Pause, and think about it, will you? I, Menaka, and my colleagues, the Apsaras, lustrous with the beauty of creativity, were offered as entertainment for pleasure seekers; our supple artistry bent to serve as distractions; our bodies, filled with the play of fecund energies were reduced to goods. This is why we are flippant; changeling creatures, bright and more frivolous than can be suspected by mortal minds for we guard deep secrets. Our work is dangerous and free. We use our laser-sharp minds to conceal ourselves; we pass off as our disguises.
In the bad old days before globalization we dancing girls didn’t have career options. There was only one sponsor for our art—Lord Indra. Having ‘won ‘ the dance contest I was chosen for the job. I borrowed from the rainbow its colours for my robes, acquired the patter of raindrops for footsteps, arrayed my hair like monsoon clouds and presented myself to Lord Indra. When I left Indralok I was in disarray.
I homed in on blistering heat, towards a huge anthill shining white-hot. That had to be Vishwamitra! I conjured fragrant dew from my body the way mortals sweat. My dew-sweat washed away the anthill. O the disappointment! But I’m a professional. I stamped my feet and a garden bloomed. I summoned mist and light, I was softly backlit to perfection. I began singing seductively and low so that the tune snaked into his mind like a recurrent dream. His eyelids fluttered. I began my dance, trailing my shimmering veils over his limbs, dropping them; I began the Air Tumbling Siren Sequence. It’s the last part of the routine. I tumbled before his closed eyes, limbs splayed and circling, for five years, non-stop. I was dizzy.