Goddess of the River

by Vaishnavi Patel

Genres: Historical Fantasy; Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; Ancient

Synopsis

A powerful reimagining of the story of Ganga, goddess of the river, and her doomed mortal son, from Vaishnavi Patel, author of the instant New York Times bestseller Kaikeyi.

A mother and a son. A goddess and a prince. A curse and an oath. A river whose course will change the fate of the world.

Ganga, joyful goddess of the river, serves as caretaker to the mischievous godlings who roam her banks. But when their antics incur the wrath of a powerful sage, Ganga is cursed to become mortal, bound to her human form until she fulfills the obligations of the curse.

Though she knows nothing of mortal life, Ganga weds King Shantanu and becomes a queen, determined to regain her freedom no matter the cost. But in a cruel turn of fate, just as she is freed of her binding, she is forced to leave her infant son behind.

Her son, prince Devavrata, unwittingly carries the legacy of Ganga’s curse. And when he makes an oath that he will never claim his father’s throne, he sets in motion a chain of events that will end in a terrible and tragic war.

As the years unfold, Ganga and Devavrata are drawn together again and again, each confluence another step on a path that has been written in the stars, in this deeply moving and masterful tale of duty, destiny, and the unwavering bond between mother and son.

Release date: May 21, 2024

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 432

Sample

DO YOU KNOW HOW a river forms?

Perhaps you have heard that it begins as a small stream in a cold and distant mountain, a trickle of melting snow and a splash of rain that slowly carves its way down steep slopes, connecting with other rivulets, growing, leaping, bounding as it cascades down the mountainside and into the land below, sculpting tree and rock with its powerful currents until it unites, at last, with the sea.

But that is not how I came to the earth.

No.

I came because they prayed for me, all those years ago, and I was young and naïve. I heard their prayers when I was but a tributary of the cosmic ocean, deep and endless. I was made of life-sustaining powers, of joy and love, my waters flowing from the cosmic ocean, my origin and my home. I was a part of it, part of this limitless divinity, connected to the source of everything. With its ancient power flowing through me I reveled throughout the heavens, going and doing as I pleased, free from tether or responsibility. I would have flowed forever, one with the universe that was one with me, but the song of humanity called to me. I danced to meet it, falling free from the heavens and down toward their world. Your world.

I did not know then that when humans pray for nature, they pray for something to control.

When the humans saw me coming, they grew afraid of my unbridled spirit and feared they could not tame it. So they uttered a hasty prayer to Lord Shiva of the mountains, whose peaks reached up to the heavens from which I descended, and he heard them.

He caught me as I fell, wrapped me around his holiest mountaintop before I realized I had even been trapped. I writhed and thrashed, for a free creature does not allow itself to be chained so easily. But he held fast, and I only succeeded in lashing out a swift path to the salty sea. By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late. I was a god of Bharat. Never again would my friends sit at my banks, laying down their burdens to play in my waters. Never again would I be made of power and feeling, instead forced into a permanent, physical form. Never again would I dance among the stars.

I had not understood that once I left my origins, I could never return. That when I severed myself from that which made me, it would be forever. You might wonder what a mother is to a river, whether a river can have a home. Only when I left did I know that I had lost my family, and myself.

I had longed to frolic with the humans on the continent below, and perhaps my fate was of my own making. Now I was to be used, to sustain, to cleanse, and yes, even to give life. But for you, never for me.

If Shiva had not grasped me so quickly, if he had failed to pin me down, it is true—my power and joy and strength might have destroyed your world. But ask yourself: Would that have been such a tragedy?

IN THE FIRST MOMENTS—Minutes? Weeks? Years?—I raged. Let me go, I screamed from the depths of my soul. Release me!

I perceived Shiva as I perceived other gods, in brushes of his power and intent. You cannot destroy this world.

I won’t, I said, heaving against him.

If I were to release you now, your rage would still destroy much life here.

I seethed, lashing out at him despite the lack of effect. I am a god!

Yes, you are. I could not see him, could hardly feel the cold mountain peaks in which his divinity resided, but I could understand his meaning all the same. You still are.

Gods cannot be captured!

You are wrong.

Release me!

You are of this world forever now. There is nowhere else for you to go. And whatever slip of him I could sense, could rage at, disappeared.

How dare you? I howled in his absence. How dare you?

