It was peak afternoon in the month of May, and the scorching heat of Gir hit us the moment we stepped out. The eight of us climbed into an 8-seater open safari gypsy, half-expecting it to feel cramped and uncomfortable. But to our surprise, we all fit in just right, and there was infact excitement and a sense of ease since we as a family were all together, as we settled in for the ride.
As the gypsy rolled into the forest, the dry wind rushed against our faces, almost like a sudden gift from nature—instantly lifting away the heaviness of the heat. It was raw and beautiful, and in that moment, the journey truly began.
We were now in someone else’s home—this was not ours to claim. The terrain around us was flat and covered in shades of brown, hinting at the harsh summer but also the richness of life that lay hidden. This was the land of the Lion, and we were just passing through.
The first few sightings were exciting: a few graceful deers leaping through the thickets, peacocks showing off their blues against the dusty browns, sambar strolling quietly in the distance and a couple of owls and wild boars. But 45 minutes in, there was still no sign of the lion family we had come hoping to see.
And yet, my 7-year-old son—on his first real safari—was soaking it all in like a sponge. He saw the jungle not as a stretch of trees and dust, but as a canvas full of art and mystery. He and my niece, who’s also his closest friend, were deep in their own world—talking about animals, who live where, and what might happen next.
At one point, the Son confidently shared that we just might see the king or queen of the jungle walk right across our path. When someone gently told him that’s unlikely, he paused for a second and then said, very matter-of-factly, “This is their jungle. They can do whatever they want.” There was something so honest and quietly powerful in that line—it stayed with me.
An hour into the safari, just as some of the excitement had begun to settle into quiet observation, we noticed a few gypsies stopped ahead. In the world of safaris, that’s the best kind of hint—it usually means something’s happening. Our guide slowed down, and a sense of anticipation filled the air. It felt like nature was setting the stage, and we were lucky enough to be in the front row.
To our left, we spotted them—two lionesses, calm yet alert, almost as if in deep conversation, maybe planning something important in their wild, mysterious world. They weren’t too far from us, and though we couldn’t get an up-close view, one of them gave us a clear enough frame to click a few beautiful pictures. The other had already wandered a bit deeper into the forest.
But just when we thought that was our big moment, the forest surprised us again
Our guide quickly motioned us to turn our gaze to the right—and there he was. A little lion cub. Adorable, slightly nervous, but with an unmistakable air of curiosity and courage. He stood there, unsure whether to retreat or stay, but clearly trying to hold his ground. His movements were hesitant, his eyes wide, but there was something incredibly touching about his tiny presence in the vast wilderness.
Very quickly, we realised what was happening. Just like any child would, the little cub was searching for his mother. She was on the other side of the path, and he had lost sight of her. He began letting out soft growls—calls that perhaps weren’t reaching her because of the hushed whispers around us. Understanding the moment, we all instinctively went silent.
The cub kept calling and slowly began walking towards us. He came incredibly close to our gypsy, looked up at us with a mix of fear and curiosity. But there was something in his posture—tentative yet steady—that reminded us he was born of the wild, taught to be brave. He continued across the path, then circled back, as if checking invisible boundaries set for him. Finally, he returned to the very spot his mother had left him—by a small pond under a tree—and waited.
Just then, I turned to my left, hoping, almost willing the mother to return. And there she was. The Lioness —walking towards us with quiet command, and the kind of confidence, queens carry. She glanced at us several times, but her purpose was clear. She wasn’t performing—she was parenting.
She crossed right in front of our gypsies—majestic, fearless—and reached her cub. A brief moment passed between them, and then, as if telling him, “I’m here, but I need to go for just a bit,” she turned and walked back. The cub stayed exactly where she’d told him to, and she—regal and unapologetic—walked past us once more. She was guilt free as she knew that getting to work and letting her child maneuver was beneficial in the long term.
Her stride was calm, deliberate, fearless. She looked at us one final time—not with threat, but with the kind of poise that only comes from knowing your role and owning it fully.
That moment stayed with me.
This wasn’t just any safari. It was a special day—our family had come together to celebrate my Mother’s 70th birthday. My parents, my sister and her family, and my own—three generations packed into one gypsy, holding onto this wild, precious experience.
As we watched that scene between the Lioness and her cub, something clicked. It felt like a quiet act, staged just for us—one that mirrored our own journeys in motherhood. That unspoken strength, the ability to walk away and yet always be near, the focus, the grace, the assurance—it all felt deeply familiar.
Later, our guide shared something that brought the whole moment into even sharper focus. He told us that Lions don’t allow male cubs above three years old to stay close to them. That’s when their real training begins—to live independently, to learn survival, to grow into their own power. During this time, it’s the mother and her sister who silently guide and prepare the cub from a distance, letting him stumble, learn, and find his strength.
And that struck a chord. In so many ways, that mirrors our own lives. In my world too, the Husband and the Father—whose the Rock- strong, protective, quietly focused—believes deeply in training the son to face real life, to step into the world with confidence and clarity. And like the Lionesses, I find myself stepping in subtly—offering reassurance, a watchful eye, and gentle nudges—while letting the Child walk his own path.
Because whether in the jungle or at home, raising a child is never just about shielding—it’s about preparing. It’s about knowing when to stand close, and when to stand back. And no matter what species, that relationship between love and letting go seems to be the truest form of strength.
We went looking for Lions and came back with lessons for life.
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