Amba walked for hours, taking paths long since unused, until she arrived at the bank of a rivulet of the Ganges. She drank a bit of water, sat under a sandalwood tree, and only then realized the situation in which she found herself. Two little love birds danced high above her, finally settling on a branch near her head. She tried to find joy in knowledge that she would go on living. But it was futile; she had just discovered that, as in almost all the days of life, a woman is powerless to make a decision. She fell asleep to the lullaby of the birds.

    She awoke the next day and again looked at the river bank. She drank a bit of the crystalline water that ran beside her. She cleansed her face, then returned to the shade of the fragrant tree. One cannot fight destiny- she had already tried, and she had lost. Amba admired the beauty surrounding her and began to talk as if the landscape were her friend.

    “Tomorrow, or a year from now, will you only be a bed of fine sand and smooth stones?” she asked the Ganges. “Will you dry up like my withered heart? Will travelers be saying: ‘Here in this land there once was a river.’ Sandalwood, what becomes of your leaves without the refreshing rain? Souls, like rivers and plants, need a different kind of rain: hope, love, a reason to live. When this does not come to pass, everything in the soul dies, even if the body goes on living; and the people can say: ‘Here in this body there was once a woman.’

    Amba fixed her gaze on the two birds returning from breakfast. “I am learning,” she told them. “Though the lesson is a futile one, for my heart is condemned to death.”

    "You have discovered Truth,” one bird seemed to reply. “Having Truth is enough.”

    Amba laughed, for she was putting words into the mouth of the bird. It was an amusing game, one she had learned with her sisters, Ambika and Ambalika. She missed her dear sisters, who decided to stay with Vichitravirya. She decided to continue, asking questions and offering herself an answer, as if she were a true sage.

    In her imagination, Amba was transformed into the bird. “Who are you?” she asked herself, as if she was the bird.

    “I am a woman scorned,” replied Amba. “The one nobody wanted. That is how the world will remember me. I loved Salwa, and he loved me. Or so I thought. Damn Bhishma! Who does he think he is to steal a wife for his stepbrother!?! Now Salwa will not marry me because I ‘belonged’ to another man.  Vichitravirya will not marry me because he knows my heart belongs to another.  Even Bhishma refuses to restore my honor by marriage.” Amba continued her saga until she again drifted off to sleep with the birds sweet lullaby.

    The bird returned the next morning. Instead of resuming the conversation, Amba began to observe it, for the animal always managed to sing a joyful song. A mysterious friendship developed between the pair. But the solitude in which she found herself was terrible, so she decided again to pretend she was conversing with the bird. In this way she taught herself austerities and prayers.

    Every night, just before bed, the bird asked the same question, “Who are you?”

    “I don’t know,” Amba continually answered.

    “No one can lose sight of what he desires,” the bird cryptically responded. “Even if there are moments when he believes the world and the others are stronger. The secret is this: do not surrender.”

    Another moon died, and the sun was reborn in the sky. Amba felt that her body was stronger, her mind more clear. That night she turned to the bird, who was perched on the same branch as always, and answered the question before it was even asked.

    “I am Amba. My heart has felt true love and ultimate betrayal. I am Bhisma’s destiny. I cannot doubt what I am capable of doing, even if it is not in this life. I have learned from my penance in the forest that a woman must go through various stages before she can fulfill her destiny.”

    “Yes, and now you know who you are,” commented the bird. With that, the bird took flight, spiraling around with a magical glow. Slowly the bird transformed into the great god Shiva.

    Shiva, moved by Amba’s past and present, helped fulfill her future. He built an altar on the banks of the rivulet of Ganges, then called upon Agni to set it on fire. In a booming voice he pronounced, “I am Shiva, the Destroyer. I caught the river Ganges as she fell from heaven. Love has brought you to this time and place. But with one look of my third eye, Kama, the god of love, was reduced to ashes. Now I am here to help you.

    Amba watched and listened in amazement. Intuitively, she knew what she must do. With a deep breath, she walked into the flames, into death. Out of death, she walked into life, born again as Sikhandin, son of Drupada, avenger of Amba, and destroyer of Bhishma.