In time, I came to tolerate my new home. The cosmic ocean was constant, the heavens solid and dependable, but this earth was as fluid as I was. I twisted down from Shiva’s peaks and into the fertile realm of godlings who dotted the forested landscapes until I fanned out to touch the ocean’s vast shores, the abode of the wandering gods. Even as I danced, churning and carving, expanding and contracting, my awareness flitted from bank to bank, watching the humans who came to me. When they first prayed for my arrival, they wished for clear waters and bountiful crops, a peaceful, lifeless feature to enhance their meager existence. But I did not fall where they expected, no. In my desperation to escape Shiva’s grip, I fell to the east of their lands, where few dared venture. They must have seen me coursing through the sky, watched as I leapt from the ground as I bucked and twisted, and decided to chase this newfound blessing, uprooting themselves from everything they knew for the chance to have more.

I fell into a landscape, the first landscape I had ever seen. In the heavens, I flowed through emptiness, lapped at the edges of thought, and fueled myself from the power binding all things in the universe. But even though I missed my home, I was fascinated by the physical world of rocks and soil, found that I was part silt and sand, learned to love the greenery that grew in my waters and nurture the roots that reached toward me. And where the heavens had been filled with gods, those who could grow nothing into something, here I found little divinity, save for the Vasus.

They had no name for themselves, these beings with the lively presences of the divine but who were made purely of the things of the natural world. I discovered them by happenstance—or rather they discovered me. One night, they were playing one of their games, chasing one another through the forests under the light of the moon, when they stumbled into my waters. I jolted at the touch, for their souls were bright like those above. But they acted, at first, like the creatures of the earth—they chased one another, laughing with abandon. Then I watched as one unleashed a rain of flames at another, who only basked in their heat. Another made a gesture and it was like the stars in the night sky were dancing.

They were certainly not mortal, but they were no gods either. They had form, weight, substance, like all things here. Where they moved, they trailed bright greenery and vivid flowers, leaving in their wake warmth and light and all those things that gave life spark and strength and vigor. There were eight of them in total, clustered in the most fertile bend of my river, and they became my constant companions.

Who are you? they asked me.

Ganga, I said. A god.

Their presences flared and dimmed, and after some time I came to realize they were communicating among themselves.

Like Shiva, one said at last.

At the mention of his name, a longing for freedom surged through me. I realized, belatedly, that my waters had surged with me too. I doused the godlings who had gathered at my shores, and in response they laughed, dancing in the fall of droplets.

Not like Shiva, I said. They kept laughing, splashing in my waters and growing themselves high toward the sky, twining with one another. Any slight between us was forgotten. I saw within them the entirety of this mortal earth: the gentle fall of water, the bright burn of fire, the solid feel of earth, the whip and whim of wind, the warm comfort of day, the silver ethereality of night, the endless expanse of sky, and the familiar constancy of stars. Together, they were all things. They reminded me of my constant friend up above, a god who burned more brightly than all the rest but was quick to move and fast to forgive. Would I ever see him again?

I felt a hollowness inside me. It was an unfamiliar sensation, for gods did not ache. They did not lose. They did not yearn. They flowed, and they built, and they remained. But a river can only flow down, not up. There was no path back to heaven for me.

It was too much to think about, to bear. So instead I turned to the Vasus. I watched them play and gave them water, and we linked ourselves together, them and I, as time washed over us with its never-ending current.

A year was nothing to me, a generation the blink of an eye. The godlings treated me with respect and admiration, and they brought new life and joy to my shores even as I lay furious in Shiva’s grasp. They played games in the rocky shallows and I sent small waves to caress their glowing bodies. They cooled themselves in my water and I calmed my raging currents to give them pleasure. I could change myself to make the Vasus happy, for we were united in our immortal life in this mortal realm.

Although at first I took little notice of the creatures around me, the godlings took great delight in their varied shapes and forms. In time I brought these friends for my godlings too: Long-snouted gharials that tossed fish into the air, snapping them up, and which the godlings delighted in chasing. Gray-pink dolphins that jumped and danced through my waters, chirping their songs to the godlings, who would chirp back with joyful abandon. Thick-hided rhinoceroses and elephants, which they would race along my banks. Proud striped tigers that they would wrestle with like playthings. Although this world was not filled with the magic of the gods, I found pleasure in these fanciful inhabitants of the mortal realm.

So it was that when the first humans found me, I thought perhaps we might be friends. It was a sage, Jahnu, who came to me first and drank deeply of my waters. For all I had seen of them from the heavens, humans were strange creatures indeed, walking on two legs and speaking not with their souls but with their mouths. With noises. But the sounds this man made were not unpleasing. He was quiet, his melodious song blending with the voices of the forest from which he emerged. He drank and drank, as though he would never be sated. He thanked me for coming, for ending a drought. He blessed me, and prayed to Lord Vishnu that my waters might be purified. It was amusing to me then, the way humans thought the heavens worked, but I was also touched. Perhaps there was a purpose to me coming here, if this was what humans needed of me.

