All this happened long, long ago. I’m flying low in altitude and emotion. I gaze at multi-coloured mountains, sigh and rise to skim the Himalayan snow peaks. Suddenly I spot a man tottering out of an icy cave in high fashion Indralok apparel. I dive and do a slow fly past, disbelieving my eyes.“ Hey you Apsara, “the decrepit mortal commands, “come down. “ I’m visible to the naked eye! What was that Lord Indra said – about the last man I slept with etc? This relic must be Vish, father of my Sakuntala, she of the pearly ear lobes, long dead. “Nymph, come down instantly to pleasure me, “ he bellows, as if I were instant coffee. Vish has survived, but has forgotten.

I remember Lord Indra’s last words: Should any mortal regret his action and take responsibility after feeling my dance — this Curse will end. Or I will. Maybe at the beginning of yet millennium humankind is finally capable of being true to its name—being both human and kind. It’s a slim chance.

There’s no way am I going to entrust this chance to Vish. I’ve to do it by myself. For I’m doing this out of my belief that tenderness is the groundwater of our existence. “Dance,” he snorts, trembling, “ I’m an impatient man. “




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