The Taj Mahal.

The Taj Mahal.

I never imagined in my wildest dreams that traveling would be a part of my life. Growing up as a child in the 1950s, my mother was often ill, which I now realize meant my father worked tirelessly to cover medical expenses, leaving little for anything else.

We lived in a newly built satellite town designed for British migrants arriving in Australia for the princely sum of just ten pounds. I had a strong dislike for the town and its environment. Summers were hot and dusty, while winters were cold with limited heating; I often slept under my dad’s old wool dressing gown. Yet, I found joy in waking up by the window, greeted by blackbirds perched on the cream chimney against a vibrant blue sky.

Music filled our home. Both my parents had sweet voices, and my Dad taught us to sing in two and three-part harmony, holding concerts on Sunday nights. He crafted his own steel guitars, and there was always music and art to keep us entertained. I dabbled in the harp, violin, and guitar—none of which I mastered—but I learned to read music, a gift I cherish.

How could I have ever imagined seeing the Taj Mahal? It was a dream that felt far beyond reach.

Now, travel is an integral part of my life, and I find myself visiting the Taj Mahal at least once or twice a year during our tours. I remember the child I was, filled with wonder about the Taj Mahal, and now when I visit, I often sit back to watch the crowds, reflecting on how much those experiences meant to me growing up. Each visit, I explore different aspects of the buildings, the river winding around their base, and the hawks gliding through the blue sky. The people, the overlooked structures, and the sheer scale of it all are breathtaking. The story of the tomb unfolds like a veil, told and retold. I now understand that anything in life is possible.

While my mother was in the hospital, I unexpectedly became the caretaker of the household. My dad couldn't cook, and neither could I, so the only takeaway we had was fish and chips on Fridays.

I can never erase the memory of canned sausages and vegetables exploding after I tried to cook them by placing the can in boiling water, only to find I couldn’t make a large enough hole for the steam to escape. Inevitably, the can would burst like a missile, sending food shooting to the ceiling. I still feel the horror of standing amidst that chaos.

We owned a large, old blue vintage Humber car, and our only recreational activity was attending the drive-in theater on Saturday nights.

Holidays were never something we anticipated. Our life was basic and spartan; I shared a bedroom with two sisters and rode my second-hand green bike everywhere. My entertainment came from colored pencils and trips to the public library.

A friend of my mother’s ran a travel agency at the local shopping center, and as an eleven-year-old, I admired her for the stories she shared. She showed me pictures of herself on the steps of the Taj Mahal, and I was mesmerized. Our neighbor across the street was an Australian cricket team member, and he also had visited the Taj Mahal. I remember sitting in silence, captivated by the slideshow he prepared, listening to the projector's hum and the click of each slide as it illuminated the wonders, only to fade back into darkness with the next.

But here I am again, in Agra, the home of the Taj Mahal. My life is a gift.