It continued in this way for some time, grateful humans flocking to my shores. I gladly gave them water and respite, sheltered them as they swam and scrubbed at their skin, and watched as they wept their thanks to me, whom they called savior.

The godlings had never conceived of such a notion as a human, but they enjoyed observing them, mimicking their gait and appearance and speech. They played tricks on the humans, scaring them with faces made of bark and leaf, and laughed at their new playmates. But they also sheltered the humans from the storms and heat and wind of the world when they could not shelter themselves. We did not realize then the power of these creatures that had come to us, did not understand that humans could move the land in horrifying synchronicity with their own lives.

The first incident happened far from the river. It took time for word of the event to reach me, to hear the anguish of the Vasus, who had loved that particular grove and given it the full attention of their gifts. Why? they asked me, crowding at my banks as the panic spread among them. Why?

They congregated around me, for they could sense the endless depths of my power. But I could not help them, for held by Shiva as I was, I could not even observe the humans’ actions. My awareness did not reach so far.

But eventually, the humans cut their way to my banks. They came with tools, fashioned out of rock, and struck the wood off the trees again and again. Of course, we had seen lions hunting deer by my banks, watched river sharks lay waste to fish and stingrays. We understood such things for pure animalistic survival. But this was different from the stalking of prey, the skillful dance of life. Lions did not eat with restraint, but they ate to live. When the splinters flew from the trees and they bled out their lifeblood in sluggish sap, there was no reason for it. The humans let the waste litter the forest floor, intent only on their prize. It was a deliberate, chosen violence.

The humans did not eat trees. They slept sheltered under the sprawling awning of nature. These humans had no will we could touch, no divine strength, but they had a well of desire so deep we could hardly fathom its depths. Surely, I still believed, this was as fleeting as the rest of the whims of mortal creatures.

If you stay by me, you will be safer, I told the worried Vasus. Even so, I knew they would not abandon their groves, those sacred places where their power shone brightest. Come to me when you need to.

The next time word reached me of the humans, it felt as though the godlings had only just left. But the humans had built something out of the trees they stole, had smoothed the wood and placed it in new configurations to shelter themselves. I could see, grudgingly, that this had its use for their frail bodies, and I thought perhaps this would be the end of it. They would be content.

But that contentment we knew in the heavens was not the lot of the humans. I might have pitied them for this restlessness, for the ambition that clearly burned a ceaseless ember in their souls, if they had not hurt the Vasus so. They set their sights on a new goal, on becoming the master of all they surveyed, and so they cut down the forests to make fires of their own and fight the land itself. The ground burned so the humans could grow fat, could plant their crops in uniform rows rather than rely on the earth to nourish them.

There was one Vasu whose very breath made the earth grow greener, and when he watched the forest burn, he threw himself headlong into my waters. It burns! he cried out, and his anguished pain became my own. But I was unable to stop it, or shield him from pain. The other Vasus followed, retreating with him into the safety of my presence. It was as though their immortal souls had aged at what they had seen. They were the best things this world had to offer, and the humans discarded their bounties as though they were worthless. I would protect the godlings, for without them I would be alone.

There was one strip of land near me with a thin forest at my banks, and beyond that, fertile plains. I knew this because when the storms came, my waters swelled and I could stretch farther than before, and when I left, the wildlife grew stronger in my wake. This was the favored ground of the Vasus, one they had lovingly nurtured, and they watched with resignation as the humans approached. I rose in furious floods to drive the invaders away, but in a cycle of the earth they returned to try again. This time when I flooded, they used it to their advantage, rooting their strange plants into the marsh and harvesting from it a bounty. The Vasus trembled in fear to see them so close to me, lashing out with fire and wind and frightening bursts of darkness and light. But the humans gritted their teeth against each warning and plunged recklessly ahead toward destruction.

I wished my friend were here, for the godlings could not understand me and my sheer power, could not understand why I raged at my powerlessness. He was wiser than I would ever be, the one who always had answers. Why am I here? I would ask him, my dearest friend.

Why did you come here? he would ask.

To dance, I would say. To revel in humanity.

Is that the purpose of eternity? Vishnu liked to ask such questions, for he enjoyed teasing me with questions that had no answers. All I knew was that endlessness seemed without meaning in the face of humanity’s short onslaught.

