by Shweta Narayan

There once was a prince whose dearest friend was a river.

Now rivers are sometimes girls,‭ ‬quick as lightning‭; ‬and they are boys sometimes,‭ ‬speeding like arrows.‭ ‬And they are gravid women sometimes,‭ ‬and sometimes they are men,‭ ‬full of poetry and slow as scripture.‭ ‬Most of the time you simply cannot tell,‭ ‬though storytellers will try.

And this prince was sometimes glad to be himself,‭ ‬but other times she was not‭; ‬and at these times the clothes,‭ ‬the walk,‭ ‬even the freedom of a prince felt like a prison.‭ ‬She tried at first to spend these times in the womens‭’ ‬quarters,‭ ‬but there she could only be a son,‭ ‬or a brother,‭ ‬or a prince to be flirted with.‭ ‬So she would visit the river,‭ ‬who understood.

One day the Prince came to the river in despair‭; ‬for he was of age to marry,‭ ‬and that is not a duty that a prince may ignore.‭ “‬And how could I marry anyone but you,‭ ‬my dearest friend‭?” ‬he said.

And she came out of the water in humanlike form,‭ ‬and replied,‭ “‬But you had only to ask.‭”

So they were wed‭; ‬and the kingdom rejoiced at the blessing of having a goddess in the palace.‭ ‬And if she seemed sometimes a man full of lightning,‭ ‬or a woman spilling over with poetry,‭ ‬and at other times a being of both and neither,‭ ‬well,‭ ‬that was the way of divinity.‭ ‬So for a time the lovers ran swift with joy‭; ‬they could be man and wife when they were so,‭ ‬or men together,‭ ‬or women,‭ ‬or something else again.‭ ‬And they had each other.

But then the river came to be with child,‭ ‬and all changed.‭ ‬Her women,‭ ‬who had before been all smiles and blushes when their princess was a man,‭ ‬now wailed and pleaded with him not to be.‭ ‬Even among the gods,‭ ‬they told him,‭ ‬there never had been a pregnant man.‭ ‬What if the baby ceased to be‭? ‬What if it took harm‭? “‬What will it turn into‭?” ‬the midwife asked.‭ “‬I’ll not be blamed for so unnatural a patient.‭ ‬If she turns into a dog next,‭ ‬will she give the kingdom puppies‭?”

Weighted down with their fears and scoldings,‭ ‬the river stopped shifting.‭ ‬But she could not stay a woman without a cost‭; ‬she grew ill,‭ ‬bone-heavy.‭ ‬Her waters dried to a muddy trickle,‭ ‬and she forgot how to laugh.‭ ‬When the delayed monsoon broke overhead and she gave birth to twins,‭ ‬she died of it,‭ ‬fleeing back to the river’s safe basin and shifting moods and leaving human form behind forever.‭ ‬The prince died soon after,‭ ‬of grief and guilt,‭ ‬and was reborn as one of her tributaries‭; ‬so in the end they found a measure of peace.

But what of their orphaned river children‭? ‬They seemed identical,‭ ‬save that one was a boy and one a girl‭; ‬but nobody in the palace could tell which was which from one day to another‭; ‬for indeed,‭ ‬they shifted as their mother had,‭ ‬in balance with each other like the light and dark faces of the moon.‭ ‬They lived in the women’s quarters,‭ ‬where they could be either,‭ ‬and nobody quite dared to restrain them‭; ‬but they knew they made the servants nervous and filled their grandmother with grief.‭ ‬So they grew up confused and frustrated,‭ ‬and often felt imprisoned.‭ ‬But if one went hunting with his friends,‭ ‬and shifted mid-hunt to find herself surrounded by men who were not family,‭ ‬she could tell her other‭; ‬he would understand,‭ ‬and they would hide her shame and discomfort together.‭ ‬And if one was charmed by a visiting prince,‭ ‬only to see that young man’s face harden into disgust when he found himself courting another boy,‭ ‬then he had the other’s shoulder to cry into.‭ ‬And they always had the comfort of a grassy place near the palace,‭ ‬where two rivers flowed together,‭ ‬where they felt at home.‭ ‬It was not enough,‭ ‬but it was something.‭ ‬Even when they were grown,‭ ‬they lived near each other,‭ ‬and always near rivers,‭ ‬their kin‭; ‬and their children,‭ ‬and their children’s children,‭ ‬did the same.

And it is said that their descendants walk the world still,‭ ‬following the great rivers‭’ ‬trails,‭ ‬searching for a place where they can simply be.