In the high glaciers of the Himalayas, where snow meets sky, a tiny stream was born. Her name was Ganga, though she was so small that she could barely be called a river.

“One day, I will reach the ocean!” she declared.

In the mountains, Ganga sang a fast, playful song — SPLASH! GURGLE! WHOOSH! — as she bounced over rocks and tumbled down waterfalls. Mountain birds drank from her crystal-clear water.

“Your song is so energetic!” said a snow leopard. “Where are you rushing to?”

“To the plains! To the cities! To the sea!” sang Ganga.

As she flowed down from the mountains into the plains of Uttar Pradesh, her song changed. It became deeper, slower, more melodious. She was wider now. Farmers used her water for their fields. Children played on her banks. Women washed clothes at her ghats.

“Your song feeds us all,” said an old farmer in Varanasi, folding his hands in prayer.

In the cities, Ganga’s song became sad. Factories poured dirty water into her. Plastic bags and garbage floated on her surface. Her clear water turned murky.

“Why do they hurt me?” she wept. “I give them water, and they give me pollution.”

But then, schoolchildren came to her banks with gloves and bags. “We’ll clean you, Ganga Maiya!” they said. “You take care of us — now we’ll take care of YOU!”

They picked up trash. They planted trees on her banks. They made signs: “Keep Our River Clean!”

Ganga smiled. Her water sparkled a little brighter.

Finally, in Bengal, Ganga reached the vast Bay of Bengal. Her journey of 2,525 kilometres was complete.

“I started as a tiny stream,” she said, “and became a mighty river that nourished millions. My song changed — from playful to peaceful to sad to hopeful. Just like life.”

The ocean welcomed her with open arms. “You’ve done well, Ganga. You’ve given life to an entire civilization.”

“And I’ll do it all again,” whispered Ganga. “Because a river’s song never truly ends. It just begins a new verse.”