Still, I watched the humans do what we could not. They rode in on horseback and cut their own down just as they did the trees. Blood flowed into my river more sweetly than any paltry blessing freely offered, for it was the most honest thing they had. But these conquerors only set themselves more firmly on the path of progress and destruction, the two intertwined in eternal dance. Bands fought and fell and fought and fell, their fates relayed to me by the godlings who eagerly watched each skirmish. The Vasus seemed to care what happened to humanity, what the fates of these conquerors were. They hoped for some to win, picked those they favored. The best I could muster was apathy. I was trapped here, for humanity’s own selfish purposes, and now they ruined the same world they wanted me to bless.

In time, the strongest of the humans used my waters to settle near my banks. Their numbers doubled, and doubled again. These humans had an endless capacity to grow, it seemed, and as they did, their dwellings grew with them. There was a new name now on the lips of those who walked through the forests to collect my water and clean themselves, the name of a place grander than any other that preceded it, that rivaled the world of the gods themselves.

Hastinapur.

I COULD FEEL HASTINAPUR’S edge pressed close to my bank and its filth flowing into my waters, a bright, hot presence that nagged and ached no matter how I stretched myself from mountain to sea. It was only each year during the monsoons that I felt truly free, for the floods forced the humans back, made them understand how small their power was in comparison. My river had many tributaries that I could sense but never fully control, until those floods came. Then, with my waters swelled and filled with new power, I would surge my awareness through these streams.

It was during one such great storm that the monotony of time was broken. As the clouds rained down upon me, I felt descending from the heavens another presence. How my being sang when I recognized him, how I longed to reach up and greet him. But I could only sense the muted radiance of my dear friend as he alit upon the earth. He would come to me, I was sure.

I did not have to wait long.

The monsoon quickly became the greatest deluge I had yet witnessed in this world. The air was so wet with water, it was as though my own river was rising to meet the sky in joyous celebration. I felt more powerful than I had ever been. I reached out to find my friend, and to my great delight, I felt him near the Yamuna. The glory of the rains allowed me to greet him. Tonight, fate had favored me.

He approached my waters, accompanied by the soul of a mortal. I brought my awareness to him and watched as an older man, hair half-gray and holding an infant child, advanced toward my flooded banks. I drew my presence up to greet the man, only to realize that Vishnu was the baby. He had come to the earth as a newborn child, a brilliant, shining babe entirely dependent on humanity’s kindness for survival.

“Please,” the man shouted, looking around as though I was not already there listening. “Please, if you can hear me! Allow me passage to save my people!”

I did not know why he needed to cross. I did not know why my friend was a baby, or whose people needed to be saved. But I trusted Vishnu, as I trusted in the currents of time to bring me here, to my friend, in this moment. He had come during the storms, and he knew I would be here waiting for him. I lifted my waters and parted them in a great surge. The man’s mouth opened in wonder as I shielded him and Vishnu, the rain falling around them in a harmless patter. He took a cautious step forward, whispering thanks as he met solid ground. There were tears in his eyes, mixing with the rainwater already soaking him. Around my friend, the waters of the Yamuna rose like great cliffs, hailing his passing. His bright, burning presence was a balm to me.

At the end of the crossing, the man turned and watched the river water crash back down, a small smile on his lips. Then he hurried away, and I made a bargain with time, that just as I followed its course now, so too would it soon bear my friend, grown and strong, to me. My waters surged with joy to know he was there, on this earth with me, and so lost was I in this feeling that it took me a moment to realize a Vasu, usually as quiet as the restful night, had called out to me.

Someone visits you! he cried.

I reached out for him, a pinprick in the intensity of the storm, and realized that the same man stood at the other side of my banks, now cradling a small and unremarkable bundle in his hands. A different child, I presumed. A mortal soul. “Please, devi,” he whispered. “Please, save my people.” I could not understand why this man trembled and wept with sorrow, but I did not need to comprehend mortal ways.

I gathered my power to me, and this time I drew away my waters more gently, allowing him passage back to his quiet and godless side of the river. The man bowed his head as he walked forward, murmuring prayers and praises with each step. When he reached safe ground, he did not turn back, but kept walking with his head bowed to the winds.

Each monsoon, when my awareness reached the Yamuna, I sensed my friend. But it was not yet Vishnu’s time, and so I focused instead on the Vasus, giving them some respite and shelter from the human world. When it all went wrong, it was the height of summer and the Vasus were splashing at my shores. They called me “mother” from the human tongue, and spoke the language as though they had been born to it as babes. It was apt, for their survival was fully tied now to me, to the precarious stability that only a river can provide, to those life-giving places where the animals come to drink and women come to fill their pots, heads heavy with longing. The godlings mingled with the humans, toyed with them, and stole from them, and in taking their small pleasures became a bit more mortal. They did not need a reason for it, did not need to find a purpose. The godlings loved to disguise themselves and flit among the women, flirting and teasing, and it was there they learned of the cow.

