Daughter of the Mountains - I

That night, Ganga lay awake in the small tent which was next to the tent of the charanas. Her four attendants were sleeping soundly beside and around her, while she was thinking of the young boy king that she had met that evening. She was thinking that he could not be more than ten and eight years of age, almost half of her own age. He looked rather a lot like his father with his dark eyes and bushy eyebrows, a bulbous nose and thick lips. When he had come and sat down beside her, she had instantly recognized him by his looks. They had brought back memories of almost ten and nine years ago when she had met King Pratipa at Gangadwara.

                Back then, Pratipa had come to that holy place in the foothills of the Himavata named after the gates of Ganga where the mighty river fell from the lofty heights of the mountains to the plains below. Pratipa must have been in his thirties then, but he had looked much older as he stood in the powerful currents of the Ganga offering tribute to the gods and the ancestors. That was when she had first seen him. He was not particularly handsome, only good looking in a certain way. She had not known who he was and had approached him hesitantly and bashfully as he sat drying himself in the sun later. He courteously answered her questions with much civility and humility. She had been just a young girl of ten and six, nervous and frightened as she approached him but proud of her beauty and confident of her lineage. When she told him that she was a maiden of marriageable age and that her father was looking for a worthy suitor, he had grasped her hints and answered politely but firmly. Kings were known to take many wives, he had said, but he himself was devoted to his one queen. He had left her for the sake of their unborn son, for whose health and fortune he was praying for. He had accepted that she was beautiful, so beautiful he had said that she looked like a goddess. But, she was of an age to be his daughter rather than wife. Again, he had accepted that many king of his age would take girls of her age to wife, but he was very sorry that he could not do so. Bravely, she had bit back her tears as she had climbed the rocky slopes above the Ganga to her father’s pavilion. She had been a young girl full of dreams and seeing the king had enflamed her desires, only to be nipped at the bud by him.

                Yet, rejection had not affected her much, for in her heart she believed that she would one day find the right man, brave, strong and gentle, with a good heart. After all, she had been prophesied to marry a great king and give birth to a fearsome warrior who would attain great fame. The prophecy had been made by a wandering rishi or a sage who had come to her father’s house when she had been, but an infant. The sage had told her father of an ancient legend of the King Mahabhisha, who had desired to marry Ganga, the goddess of the river that was her namesake. However, he being human and she being a goddess, he could not marry her. But unbeknownst to him, the goddess of the river had also fallen in love with the human and she had resolved that in his later birth, she would be born in human form to be one with him. The sage had prophesied that Ganga was the river goddess born on earth and she would marry a great king who had once been Mahabhisha in his previous birth. Ganga had heard of the legend growing up and had not paid much heed to it in her childishness. But after her first attempt at love had ended in heartbreak, she had consoled herself with the fantastic prophecy and waited in anticipation for a king or a prince to come and sweep her off her feet. The years had rolled by and no one had come. Of course, her father had arranged suitors for her, but she had found none to her liking. The image of Pratipa had been etched in her mind and the dark, deep, soulful eyes of his had constantly beckoned to her.

                Now, she had seen that same soulful expression in Shantanu’s eyes. Something stirred within her, drawing her to his being, filling her mind with his face. Yet, he was almost half as old as she was and she wondered if it would be prudent to encourage his advances. He was a young king of a vast and potentially powerful country, of that there was no doubt. But, talking to him, she could make out that he had grown up in a protected environment, without too much knowledge of the world beyond his own. Yet, he had learnt the scriptures, the histories of his line and whatever little philosophy had been taught to him and was interesting to converse with. She herself had grown up in close contact with many of the wandering sages and saints who came to the snowy heights of the Himavata for penance and meditation. She loved the snowy hills and the cold climate of her home. Yes, she had come down to the plains every spring to enjoy its lush, bright beauty, but she wondered if she would feel at home here in the sweltering heat of the long summers. She wondered if life in Hastinapura would be suited for her. Shantanu seemed to be of a gentle heart and calm temperament. But would he remain so was to be seen. He was still young, naive and still new to the heady intoxication of power. She would have to question him and test him, before she agreed to be his queen. She kept thinking about these things far into the night until sleep overcame her finally.