Revised Chapter Twelve: The River’s Farewell
The source of the Saraswati shimmered under the pale light of the rising sun, its silver-leafed tree casting long shadows over the still pool. The hum of the river was stronger now, resonating through the stones and earth, but it carried a mournful undertone. The air smelled of jasmine and wet moss, heavy with the weight of what was to come.
Ayra stood at the pool’s edge, the seal in her hands glowing faintly, its warmth steady but subdued. Devadas knelt beside her, his head bowed in silent reverence, but his furrowed brow betrayed his unease. The seal’s shifting symbols had stilled, their message clear: this was not a place of renewal, but a place of transformation.
“Something’s wrong,” Ayra said, her voice tight. “This doesn’t feel like the river’s beginning—it feels like her end.”
“She doesn’t die,” a deep voice replied from the shadows of the tree. Ayra turned sharply to see the stranger, the man who had first commissioned the seal, stepping forward. His form was tall and lean, his bare chest adorned with a necklace of rudraksha beads, his hair matted and wild. He carried an aura of both chaos and calm, his eyes as deep and unyielding as the night sky.
“Pasupati,” Devadas whispered, his voice trembling. The name sent a shiver through Ayra’s spine.
“You again,” Ayra said, her tone sharper than her fear. “What do you want this time? Another favor?”
The stranger—Pasupati, the lord of the wild—smiled faintly, his teeth glinting like shards of bone. “Not a favor, sealmaker. A truth. The river called you here not to save her, but to bid her goodbye.”
The River’s Will
Ayra stepped back, her fingers tightening around the seal. “Goodbye? What are you talking about? The river can’t just leave. She belongs here.”
“The river belongs to herself,” Pasupati said, his voice calm but firm. “She flows for the people, but she is not theirs to command. Her song has faded because it is time for her to change, to retreat beneath the earth where she can wait. Her journey does not end—it transforms.”
Devadas rose to his feet, his expression stricken. “But the people depend on her. Without Saraswati, the fields will die, the wells will dry. How can we survive without her?”
“You must change too,” Pasupati said. “The river’s flow has made you strong, but now you must learn to carry her memory without her waters. This is not her choice alone—it is yours.”
Ayra turned to the pool, her chest tightening. The water rippled gently, and the hum deepened, rising into a soft, sorrowful melody. The river spoke not in words but in feeling: a deep ache of farewell, tempered by the promise of renewal.
“She doesn’t want to leave,” Ayra said, her voice trembling. “She’s bound to the people.”
“She is,” Pasupati agreed. “And that is why she cannot die. But she cannot stay here, either. Her song is too strong for a people who have forgotten how to listen. She must go underground, where her song can wait for those who are ready to hear it.”
The Seal’s Final Song
The seal in Ayra’s hands glowed brighter, its warmth spreading through her fingers. The symbols shifted, forming a map of the river’s journey as it descended beneath the earth. The path was clear now: Saraswati’s flow would continue, unseen but eternal, nurturing the land from below.
Ayra knelt at the pool’s edge, lowering the seal into the water. The moment it touched the surface, the pool erupted with light, silver and golden waves spilling outward. The hum rose into a crescendo, filling the air with a song so profound that it made Ayra’s chest ache with its beauty.
The tree at the pool’s center trembled, its silver leaves falling one by one, carried by the wind into the river below. The pool began to drain, the water flowing downward, disappearing into the earth. Saraswati’s presence faded, but her song lingered, a faint echo that seemed to whisper, I am here. I am waiting.
When the light faded, the pool was dry, its stone floor etched with the same symbols that adorned the seal. The tree remained, its roots reaching deep into the earth, a silent witness to the river’s journey.
Pasupati stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the empty pool. “It is done.”
Ayra turned to him, anger flashing in her eyes. “She didn’t want to leave.”
“She didn’t leave,” Pasupati said softly. “She transformed. And so must you.”
The Child of the River
When Ayra and Devadas returned to Mohenjo-daro, they found Vanya in the throes of labor, Mira and the midwife Sarla tending to her. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and burning neem, the sound of Vanya’s strained breaths mingling with the faint hum that still lingered in Ayra’s ears.
As the child was born, a sudden stillness filled the room. The baby’s first cry was soft but resonant, carrying a melody that silenced everyone. The midwife gasped, her eyes wide with wonder.
“The song,” Ayra whispered, stepping closer. “It’s the river’s song.”
Vanya cradled the baby in her arms, tears streaming down her face. The child’s presence was warm, vibrant, and alive with the same hum Ayra had heard at the river’s source. Saraswati’s song hadn’t disappeared—it had found a new vessel.
“She didn’t leave us,” Devadas murmured, his voice trembling. “She’s still here.”
“She’s waiting,” Ayra said, her gaze fixed on the child. “Underground, yes. But she’ll return. When the people are ready.”
Epilogue: The River Waits
Years passed, and the Saraswati’s surface flow disappeared entirely, her waters retreating beneath the earth. The people of Mohenjo-daro adapted, learning to dig deeper wells, to honor the memory of the river in new ways. The seal remained a symbol of their connection to the Saraswati, a reminder of what had been and what could be again.
Pasupati disappeared as mysteriously as he had come, his task of transformation complete. But the faint hum of the river’s song persisted, carried in the stars, the earth, and the laughter of the child born under her blessing.
And deep beneath the land, the Saraswati flowed on, her song waiting for the day it could rise again.
New Title Suggestion:
“The Song Beneath the River”