Deven laughs. “Okay, but let’s get comfortable first.” He pulls a large blanket from his pack and unfurls it on a flat, grassy area near the water’s edge. We lie on our backs, gazing up at the waterfall, close enough that the mist dances over our cheeks. When Deven starts speaking, there’s a melodic quality to his voice, like he’s told this story many times before.
“The legend goes that this lake once belonged to a maiden who was renowned for her beauty. Stories of her were told far and wide, spoken around cook fires and whispered at bedtime. Eventually the tales reached the ears of a lonely prince who was determined to find a beautiful bride. He had courted many maidens, but none of them were lovely enough to satisfy him. So the prince set out to find the maiden of the lake. He searched for months until he finally found this water—the brilliant blue of a sapphire. The lake was so perfect that he was certain he had the right place. And sure enough, a little ways off, he saw a young woman bathing herself in the water. He crept closer, trying to catch a glimpse of her and see if the legends were true. The maiden was submerged up to her neck in the water, and her back was to the prince, so all he could see was her dark hair. But it was beautiful hair, so his heart swelled with hope as he waited for her to turn.”
Deven stops talking and for a moment there’s just the rush of the waterfall in our ears. “So what happened?” Mani asks.
Deven props himself up on his elbows. “Do you really want to know?”
I swat him on the arm. “Of course we want to know,” I say. “No fair stopping in the middle of a story.”
He shoots a stern look at me. “The first rule of legends is that you never strike the storyteller.”
“Even if he is an obnoxious tease?” I ask.
His face breaks into a wide grin. He tries to force it from his face and assume a more serious expression, but he’s not having much luck. “Even then,” he says.
“Dev-en,” Mani whines. “Just tell us what happens.”
“All right,” Deven says. He clears his throat. “Finally the maiden began to turn. The prince held his breath, anxious for his first look at her face. But when he saw her, his heart sank. She wasn’t beautiful at all.”
“She wasn’t?” Mani asks.
Deven shakes his head. “She wasn’t. She was actually quite plain. The maiden saw him and asked, ‘Why have you come?’
“?‘I came to see if the legends about your beauty are true,’ the prince said.
“?‘And what have you discovered?’
“?‘I’m afraid I’ve been misled,’ the prince told her.
“The maiden was so offended by his rejection that she used her magic to create a curtain of sweet milk that tumbled from the cliffs above to shield her from the prince’s view. And then she continued to bathe. The prince turned to leave, but he hadn’t gotten very far when he heard a sound so beautiful it made him ache inside with a longing he had never known before. The maiden was singing. The prince ran back to the lake, and as he listened, he fell in love—not only with her beautiful voice, but also with the words of her songs, which revealed her heart. Suddenly he thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He called out to the maiden and asked her to remove the milky curtain. Although it added much beauty to the lake, it blocked her from his view, and he desired to court her. But the maiden refused.
“The prince was determined not to leave until she changed her mind, and so he made his home near the water and spent his days talking to the maiden—telling her the stories of his youth, discussing philosophy, reciting poetry.
“Gradually the maiden’s heart softened and she fell in love with the prince. But still she wouldn’t remove the curtain. Although the prince could not remember why he had ever doubted the maiden’s beauty, she could not forget that he had once thought her plain.”
“So what happened?” I ask.
“They died—each of them in love with the other, but never seeing one another again.”
“They died?” Mani said. “That’s a terrible story.”
But I didn’t think so. It was tragic, true. But also romantic and beautiful.
“Some people say if you listen very carefully, you can still hear the maiden singing,” Deven says.
That makes us all fall silent. And for just a moment, in the rush of the waterfall, I think I can hear something that sounds like music.
“Are you up for seeing something else?” Deven asks after we’ve lunched on a picnic of samosas and maraka fruit. The sun has risen high in the sky, chasing away the crisp mountain air, and now we are bathed in a pool of buttery warmth. I’m reluctant to leave such a beautiful place, and so I don’t answer right away.
Deven studies my face. “Or we could stay here?”