent. Priya, then in the 10th grade, was the eldest of the three. It was a crucial academic year, and losing her father was a disaster—a disruption she had to endure.

Baba, Mumma’s father-in-law, emerged as her biggest supporter during these trying times. With his encouragement, she decided to pursue higher education—to walk the path toward the light at the end of this tunnel of darkness.

That year, both Mumma and Priya burned the midnight oil. Their efforts began to bear fruit when Priya topped her school, leading her mother and two siblings by example. Mumma didn’t look back. She resumed her own education after years of academic gap.

Her immediate journey of struggle paused briefly when the Reserve Bank of India hired her as a Class 4 employee. Securing a job was a win, but it was only the beginning of another phase of hard work. Shoulder to shoulder with her male colleagues, she carried weights in the cash department. At times, she also worked in the office canteen. But none of that mattered to her when she saw her children progressing in their careers. Alongside all this, she continued to study and steadily carved out her own path.

This year, Mumma retired as a Class B Officer from the Reserve Bank. It was her life’s greatest milestone. I was with her all day for the retirement ceremony. Her three children and all the grandchildren attended the function, along with RBI staff. Each grandchild spoke about her journey. Her colleagues, who had witnessed her sincerity and dedication over the years, celebrated her achievements with heartfelt applause. I could see a sense of gratitude on their faces - the one that was spontaneous and pure.  

"I could serve the bank for five more years very easily. I don’t feel like I’m a sixty-year-old woman," said Mumma during her farewell speech. Her spirit was applauded by everyone in the conference room.

After the farewell function, we proceeded to the lunch in the office lounge. I stood beside her, holding her hand at the lunch table.

She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Look Neeraj, there was a time in my life when I picked up the plates here. Today, I am a guest of honor.”

I could see tears in her eyes. I could feel the rough journey she had just concluded. Her professional life is an epitome, a testimony of where persistant hardwork, kindness, knowledge and tolerance can take us. 

"These tears do not suit your eyes. You are an iron woman, Mumma!" I said, giving her a tight hug.

Her name is Suvidha. She is a maid, a single mother, and the world to her little son. Life has been an endless tug-of-war between survival and hope, between sacrifices she makes quietly and the dreams she dares not chase.

Last night was her son’s birthday. He had insisted on having a pizza — the kind of food that fills television ads, billboards, and the streets with its tempting aroma. For him, it was not just about food; it was about being like the other children in his school who often boasted about weekend pizzas and birthday celebrations at restaurants. But Suvidha knew too well that her meager income could not stretch that far.

All she could manage was a small pastry, bought from a local bakery. It was not much, but to her, it was everything she could give. Her son smiled, trying to hide the disappointment behind his little eyes, as he made a wish that only a child could make.

This morning, Suvidha walked into the apartment where she worked. With broom in hand, she began sweeping the floor as she always did. And then she saw it — a box of pizza, half-eaten, lying carelessly on the ground, along with bottles of Coke and leftovers from a night of indulgence.

Her hands stopped moving. The broom froze mid-air. Time stood still.

Her mind wandered.

The irony was cruel. The very thing her son had longed for, she now had to pick up as trash and throw into the bin. To others, it was waste; to her, it was a dream — discarded, uneaten, unwanted. She imagined the joy on her son’s face if she could have carried this box home. But even that thought ended quickly, for stale pizza from someone else’s floor was not something she wanted her child to eat.

Her eyes filled with tears she couldn’t afford to shed. She resumed her work, pushing the broom slowly, carefully, as if sweeping away not just the crumbs of food but also the fragments of her broken heart.

Suvidha’s story is not just her own. It is a mirror held up to society — to us. We party, we waste, we spend thoughtlessly. We throw away food that could have been a meal for someone hungry. We order more than we need, leave behind leftovers, and move on without a second thought.

But somewhere, someone is yearning for what we carelessly discard. Somewhere, a mother is stretching every rupee to bring a smile to her child’s face. Somewhere, a little boy is blowing out a candle on a pastry, dreaming of a pizza he may never taste.

The next time we gather at parties, order lavishly, or waste food and water, let us pause. Let us think of Suvidha. Think of her son. Think about the price of the pizza - it’s more than the monthly salary we pay to Suvidha. An even kinder move - try and help her generously and see if it feels better than the pizza.