“Did you hear?” one woman asked as she pushed back the pallu of her sari to dip her pot into my waters. “There is to be a great ceremony in two days.”

Her companion had both hands in the water, scrubbing a garment against the rocks, her knuckles white with the effort of keeping hold of the cloth against the tug of my current. “It’s unnecessary,” she said. “A waste of time.”

“Don’t be sour,” the first woman said.

The second woman snorted, lifting her dripping clothing from the river and beginning to wring it dry. “A strange man walks into this city with a cow he claims is a gift from the gods and the raja simply believes him? He is foolish.”

“You only say that because you have not seen the cow. I saw it with my own eyes and I am telling you there is something holy about it. The man is a sage, after all.”

“It is just a cow. The raja wanted to throw a festival and he has taken the excuse. Or perhaps he has been duped.” The words flowed from her freely. Such was my pull, that people found themselves giving more than they meant, and the woman froze immediately after speaking, curling into herself as though anticipating a blow.

“He is our ruler because he has gifts we do not,” the first woman admonished. “You should watch your tongue. I know you have a good heart, but others will not.” I was not fully accustomed to the conventions of humans then, but I had witnessed enough to understand—she was making a threat.

The first woman turned toward the shore, and I observed with mild curiosity as the second woman plunged her right hand back into my waters and grabbed a rounded stone. She stood, clutching it in her fist, clothing forgotten, and for a brief moment I wondered whether she was capable of committing this act of violence.

But after a breath, the stone dropped from her fingers, and with a soft sigh she followed her companion.

The Vasus had been uncharacteristically shy during this interaction. I could sense them among the branches and trunks of the trees, watching and listening, and now they appeared, splashing water on one another as they chattered among themselves. I only half listened, losing myself in the ebb and flow and soothing calm of a river on a bright summer day.

The cow—

—it’s a gift—

—we’re gods too—

We do it! At this, my awareness snapped to them, for it was a startlingly clear clarity of purpose for godlings who usually acted as their whims took them and committed themselves thoroughly only in defense. But the speaker was the godling who had the affinity of the stars, had their cold-lighted purpose that lent him a hard strength his friends did not possess.

Do what? I said. I did not often ask after their mischief, and they turned to me as one.

We take the cow, the godling who had declared their intentions told me. There was no guile among godlings, no need to lie.

Why? I asked.

Because we can, said another. They have so much, because they take from us.

Doing this does not give you back what has been taken, I said, for I still did not understand. For all that we were kin, I was not a godling and they were not gods. There were some things that would not be shared naturally between us. Do you wish to harm them before they can return to harm you?

We do not mean to hurt them, the first Vasu said, stretching his light toward my rocky shore. We only mean to cause them a bit of trouble.

I could tell then that this was something I simply could not comprehend. Be cautious, I commanded at last.

As they ran off, I tried to settle. I was too focused on Hastinapur, and I did not want to be. I was always watching the city’s inhabitants, half-apprehensive to see what they would do next, and that was no way for a god to live. In this most fundamental way, perhaps, the humans truly had conquered me. They had my mind, my attention, and it repulsed me. I wanted to believe it was purely for the Vasus, to protect the only beings I could rely on to be by my side in this endless existence, but I could not lie, not even to myself.

I went far, and then farther. I felt my way to the sea, to the salty tang of the home of the wandering god Varuna, who had brushed against me only once in the many mortal lifespans I had resided on this earth. I lingered in the lower foothills, settling myself in rocky rapids as they pressed away the pain of the memory.

Mother! The cry rippled across my surfaces, reeling me in from my wandering.

The godlings stood ankle-deep in my waters, huddled around a cow. The cow was larger than any cow that had graced my banks, a gleaming white with red spots and clearly touched by the divine. She stood, calm and watchful with doleful eyes. It was not she who had frightened my Vasus, no—

Before them stood a man, mortal to be sure, but holding a power I could sense clearly. Shiva had blessed him.

“You stole Nandini.” His anger was like the air before a storm, thick and oppressive. “She is a holy being, and you have sullied her.”

The Vasu who had appointed himself leader stepped up. He had taken the form of a man. “We borrowed her,” he said. His voice was musical, like the piping of a flute, and clearly otherworldly. For all we could learn and borrow the words of humans, shaping the sounds with the right inflections was far more difficult. But the man did not flinch away.

“You stole her from me while I slept, and for that you will pay.”

The leader of the godlings laughed, but there was no mirth in it. I knew he could sense Shiva’s power protecting this man, and I tasted his fear. They had called me here for a reason, after all. Still they could . . .