English Literature – Travelogue ☆ New Zealand: A Spirit Unbroken: # 10 ☆ Mr. Jagat Singh Bisht ☆

☆ Travelogue – New Zealand: A Spirit Unbroken: # 10 ☆ Mr. Jagat Singh Bisht ☆

In the heart of New Zealand’s verdant wilderness, where ancient trees stood as silent witnesses to the passage of time, we found ourselves meandering along a narrow trail in a serene reserve. The air was cool, rich with the fragrance of damp earth and blooming ferns. It was here that we met her—a lady of serene countenance, her silver hair gleaming like spun moonlight, and a smile that carried the warmth of a hundred summers.

“Are you visiting New Zealand?” she inquired, her tone bright and lilting.

“Yes,” we replied, pausing to reciprocate her kindness.

“And where are you from?”

When we told her we hailed from India, her eyes lit up with a spark of recognition. “Ah, India! I thought as much. I spent my childhood there, you know. It is a land that stays with you—its colours, its chaos, its soul.”

Her voice carried a peculiar blend of nostalgia and reverence, as though she spoke not merely of a place, but of an intimate companion. She must have been in her seventies, yet her vibrancy belied her years. It was then that her story began to unfurl, a tale that seemed plucked from the realm of miracles and destiny.

She was born in a small country in Western Europe, she explained, but her father’s profession had brought their family to India during the twilight of colonial rule. Her childhood in India had been a mosaic of vivid memories—the monsoon rains drumming against the tiled roofs, the scent of jasmine in the evening air, the call of distant temple bells. But as adulthood beckoned, her family returned to Europe, leaving behind the land that had cradled her earliest dreams.

Years passed, life took its turns, and she found herself yearning to revisit the land of her childhood. So one monsoon season, she arrived in Bombay, now Mumbai. The city was drenched in a torrential downpour, the streets awash with rainwater. As she navigated the chaos, she caught sight of something caught in the eddies of a small stream by the roadside. Her heart lurched—a tiny bundle, motionless and soaked.

Without hesitation, she waded into the water and retrieved the bundle. It was a newborn baby, abandoned and barely alive. As she cradled the child, a strange sensation rippled through her body—a warmth in her chest, an ache both physical and spiritual. She hurried to her lodging, where to her astonishment, she discovered she could breastfeed the infant. Though she had never borne children of her own, her body responded as though it had awaited this moment all its life.

The path that followed was arduous. She navigated a labyrinth of legalities to adopt the child, a process that demanded every ounce of her resolve and a significant sum of money. But she prevailed, returning to her homeland with the baby girl she now called her daughter.

Years later, compelled by an inexplicable pull, she returned to India once more. This time, her journey took her to an orphanage. As fate would have it, she arrived just as someone left a newborn in a cradle at the orphanage’s gate. Drawn to the tiny, wailing figure, she picked up the child—and again, the sensation returned. The mysterious flow of milk, the unbidden maternal bond.

“I couldn’t turn away,” she told us, her eyes shimmering with the memory. “It was as if the universe whispered, ‘They are yours.’” She adopted the second baby too, overcoming the same hurdles with unrelenting determination.

Life, however, was not without its trials. Her husband, unable to comprehend the depth of her choices, left her for another. Yet she pressed on, a woman unyielding, carrying her daughters to a distant Pacific island. There, she built a life from the ground up, working tirelessly to provide them with education and opportunities.

Today, her daughters thrived—women of strength and compassion, with families of their own. “My girls,” she said with a radiant smile, “are my greatest triumph.”

As she recounted her journey, we stood in awe of the woman before us—a tapestry of grit and grace, of wounds and wonders. Her story was not merely of survival, but of a spirit that embraced the extraordinary, transforming it into purpose.

“Do you ever wonder why it all happened?” we asked softly.

She paused, gazing into the emerald expanse of the forest. “Oh, I stopped questioning long ago. Some things are not for us to understand, only to live. Perhaps I was meant to be their mother. Perhaps they were meant to save me as much as I saved them.”

And with that, she bid us farewell, her steps light, her heart indomitable. As she disappeared into the dappled shade of the trees, we were left with a profound sense of awe—of destiny’s strange, wondrous design, and the boundless resilience of the human spirit.

#newzealand #india #mother

© Jagat Singh Bisht