Apsaras’ Dance by Kelly Matsuura

Time wastes the paint on our faces and ornaments. It roughens the once-smooth stone we were carved from. Yet behind the crumbling stone, we shine.

Our voices blend as we step from the wall, magic infusing our limbs and lighting our smiles. We sing the songs of ancient apsaras before us.

Once, we were a single goddess in the heavens. Now, we are a thousand faces with a collective soul on Earth. We were awakened one by one, charmed by the moon to dance freely under Vishnu’s stars.

We honor the gods of Mount Meru from the vacated palace of Angkor Wat. Once a king’s home, and now his living legacy.

We dance each night with pure abandon—eyes closed, our faces tilted to the sky. Each one of us unique, each voice a varied note merging in harmony.

~*~

One night, we step out from the walls and take our usual positions. But something is different. Someone watches from the shadows of the ruins. A man, sitting alone on a blanket. He presses a flute to his lips and plays a delicate tune. Slow at first, then growing in tempo and volume as we grow our dance.

We enjoy this new music. It’s invigorating, tickling our toes as we step to the rhythm. We move through the ruins, twirling our skirts and waving our hands. Vishnu smiles down and offers his applause.

The man ends his tune and packs his belongings away. He then does a most surprising thing—he moves to the nearest apsara and wraps his arms around her waist from behind. His hands glow and send a pulse of blue light through the apsara’s transparent form. She fills out into a solid figure and looks around in confusion. The man then pulls her with him as he runs off into the jungle.

Has he made her human? He must realize that she has no soul of her own. It is a most curious event.

We do not see the strange man nor his stolen bride for many months. When he returns, he is alone and plays his flute once again. He plays the same tune as before, and after playing, he captures another apsara. We watch him go with less curiosity than before.

Two months later, he returns for another. Then he comes monthly for a while, during the full moon. More apsaras disappear with him into the jungle.

We continue our nightly moon dance, still numbering over nine-hundred. We space ourselves a little further apart in the grounds.

~*~

Now, he comes weekly. He plays a new song. Faster, frantic. We twirl and sparkle just for him, enchanted by the skill of his lips and fingers on that magic flute. He becomes our god on those nights.

Vishnu does not stay to watch this grand performance. He devotes his time to other temple maids, in other lands, other cities.

We should mind, but no, we are adored by the flutist. We blush at the sight of him and bow as he takes a new bride from our troop.

As he runs into the jungle with apsara number two-hundred-and-four by his side, we feel a deep loneliness. We wish for more music, to dance longer, to feel loved. We ache until the next week, when our god returns.

~*~

The rainy season begins. Not our favorite time of year, but still we dance for the moon. The flutist comes weekly still too, but now he takes two apsaras each visit.

They make a charming sight: a man holding hands with two beautiful dancers in the rain. They skip through the temple grounds along the trail to the jungle, their bracelets jingling, their wet sari’s sticking to their skin and their bare feet kicking up mud.

We wave goodbye to our lucky sisters. Surely, they will have a blessed life.

When they have gone, we release our tears. For we are still here, locked in the ruined walls and silent daytime of this place.

Vishnu looks down upon this scene, two arms folded across his chest, a frown on his imposing face. He does not speak a word, nor ask us to dance. He turns his back and the sky darkens.

~*~

Another night. The man returns but does not sit in his usual place. He places his blanket near the East corner, facing Garuda, the chosen vehicle of Vishnu. For as long as we have existed in this place, Garuda has remained an attentive, but silent patron to our performance.

All our lost sisters accompany the man. They kneel in rows behind him, bowing to their master.

The man draws his flute to his lips, then pauses. We, locked in the wall, hold our breath. We cannot step out without music now. He has taken too many of us and our power is now weak.

Instead of the regular song, the flutist plays a dark, awakening melody. We are slow to recognize it, not having heard the piece for centuries, but when we do, we fear for our own existence.

He plays the ancient composition, created by the Dark Ones. Just as our song releases us from the stone walls, this piece will release Garuda from his entombment. No more, will he be confined to his sentry duties.

The music grows, and peaks. It drains magic from the temple stones, our very soul, and the great moon above. Where is our lord to protect us?

Our numbers are small, we have not attracted Vishnu’s interest for some time. He is nowhere to be seen.

The statue of Garuda begins to ripple on the surface. Light glows from deep within. Garuda awakes, he is ready for his long-awaited freedom. The flutist steps closer, still playing the dark notes of the spell.

Light emerges from the stone and takes shape. Garuda stands tall, raises his head, and spreads his giant wings. He is both light and darkness in equal balance.

The man draws out the last note, lowering the flute and keeping his gaze steady on Garuda. He kneels and bows his head in honor.

Garuda roars, coming to life. But the song is not enough to give him physical form. He is far larger than us apsaras and has a greater need for power to exist in the human world. Without a solid form, he will return to stone.

The young man had well prepared. He rises to his feet and takes two steps toward Garuda. He holds his hands out in front of him, and they glow with the blue light we have seen before. But this time, it is beyond beautiful. It is exquisite in both shade and brightness, like the rarest of blue diamonds.

He joins hands with Garuda. The blue energy passes between them, blinding in its expansion and speed. When it fades, and we can see again, Garuda is gone.

The man now holds Garuda within and can shift between forms at will.

He changes now in mere seconds. Man becomes beast. Garuda gives a final roar of farewell. He takes to the sky, not looking back, for he surely knows our sorrow can never be undone.

~*~

We are the apsaras of Angkor Wat. Remember us.  Remember our love of dance and spare a tear for us.

Kelly Matsuura

Image by DEZALB from Pixabay – Wall art from the amazing Angkor Wot in Cambodia – rows of figures of carved into the rock.