Page 79 of The Legend of Meneka
I close my eyes, curl my wrists, and rise into a sky that is thick with weapons.
I dance.
IFORGET THE BATTLE.ITUNE OUT THE SCREAMS.
Am I even capable of love?I ask Shiva. He gazes at me sadly.
You violate, Kaushika says.That’s your entire existence.
Rain lashes me and I embrace it.
A vision of the universe. Infinite. Peaceful. Indifferent.
I throw my head back, unaware that I am dancing. What is dance but an expression of who I am? And who am I if not what Shiva himself has declared for me?
I spin, and Amaravati floods me. It gushes like a river, collecting my doubts, submerging them, elevating my own prana. The illusion carves around me, and even though my eyes remain closed, I can see it.
Kaushika holds me, telling me of his vow and his childhood. Indra tills the land of the mortal realm a millennium ago. I dance for Tara, and she falls for my seduction, sick with love. The apsaras weep for their fallen comrades and lost sisters while Indra sits on his throne, watching Amaravati’s power die, helpless and defeated.
Devas need the mortals, but mortals need the devas too. What is Surya without the fields he warms? Who is Indra without the rain for crops? Merely objects, and dead things. Essences, formless and alone.
I dance, and around me my illusions swell. War and war and war, I show them. Who does it benefit? Everyone has a side. Everyone has reasons. Pointless, all of it.
Nanda’s song becomes a litany of her own grief. Others begin to join her, gandharvas—singers of heaven—peeling away from Indra’s own army. All their voices rise, reaching into swarga itself.
Arrows and astras fling past me, missing me through sheer luck. They escape under my wrist, pass my ankle, sizzle by my neck. I am a light of my own in the sky, dancing between clouds. I am a shield of my own making, protected by my conviction.
Amaravati’s power rises in me and my mudras become runes. Lotus Blossom merges with the rune of patience. Rise of the Dancer melds into the rune of harmony. I open my eyes, breathless, and see then that I am not alone.
Rambha has joined me. She mimics my movements, and a thrill passes over me. Rambha is followingme?
The awe lasts only a second, and I grip my peace even as I feel the emotion from her. Her pain and sadness, for me and for Indra, and even for Kaushika. Her understanding for what I have been put through, and her distress for Nanda. This dance is revenge against our loss. The peace we seek is vengeance. We are weapons but not of destruction. Illusionists, but the breakers of illusions too. Creatures of lust, but those of love too.
We dance, and create, and hope.
Mudra by mudra, the weapons start to distance from us. Lightning cracks but does not pierce us. Indra’s gaze burns on me as he pauses to see what we are doing. His eyes rove over Rambha, and I see his rage as the storm circles us. We are in the eye of it, cradled by him, punished and pushed by him.
We mold the illusion, and it spreads, cutting through the seduction of hate and power, which are the reasons behind this battle. I tug at the emotions of all of us assembled here, the fear of the devas, the determination of the mortals, the desperation as we stagger, unable to understand how we balance one another.
We spin, and in our dance is life, and peace, and love.
Devas blink, seeing the devis manifested in our enchantment. Prithvi, the goddess of earth, shimmers as we apsaras create her form. She is naked, but it is not sensual. It is grief—look what war has done to her. Surya, her consort, averts his eyes in shame. He flashes, visible over a knot of mortals, then he is gone away from the battlefield. He has had enough.
I rejoice silently but do not stop dancing.
I call upon Aditi, the goddess of order. It is Vayu who relents to her. Made of mischief as he is, he recognizes stability. He sees her and grows abashed. A whirlwind of emotion flutters on his face, and then he leaves the battlefield too.
Raka, Parendi, Mahi, other devis emerge from our mirage, and one by one the devas grow shamefaced. They flicker, then leave. A deep breath, and I see tired mortals returning to their ranks, stumbling away as the attack abates. The most powerful of them, Kaushika, forms a ward and shield around his straggling army, while the sky clears.
Last of all, I create an image of Shachi herself for Indra. Her beauty, kindness, fierceness glow from my illusion. She is taller than either meor Rambha, her beauty more than both of ours combined. Her skin is golden brown. She is the queen of swarga, a daughter of an asura, married to the lord of heaven.
Look at her, I urge. Would she want this? She has not joined your battle. Why do you think?
High above me, Indra blinks, his hand around the vajra tightening.
He is a distant dot, yet clear to our celestial eyes nonetheless. His gaze cuts across the illusion back at us. He stares at Rambha, and her nervousness pounds at me through our apsara bond.
It is between them now.
