The years slipped through Shantanu's fingers like sand, each one heavier than the last, weighing upon the wound left by that first night at the river. Ganga's whispered farewell after the first drowning, One debt paid, seven remain, had carved itself into his soul, a prophecy he could neither escape nor understand.
Hastinapura stood as it always had, its stone walls unyielding, its spires piercing the sky, but within, a shadow grew. The king who had once strode its halls with purpose now moved like a ghost, his steps echoing in a silence that swallowed all joy.
It began again not long after the first loss. Ganga bore another son, a boy as radiant as his brother, his cries ringing through the palace with the same fierce promise. Shantanu's heart leapt, a fragile hope flickering to life despite the dread gnawing at him. The city celebrated once more, drums thundered, priests chanted, and the streets bloomed with marigold and song. But at dusk, Ganga took the child to the river, her face serene, her hands steady, and cast him into the water's embrace. The splash was faint, the ripple brief, and Shantanu stood frozen on the bank, his vow a chain that bound his tongue.
This time, however, something changed.
Ganga did not turn away immediately. Her fingers lingered over the surface of the water, her lips parting as if to say something, but the moment passed. She straightened, the quiet mask returning to her face. "Another debt paid," she murmured. "Six remain."
Five more times, the cycle repeated. Five sons in all, each born with the same unearthly glow, each heralded by the kingdom's fleeting joy, and each drowned by Ganga's unyielding hand. With every birth, Shantanu's hope grew thinner, his spirit more frayed. He stopped naming them after the third, the weight of choosing a name too cruel when he knew its fate. The celebrations grew quieter with each child, the people's cheers turning to murmurs, their eyes darting to the palace with unease. The priests still chanted, the drums still beat, but the hymns felt hollow, the rhythm a dirge beneath the pretense of festivity.
Each drowning was different.
The third son clutched Ganga's fingers for a fleeting second before she let go, his tiny hand disappearing beneath the water. Shantanu stepped forward then, a breath away from breaking his vow, but Ganga's gaze found his, steady and unreadable. Three debts paid, five remain.
The fourth child wailed louder than the others, the echoes of his cries lingering even after the river stilled. That night, Shantanu pressed his fists into his ears, but the sound remained, a phantom scream in the silence of his chambers. Four debts paid, four remain.
The fifth son was different. He did not cry when he was born, only opened his luminous eyes and stared at Shantanu as if understanding his fate. Shantanu's hands trembled as he held the child, his heart clenching around the unbearable. I will fight fate. But when dusk arrived, he stood powerless as Ganga carried the boy away. She did not glance back. Five debts paid, three remain.
By the sixth, the city's whispers turned sharp. A cursed king. A wife who walks like a goddess and slays like a demon.
Shantanu felt the shift in the palace. The nobles who once vied for his favor now kept their distance, their bows shallow, their voices edged with fear. The court, once filled with counsel and laughter, became a hollow place where judgment lurked in every shadowed corner.
Among the silent observers was a maid, a woman of no rank or name, who served in the royal quarters. She moved like a shadow, her dark eyes sharp and watchful, her hands steady as she carried trays of water or swept the floors. Shantanu barely noticed her, but she saw everything, the king's faltering steps, the queen's enigmatic calm, the growing fracture in the Kuru house. Her son, a boy named Vidura, toddled at her heels, his quiet gaze hinting at a wisdom beyond his years. She said nothing, offered no comfort, but her presence lingered, a thread of fate yet to be woven into the tapestry of Hastinapura's doom.
Ganga remained an enigma through it all. She bore each child with the same grace, her beauty untouched by time or sorrow. She moved through the palace with a quiet authority, her silk robes trailing like the river's current, her voice soft but firm when she spoke. But there were moments, fleeting, fragile, where something cracked. A tightening of her grip on their child. A pause, so brief it could be imagined, before she let go.
And Shantanu noticed. He clung to these cracks, desperate to believe they meant something.
The seventh son came on a night when the moon hung low, its light casting long shadows across the palace. Ganga bore him in silence, the midwives whispering of his strength, his glow brighter than the others. Shantanu stood outside her chambers, his hands clenched, his breath shallow. The child's cry pierced the air, a sound that once brought hope but now twisted like a blade in his gut. The city stirred, but the celebration was muted, drums beat halfheartedly, hymns faltered, and the people gathered more from habit than joy.
Shantanu did not join them. He waited, knowing what would come.
At dusk, Ganga emerged, the infant cradled in her arms. Her face was serene, her steps sure, and Shantanu followed, his cloak dragging in the dust. The riverbank stretched before them, the Ganga's waters glinting like a sheet of silver under the twilight sky.
He stood closer this time. Close enough to hear the child's soft breaths. Close enough to see the way Ganga's fingers trembled, just for an instant, as she held him.
A pause.
A hesitation.
And then, she bent forward, her movements swift and calm, and released the child into the river.
The splash was soft, the ripple fleeting, and the water closed over the boy, smooth and merciless.
Something inside Shantanu shattered.
Seven sons. Seven radiant lives, gone, swallowed by the Ganga's depths. His vow held his tongue, but his heart roared, a primal scream he couldn't release.
Ganga turned, her eyes meeting his, steady and distant. "Seven debts paid," she whispered, her voice a faint echo over the water's lap. "One remains."
She stepped past him, her robe brushing his arm, and returned to the palace, leaving Shantanu alone on the bank. His knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, his hands digging into the damp earth. The river flowed on, its shimmer mocking him, its silence deafening.
But this time, he did not remain silent.
"No more," he rasped, his voice a ragged whisper lost to the wind.
His hands curled into fists, his breath shuddering with the force of his grief. He rose, his frame trembling but his eyes hard, and turned back to the palace, the weight of his decision settling like a storm on the horizon.
Next time, he would confront her.
Vow or no vow, he would have answers.