संगर्ष (Saṅgharṣa)

गंगा: Ganga- Purity

She had a mission.

And no one could deter her.

Except perhaps Mahadev. He had stemmed her powerful flow by capturing her liquid form in his matted hair, all to bring her down to earth to wash the sins on Bhagirath's request.

But what was she reduced to? A medium to simply wash the dirty sins of those who bathed in her holy waters?  A drop to be placed in the mouth of a dead person? Impure, but oh, ever so pure.

What was her life? She had asked her husband for one thing. One.

"Don't question anything I do," she had told him. "If you ask, I will leave."

King Shantanu had agreed, but he had not realised the gravity of her mission.

He had been incredibly resilient, shackling the growing pain in his heart as she drowned not one, but seven of their children before he could even look at them properly.

Only her ill-fated Devratha had remained.

She had turned a blind eye to Shantanu's pained expression, aghast as he finally broke, snatching their child from her hands- not realising he wasn't saving him from anything, she was.

But what was to happen, would happen.

She took her Devratha away, made him into a warrior, only to return him to his father.

Only for Devratha to become Bhishma. 

The staunch vow her son had taken by her very waters, made her tremble. His blood had dripped from his dagger into her frothy form, causing a volatile reaction, invisible to the naked eye.

It had sent fire coursing through her veins.

Ittcha-mrityu, they called it. A bane more than a boon.

Suffer for years, only ever to die when you can. Perhaps Devratha enjoyed his prolonged suffering.

"Mata...." his brash voice, unnaturally softer, waning in energy, had come to her at last. 

Despite herself, she had appeared to quench his thirst.

It was all she could do.

"Devratha...." she sighed, looking at what had become of her once young son.

He lay on a bed of arrows, courtesy of his favourite grandchild, Kuntiputra Arjun.

How could she be angry at Dhananjay? Even with her son's body riddled with arrows, she couldn't be angry. She would've killed Devratha herself had Shantanu not stopped her all those years ago.

Now, when he was finally on his way to salvation, why did she feel so utterly torn?

"What for, Devratha?" she mumbled, stroking his pearly grey hair. "Whatever for?"

He smiled, a faint curve of his lips that belied the pain searing through his body. "For duty, Mata. For the promise I made."

Her heart ached at his words. The promise. That unyielding vow that had shaped his life, defined his very existence. She had watched from afar, her liquid form mingling with the rivers and streams, as her son grew into a legend, revered and feared by many. Yet, to her, he was always Devratha, her ill-fated child, bound by chains of his own making.

"Was it worth it?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustle of the wind. "The sacrifice, the pain... was it worth it, my son?"

Bhishma's eyes closed for a moment, as if in deep thought. When he opened them again, they held a clarity, a certainty that made her breath catch. "Yes, Mata. It was worth it. For Hastinapur, for the throne, for the promise I gave to my father. It was worth it."

Her eyes glowed, shimmering and pure. "You have suffered so much," she said, her voice trembling. "More than any son should. And now, at the end of it all, what do you seek, Devratha?"

"Peace," he replied, his voice a mere whisper. "I seek peace, Mata. For my soul, for my heart. To be free from this burden, this duty that has weighed on me for so long."

She bent down slightly, her gaze falling on his weathered face, mingling with the blood and grime. "Then go, my son," she murmured. "Find your peace. Your duty is done. You have fulfilled your promise."

"Not yet," he said, barely able to speak the words. "I have yet to see what becomes of my clan..."

"Must you suffer more?" she questioned, anger and hurt welling up inside her.

He had not answered her, simply turned away. 

The clan he lived for lay in tumult, each fighting against their own. Brothers against brothers.

Blood against blood.

Was it really worth living for?

She would come again at the end of it all, washing the sins of all that had lost their lives in the Kurukshetra, her water flowing from every mother's eye that wept for her son, from every wife's eye that wept for her husband.

Because she never could.

Shameful? Not really.

When Devratha finally attained salvation, when he finally breathed his last, freed from the shackles of his vow, Ganga wept. 

Ganga, the celestial river, wept for her son, her tears merging with the waters, creating ripples that echoed the sorrow and relief she felt.

As the sun set over the Kurukshetra, casting long shadows over the fallen warriors, Ganga flowed on, carrying with her the memory of a son who had given everything for duty, for honour, and for love. She allowed her tears to mingle with the women around her as she flowed on, pure and impure, ever the medium for washing away sins, ever the mother who would remain till the end of time.

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Thank you for reading!

I shall only continue the series if I am a hundred percent sure you liked it :)

Love, A.