Long before the great war, before the birth of heroes and the fall of dynasties, there was a kingdom that shone like the crown of the earth — Hastinapur, city of elephants, heart of the Kuru realm. Its towers glimmered in the dawn light, its people lived in peace, and its throne was ruled by King Shantanu, a monarch of grace, courage, and quiet sorrow.
Shantanu was beloved by his people, for he ruled with fairness and compassion. Yet within him lingered an emptiness — a silence he could not name. The kingdom flourished, but the king's heart was restless, as if waiting for a destiny long promised.
One evening, while riding along the banks of the sacred Ganga, Shantanu felt the scent of spring in the air. The river flowed like molten silver beneath the crimson sun. And there, standing upon the waves, was a vision — a woman radiant beyond mortal measure.
Her eyes held the calm of a thousand dawns; her hair flowed like the river itself. The wind bowed to her, and the waters curled at her feet in devotion. Shantanu, struck by awe and longing, knew at once that she was no mortal.
> "Who are you, O divine one?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"Are you the goddess of this river, or a dream woven by the gods to test me?"
The woman smiled — a smile that could melt stone and stir the hearts of sages.
> "I am she whom the waters obey," she said softly. "I am Ganga. But do not fear me, king of men. The river and the crown have long been bound by fate."
In that moment, Shantanu's heart was lost. He asked her hand in marriage, offering his kingdom, his soul, his very name.
Ganga looked upon him with compassion.
> "I shall be your queen," she said, "but only on one condition: you shall never question what I do, nor speak a word against my actions. The day you do, I shall leave you forever."
Love makes slaves of even the wise. Shantanu agreed without hesitation.
The king married the river goddess, and Hastinapur rejoiced. The union of earth and heaven was celebrated for days, as if the gods themselves had descended to bless the city.
In time, a child was born to them — a son of divine beauty. But that same night, Ganga carried the infant to the river and cast him into the flowing waters.
Shantanu stood frozen with horror, his voice caught in his throat. He wanted to stop her — to ask, to scream — but he remembered his promise. His heart shattered, yet his tongue remained still.
And so it happened again.
A second son was born — and drowned. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth… until seven sons had been claimed by the river.
Each time, Shantanu's agony deepened. Each time, Ganga's eyes carried sorrow — yet also a strange peace, as though her actions obeyed a truth beyond mortal understanding.
When the eighth child was born, Shantanu could bear no more.
As Ganga prepared to walk toward the river once again, the king cried out:
> "Stop! I cannot watch another son die! You have broken my heart seven times — no more! Tell me, goddess, why do you do this?"
Ganga turned to him, her eyes filled with divine light and human sadness.
> "You have spoken, my lord — and so our time together ends. But before I leave, you must know the truth."
She lifted the newborn child in her arms.
> "These sons were the eight Vasus — celestial beings cursed to be born as mortals. I released them from that fate. But this one, the eighth, must live his full life. He shall be called Devavrata. He will grow into the greatest warrior of his time, and through him, your dynasty shall endure — and fall."
With that, Ganga disappeared into the river, taking the child with her.
King Shantanu stood alone on the banks of the Ganga — a king without a wife, a father without a son, and a man marked forever by destiny.
But the river still flowed, whispering her promise:
> "When the time is right, I shall return your son to you."
And so began the first ripple in the tide of fate —
the story that would one day become the Mahabharat.