Shovelers are one of most ubiquitous ducks, especially in the northern hemisphere… migrating across large ranges, from shivering snows to searing sands, lugging a rather large flat bill around whose ungainliness is compensated for by its sheer utility, hundreds of bristled projections sieving planktons with consummate ease, giving them an edge over other ducks… makes them look a tad grumpy as well, but most migratory birds seem to have those impenetrable eyes and inscrutable countenance, shaped by the thousands of miles under their wings, coming to grips with the universal uncertainty of the living world, and the certainty of the dead…

They tend to get along with it, though, the ducks, so much so that classical poets found refuge in them from the daily vagaries of existence, comforted by the resilience they exhibit and the calm they exude, cheered by the comical emanating out of their hasty movements and glum expressions… shovelers are no exception, traversing continents with the quintessential nonchalance of migratory avifauna, adept at eking out meals anywhere, be it tipping headfirst into the water or scraping through muddy marshes…

Aristotle’s teleological view of nature cited ducks… they had webbed feed because the purpose of their life was to be able to swim so that they could feed in water… but a few years ago some researchers working with ducklings concluded that they might be capable of abstract thought, deeming the Greek philosopher’s attribution rather naive… humanity has evolved to such an extent that it is often flummoxed trying to comprehend how others comprehend, or even fathoming existence among infinities in myriad forms… the ducks don’t bother, or maybe they do, one can’t tell from their unamused dispositions tracing ripples on the water or waddling through the mud… maybe ‘tis not worth knowing, the meaning to everything…

Musing on Northern shovelers, Sambhar, Rajasthan