When God Sends Figs: A Story of Hope, Miracles, and Motherly Love

The air in Calcutta was thick with the scent of impending loss, a heavy premonition that clung to the walls of Dr. Kailash Chandra Basu’s home. His mother, a woman who had weathered the storms of life with quiet dignity, lay frail and fading, her breath a shallow whisper against the encroaching silence. Dr. Basu, a renowned physician, watched helplessly as the life he so desperately sought to preserve slipped through his fingers.

It was late, the city outside muffled in the hush of a restless night. Dr. Basu, his heart a leaden weight in his chest, approached his mother’s bedside. He knelt, his voice a tender caress, and asked, “Mother, is there anything your heart desires? Anything at all, and I shall move heaven and earth to fulfill it.”

His mother, her eyes clouded with weariness, paused, her gaze drifting into the shadows that danced in the corners of the room. Then, in a voice barely audible, she spoke of a memory, a fleeting taste of sweetness from a time when life held more vibrancy. “Son,” she murmured, “I remember the figs from Bombay, those sweet, green figs. I long for their taste once more.”

Dr. Basu’s heart sank. In the markets of Calcutta, green figs were a rarity, an exotic fruit that bloomed only in distant lands. To procure them from Bombay would take time, precious time that his mother did not have. There were no airplanes then, only the slow, rhythmic chug of trains, a journey that would span days. Time, he knew, was a luxury they could not afford.

A wave of despair washed over him, a sense of utter helplessness. He, a healer, was powerless to grant his mother’s final wish. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the already dim light of the room. He retreated to his chambers, his soul a tempest of grief and frustration. “Oh, God,” he whispered into the darkness, his voice thick with unshed tears, “am I so unfortunate that I cannot fulfill my mother’s dying wish?”

The clock on his bedside table ticked with cruel indifference, each second a hammer blow against his fragile hope. The night deepened, the silence broken only by the mournful sigh of the wind. Just as despair threatened to consume him entirely, a sharp rap echoed through the stillness. Someone was at the door.

Dr. Basu, his mind still reeling from the weight of his sorrow, assumed it was a summons from a patient. His voice, heavy with exhaustion, echoed through the closed door. “I cannot come,” he said, the words barely a murmur.

“I am not here to summon you,” a voice replied, its tone firm yet gentle. “I have brought something for you. Please, open the door.”

Intrigued, Dr. Basu opened the door. A figure stood silhouetted against the dim light of the street, a servant dressed in the livery of a wealthy household. In his hands, he held a basket, its contents hidden beneath a cloth.

“Doctor Sahib,” the servant said, his voice respectful, “my master has just returned from Bombay. He is leaving for Rangoon in the morning and asked me to deliver this basket of figs to you immediately. He said they are from Bombay.”

The word “figs” struck Dr. Basu like a thunderbolt. A surge of disbelief, followed by a wave of pure, unadulterated joy, coursed through him. He snatched the basket, his hands trembling with a mixture of excitement and awe. Tears, no longer those of sorrow but of overwhelming relief, streamed down his face.

He rushed to his mother’s bedside, the basket clutched tightly in his arms. “Mother!” he exclaimed, his voice filled with a joy he thought he had lost forever. “Look what God has sent you!”

His mother’s eyes, dim and listless moments before, lit up with a spark of recognition. A smile, as radiant as the sun breaking through a storm cloud, spread across her face. She reached for the figs, her touch as delicate as a butterfly’s wing.

The joy that bloomed in Dr. Basu’s heart was immeasurable, a feeling so profound it transcended the boundaries of earthly happiness. It was as if he had been granted a glimpse of the divine, a moment where the veil between the seen and unseen had been lifted.

The story, as it unfolded, revealed the intricate tapestry of divine orchestration. The Gujarati gentleman, a close friend of Dr. Basu, had a farm in both Calcutta and Rangoon. He had a habit of bringing figs from Bombay whenever he travelled. Four days prior, while in Bombay, he had purchased a basket of the fruit, intending to bring them to Calcutta. Unbeknownst to him, his friend’s mother was longing for the very same figs.

The timing was nothing short of miraculous. The figs arrived not a day too early, nor a day too late, but at the precise moment they were needed, fulfilling a dying woman’s wish and restoring a son’s faith. It was a testament to the unseen hand that guides our lives, a reminder that even in our darkest hours, we are never truly alone.

This incident became a powerful lesson for Dr. Basu, a profound understanding of the divine’s subtle yet undeniable presence in our lives. He realized that God, in his infinite wisdom, uses human beings as instruments to fulfill his divine will. The Gujarati gentleman, in his act of kindness, had unknowingly become a vessel for God’s grace.

The story also carries a valuable lesson for us all. It teaches us humility, reminding us that any act of kindness we perform is not solely our own doing but a reflection of the divine working through us. It urges us to embrace opportunities to help others, not with arrogance, but with gratitude, recognizing that we are merely instruments in a larger, divine plan.

The open doors of the temple, in the original story, symbolize a similar message. They represent the boundless nature of divine grace, a grace that extends to all, regardless of their past deeds. The thieves, in their moment of fear and repentance, were granted a glimpse of this grace.

Both stories, though separated by time and context, weave a common thread: the power of faith, the importance of humility, and the undeniable presence of the divine in our lives. They remind us that even in a world that often seems chaotic and unpredictable, there is a guiding hand, a divine arrangement that orchestrates the events of our lives, often in ways we cannot comprehend.

The emotions evoked by these tales are profound and multifaceted. There is the despair of helplessness, the overwhelming joy of answered prayers, the awe of witnessing the divine at work, and the humbling realization of our own insignificance in the face of a greater power.

These stories transcend the realm of mere narratives; they become parables, lessons etched in the heart, reminders that even in the midst of our human struggles, we are surrounded by a divine presence, a presence that orchestrates the events of our lives, often in ways that are both miraculous and surreal.