Week 11: Storytelling--Roseate Waters

Early in the morning, as the birds trilled their songs in the skies, as the dew glistened on the blades of emerald grass, and as the sun tinged sky and river rich violet and rose hues, my mother sighed softly and closed her bright eyes for the last time.  Never again would I hear her laugh resonate through the palace halls; never again would I listen warily as she told me a story of her youth.  And never again would I receive her wisdom and advice to heal my troubles.

Yet still certain of her final words to me echoed through my mind.  "A fair maiden waits for you along the Ganges.  Meet her secretly--ask her not who she is or from where she comes.  Take her as your wife, for she loves you and will bring you much happiness.  Trust me in this as in all else."

And so I found myself there, standing on the shores of the Ganges, wishing to drown my sorrows in the river before me.  A single tear escaped me, falling to the waters below and creating ripples that distorted the sky's reflection.  The troubled waters seemed to reveal my turbulent emotions as I struggled for control, for a semblance of composure.  I'm here, Ammi.  I trust you.

From behind me I heard the soft rustling of silken garments, causing me to turn.  And when I saw her, all grief left me, for in the presence of such beauty and such an overwhelming feeling of love, it is impossible to remain in the company of despair.

Breathless from kindled passion and recently departed sorrow, I spoke softly; my voice carried to the ethereal woman on the light breeze.  "O Beautiful One, O Ruler of My Heart and My Desires, I care not whether you are goddess or Naga, Asura or Apsara, or human being like myself.  My mother told me that along these banks I would meet my wife and regain my happiness, and now I know that these words were true.  Please, do me the honor of returning with me as my Queen!"

Passion sparked in her deep brown eyes, as rich and comforting as the nourishing silts of the river.  Her cheeks were tinged with a pink blush, displaying her pleasure.  Plump lips slowly curved into a sultry smile, and the woman before me gave me the slightest nod.  Her voice rang out clearly, like nothing so much as the pleasant murmurings of a stream as it courses through the woods.  "I would like to do this.  But if I am to be your lady, you must first agree to my requests.  Never must you ask my name, nor speak to me unkindly, nor interfere with any of my actions.  If you do, I will leave you."

With fire racing through my veins and heart pounding in my chest, I knew these requests were but trifling things when compared with my passion for this mysterious figure.  And so I agreed with a steady nod, took that exquisite woman's soft hand in my own, and ushered her home to my kingdom where she promptly became my wife.

As our life together as husband and wife--as King and Queen--began, my love and respect for the enigma alongside me only grew.  My pulse still thundered through my veins with every heated look, every gentle touch, every taste of her rich lips.  That delicate pink blush of passion and attraction seemed always to color her cheeks.  And then came the first test of my trust in her.

A year after our meeting, My Love bore me a beautiful son whom possessed deep mocha eyes so similar to her own.  But before I could hold him in my arms, before I could christen him with a name, she carried him down to the river and promptly drowned him there, holding our tiny babe beneath the waters until nascent limbs went limp.  As his body sunk into the life-stealing waters of the Ganges, My Queen whispered in her murmuring voice to the deceased child.  "This is for your good.  Return."  Looking at me with eyes as deep and inscrutable as the waters of the river, she rose and came to stand before me.  Remembering her words to me on the day we met, knowing questioning her actions would cost me her love and companionship, I inhaled deeply, exhaled, and whispered.  "I trust you."  Together we returned to our palace in silence.

Once each year, for six more years, my enigmatic wife bore a child.  And once each year I would follow her down to the river Ganges, the river known for bequeathing unto all things her nourishing lifeblood.  But to this river, one by one, I lost a total of seven sons.  And each year, as my Queen stood silent before me with garments streaming and hair flowing, I would say the same three words.  "I trust you."  Yet each year, the statement stuck in my throat a little more, came a little slower.  And while my passion remained as strong as that first day, I could no longer bear to watch our children drown.  Thus when in the eighth year another son was born, a babe endowed with his mother's rosy cheeks, and when for the eighth time My Love knelt on the riverbank and slowly dipped our child into the cold waters, I could not help but cry out.  "Stop!  Do not kill him!"

She stopped.  Turned towards me.  She smiled softly, though her profound eyes were sorrowful.  "Take him," she murmured gently.  "Take him as my gift.  I shall not free him from life.  My Lord, My Love, I am Ganga, and I leave you now with your son!"

Astonished, breathless, I watched my ethereal lady step into welcoming waters.  She turned back to me, and for the last time I looked into her eyes and felt the fire race under my skin.  For the last time I watched her lips curve into a slow smile, and then--she disappeared under the reflective waters before me.

Once again I found myself standing on the shores of the river Ganges, grief and loss filling my heart and soul.  The sun was setting in the sky, tinging my Ganga pink, the same rosy hue decorating those waters as once adorned her cheeks.  A single tear flowed down my cheek, joining with the river below.  My son stirred in my arms, and embracing the last remnant I had of My Love, I returned to my kingdom, with two words echoing around me on the wind.  Trust me. . .





Author's Note.  So I wrote this story through the eyes of Santanu, the Kuru king.  Which was different for me, to say the least.  Normally if I tell a story in first person, it's through the female perspective, so this proved an interesting change but a fun challenge.  I chose to write the story of Santanu and Ganga because I found it hard to imagine the depth of love and trust you must feel for someone to allow them to drown seven sons before objecting.  So often nowadays (and throughout history, really) trust is a hard pill to swallow.  It is so much easier to be distrustful than to let down your guard and just trust.  I actually admire the fact that Santanu could trust so deeply a woman he didn't really know.  Thus this retelling was born!  I hope you enjoyed it.  :)

Bibliography.  Buck, William (1973).  Mahabharata.

Image Information.  Sunrise over the South Esk.  Photograph by Gwen and James Anderson, 2012.  Geograph.