The Young King - III

Shantanu sighed and went in the other direction, where the Ganga flowed gently beyond the edge of the camp.

                Evening was descending on the camp and the sun was low in the west behind the young king as he walked down the grassy slopes towards the wide, white sandbank that edged the river. He passed the tent of the charanas away to his right and he could still hear the low singing of the charanas and the laughter of the women. He was still barefoot and the warmth of the sand caught him by surprise. Inside the woods it had been humid, but not quite as hot in the shade of the trees. Here, the sand had scorched in the sun all day long and although evening was setting in, it was still hot to the touch. He walked down quickly trying to get himself to the water soon. The water was still several yards away and he found himself in a quick jog now to reach the river, to save his feet from the blistering sand. The Ganga was swelling slowly now, the spring thaws of the Himavata feeding the millions of streams somewhere beyond the gate in the mountains called Gangadwara, the Door of Ganga. As he found the water and let its relieving coolness wash over his feet, he heard the sound of laughter, sweet as the tinkling of bells. He turned around and then he saw her, to his left, sitting on a low rock by the edge of the water, the flowing, gurgling waves playing around her feet. He felt his heart skip a beat. She was beautiful, ethereal.

                She was looking at him through deep, brown eyes still laughing, one hand raised to her mouth. Her skin was as white as cream and the white garments that she wore only served to make her seem fairer. Long, dark curls of hair fell down her bare shoulders, like waves of night. Shantanu was so mesmerized that he could only see her lips move, not hear her voice. He stood there dumbfounded for moments until he heard a voice, as if from far away.

                “Who are you?”

                He realized that the words that he was hearing were coming from the soft, pink lips that were mesmerizing him, but words would not form in his mouth.

                “I... I... Shantanu... Siddha of Hastinapura...” he blabbered.

                She laughed again. The sound was so sweet that he wished she would keep laughing forever.

                “I am Ganga” she replied.

                “You are?” He got down to one knee. “I did not realize I was in front of a goddess. I apologize for my rudeness.”

                “I am not a goddess” she replied laughing again. “I am Ganga, the daughter of Jahnu, king of the Kushikas. What is the king of Hastinapura doing in a camp of Siddhas?”

                “Well, we were on a hunt and we came across the camp and decided to rest here for the night.” He seemed to have found his wits again now and he walked to her and sat down on the wet sand beside her, leaving his feet in the water. The sand was still warm here, even though the moisture of the river had seeped through leaving it less than scorching. “I could ask the same of you however. What is the princess of the Kushikas doing here, so far away from home and in the company of naked, celibate mendicants?” He grinned broadly.

                She frowned at him in mock anger. “Beware of your words king. Are you questioning my chastity?”

                “Apologies if your feelings have been hurt my lady. But, I was just wondering. I have never heard of Kushikas coming down from the mountains.” The Kushikas were a mountain tribe who had the same common ancestors as the Kurus. The founder of the Kushika clan was one King Jahnu, son of the Kuru king Ajamidha. Ajamidha had had three wives, Dhumini of Gandhara, Nili of Vaishali and Keshini of the Kekayas. Their sons had fought over the kingdom of Ajamidha and the warrior king of old had divided his kingdom into three. The lands to the west of the Ganga up to the river Saraswati, he had given to Riksha, his eldest son, the lands to the east of the Ganga he had given to the sons of Nili, Dushmanta and Parmeshthi and to his sons from Keshini, he gave the mountainous strongholds in the foothills of the Himavata, the regions beloved to the gods. While the Panchalas and the Kurus continued their skirmishes and forays on the plains, the Kushikas had never left their scenic mountain sanctuaries north of Gangadwara.

                “You speak true king” she said. “We do not come down from the mountains. But I love the spring and the colours that it brings. I come down here for a few days every spring, just when the icy folds of the heavens above us start to thaw.”

                “I thank the heavens for the spring” he said. “For if it were not for the spring, you would not come down from the mountains and I would not see you.”

                She laughed again. “You are just a boy are you not” she teased.

                He grinned back sheepishly.