The great river of Sundari had always been sacred to the people living by its banks. Every morning, women came to wash clothes and pray; children bathed in its cool current, and elephants wandered nearby, splashing joyfully.

Among them was a young elephant named Asha — her name meant hope. She had been born under the tamarind trees that lined the eastern bend of the river. Her mother, Meera, was the matriarch of the herd — wise, calm, and fiercely protective.

Asha adored the world: the chirping of birds, the warm sun, the way dragonflies hovered above the water. She would chase them endlessly until Meera’s deep, rumbling call reminded her to stay close.

But one dry season, everything changed. The rains failed. The river shrank into muddy puddles. Food became scarce, and people — desperate and hungry — started encroaching on the forest.

One morning, the sound of gunfire shattered the peace.

Poachers.

They came for ivory.

Meera tried to lead her herd away, but chaos erupted. Smoke, shouting, terrified elephants scattering. Asha, only a few months old, was separated from her mother in the stampede. When the gunfire stopped, the forest was silent.

Asha wandered for days, weak and lost, calling for her mother. Finally, she collapsed by the riverbank — the same river that had once cradled her childhood. A wildlife rescue team found her there, dehydrated and trembling.

They took her to a rehabilitation center miles away. The people there were kind — one in particular, Dr. Anaya, a young veterinarian who spoke softly to Asha every day. She fed her milk, cleaned her wounds, and sang to her in the evenings. Over time, Asha began to trust again.

Years passed. Asha grew strong and majestic. Yet, every time she saw a flowing river, she’d pause — her trunk raised slightly, as if listening for a voice long forgotten.

Dr. Anaya often sat with her during those moments. “You still remember her, don’t you?” she would whisper. Asha would rumble softly, her dark eyes glistening.

Then, one monsoon, something miraculous happened.

Rangers reported sightings of a lone female elephant near Sundari River — older, scarred, but still powerful. They suspected it was Meera, Asha’s mother. Excitement spread through the center. Plans were made to reunite them.

The journey back was long, through dense forests and rough terrain. Asha seemed to sense something — she walked faster than ever, trumpeting occasionally, as if calling ahead.

When they reached the river, the air was thick with rain and memory. Across the bend stood an elephant — older, grayer, but unmistakable. Meera.

At first, they stood still, both unsure. Then, slowly, Meera lifted her trunk and let out a low, trembling sound — the same lullaby she used to hum when Asha was little.

Asha answered. The forest echoed with their cries.

They touched trunks, circling each other, swaying gently. Years of pain melted in that single moment.

The rangers and Dr. Anaya stood silently, some wiping tears. It was the kind of reunion nature rarely grants — pure and wordless.

For a time, they lived near the river together. Meera led her daughter to hidden water holes, taught her where the sweetest mangoes grew. Asha, in turn, guided her back to safety when poachers returned to the area.

But age catches even the strongest.

One dawn, Meera didn’t rise. She lay by the river’s edge, the mist curling gently around her. Asha stood beside her for hours, nudging softly, unwilling to believe it. When the sun broke through the fog, Meera took one last breath — her trunk brushing against her daughter’s — and was gone.

For days, Asha stayed there. She refused to eat, refused to leave. The villagers who watched said she seemed to be listening — to the wind, to the rustling trees, to the river that had witnessed everything.

Then one morning, she lifted her head and trumpeted, a long, mournful call that echoed through the valley. Afterward, she stepped into the water, slowly, deliberately, until the current touched her knees.

And there she stayed, gazing toward the horizon, where the river curved and disappeared — as if she could still see her mother walking just ahead.

The villagers began calling that spot “The Bend of Memory.”

Dr. Anaya still visits every year. She brings flowers, stands quietly by the bank, and sometimes, just sometimes, she swears she hears two elephants trumpeting together — faint but unmistakable — carried by the river’s breath.

Because love, once born, never truly disappears.
It flows — like water — forever.