J. J. Torres

Eternally Dancing with Slumber

As if thousands of elephant trunks were blaring songs from the subtle earth herself, the howl, of only a handful of conch shells, welcome home Rama and his fellow kshatriya. An endless array of blossoming lotus flowers descend from the ageless heavens. Reflections of jade, sapphire, and ruby dance with the sun’s golden rays, and settle upon the brave warriors’ golden armor.

The Devas are pleased with Rama and his military’s triumph. The celestial-ones demonstrate their delight by blessing the victorious warriors with the fragrant kisses of eternal blossoms: blessings of grace and strength. All varna of Ayodhya are present in celebration of the return of their adored Prince Rama.

The prince’s kshatriyas had been off at war, in the kingdom of Lanka, with Ravana and his army of malevolent rakashas, and they return to Ayodhya victorious over Ravana. After spending seven days in the forest purifying themselves of war’s pollution, the valiant-ones are overjoyed to finally be home.

Rama is escorted into the city by the eight-wheeled, golden chariot being pulled by seven pale-horses. All of Ayodhya welcome home the great warriors of their sanctified kingdom. The days to follow will be days of celebration to honor the Devas and give thanks for the conquest. Seven night-goats and four pale-horses were sacrificed by several brahmins upon hearing the good-fortune days before: bestowing reverence to the Devas for the victory of their dear prince. The songs of blissful conchs and joyful cries of praise compliment the array of raining flowers and floral fragrances of the Devas kisses.

“Look!” a weaning daughter of Ayodhya draws attention to the strange kshatriya… the one with the hair of honey-gold curls. Within the sea-of-people, a small gathering of some children of Ayodhya gaze at the cloud-skinned soldier at the request of the little girl.

“Look, there he is,” the same toddler excitedly addresses the other curious little-seeds, “it is the-kshatriya-that-fell-from-the-clouds. My mother tells me that many years ago Queen Kausalya, mother of Rama, found the warrior when she was out picking jasmines within the immense forest that lies in between Ayodhya and the mountains.” A carpet of small-night-heads gathers around the she-child so that they may be able to hear her over the potpourri of noise of the festivities.

“In a clearing, next to the Naga brook,” she humbly continues the legend of the stranger, “my mother says to me that Queen Kausalya found a lotus, with petals of ruby, budded up yet standing out of the earth. Thinking nothing awkward of the ruby lotus, the queen picked her jasmines and sang songs to the forest dwellers that she knew were all around admiring her youthful beauty. The lotus then began to sway to the gentle tones of the singing queen.”

“You lie, you disdainful shudra!” a boy, nearly approaching a youthful man-hood, breaks through the wall of earth-stained children to confront the little girl. “My father has traded iron and bronze with the royal-ones since as far back as I can remember, and he has never told me any of these lies your mother speaks. He says that the stranger is simply that, a stranger banned from another far-off kingdom. The soldier doesn’t even have a varna. That one is of the dalit; he is a wretched curse in our land.”

“No, what she shares with us is true,” another boy, a bit older than the metal-merchant’s son, defends the legend that the toddler speaks of, “I was born within the walls of the palace for my mother keeps the Ghats of Ganga within the walls. She knows well of this man, for she was there when the queen returned home with the child that would be this kshatriya; he is no dalit.” The children, still amazed by the legend of this stranger, focus their attention to this brahmin’s son.

“See!” the small she-child gleefully yelps at the support of the older brahmin, “I told you that my mother speaks truth! You, vaishya, and your father are the liars!” A crooked smile dances over the little shudra’s earthen face, and her cheeks grow with enjoyment. She feels satisfied that she was speaking truth over the lies of a higher varna.

“The ruby lotus did dance to the sweet sound of the queen’s song,” the brahmin’s son enforced the legend, “but that is not all the lotus did. When Queen Kausalya noticed the tender sway of the lotus, she ceased her singing for the lotus’s action frightened her, for she did not know if the lotus had bad intentions. Yet the queen heard weeping from within the ruby petals of the lotus, and tears began to gently drip from the closed, scarlet bud. The queen, no longer frightened, then approached the lotus and asked, ‘why do you weep, mysterious flower?’

“The lotus responded to the queen’s question. A voice spoke from the skin of the lotus, and it answered, ‘I am one of a forgotten sky kingdom with its name lost over time. I am one half of a whole. My kingdom fell to a selfish asura, named Athene, who killed off our queen and all her subjects in a feud for power. As my kingdom fell from heaven, her atman split into its shanti and its shakti, and I am that shanti manifestation. Only I and one other sun-headed-she-child, remain. She is the embodiment of my kingdom’s shakti. If we two find each other and embrace one-another, the forgotten kingdom will rise once again. Until then, my name does not exist. I cry for my kingdom and for a mother’s warm embrace so that maybe one day I may come to find my lost shakti.’”

“Yes, yes!” the toddler who drew attention to the stranger excitedly interrupts the brahmin boy, “my mother says that the ruby lotus then blossomed and a smell of a thousand fragrant mother-canes bathed the clearing. From the blossom… the sky-eyed baby was born.” The little girl gazes her dark eyes at the stranger, and the gathered nest of little-seeds stare at the-kshatriya-that-fell-from-the-clouds with awe.

The children’s excitement rises as the kshatriyas magnificently parade through Ayodhya. Delicately carved cedar chests overflow with a fantasia of gems; they melodically pour out into the hands of the subjects who pass by in homage… spoils of the war in Lanka. Captured women, men, and children are tied to each-other at the waist and hands, and they tiredly trot behind which ever warrior claims them as a prize.

“Their skin is stained with such night!” a young cow-maiden (far too young for a husband, yet old enough for heavy chores) loudly remarks about the enslaved Lankans.

“It makes me laugh that their hair stands up like a wild night-fire,” laughs the weaning girl displaying her missing-toothed grin, “their skin is much darker than our earth-skin. They must be the children of Kali. My mother says all children of Kali have skin of night, as they do. I’ve never seen such night in anybody’s skin.”

Their almond eyes stare at the passing encaged wild game and brindled pen, washing wine within large earth pots, and they grow ever inpatient to get a closer glance at the golden-curled warrior in his passing march. The fragrance of mother-cane grows stronger to the night-headed little-ones, overwhelming the smells of sacrificial flesh with smoke and the blossoming lotuses that shower vibrantly. A glare blinds the little-seeds as the radiant sun reflects off the armor of the strange warrior. They observe his honey-gold locks dance with the rays of the sun. Clouds live within the strange warrior’s skin; not the soft earth that dwells within the skin of the Ayodhyans. As the kshatriya yearns closer to the gathering of children, and the scent of mother-cane grows as a fire grows, the children capture a glance of the warrior’s sapphire eyes… each glistening the shade of eternity.

A smile strikes the face of this joyful warrior as he passes the wall of small mud covered faces. Each little earth-visage had a plethora of expressions from serene excitement to teetering fear; it particularly made him smile to see the littlest shudra grin with cheeks that grow. The kshatriya knows his destiny well, for Queen Kausalya always reminds him of his dharma. The-kshatriya-that-fell-from-the-clouds knows that he must one day find his separated shakti and be one with her. He knows his duty, and he must one day fulfill it.

Memories of being brought to the palace of Ayodhya, as a toddler, in the arms of Queen Kausalya flash through the warriors rainbow of thoughts as he passes through the festivities. The deep stares and loud whisperings were the images burnt into his memory of the many days inside the palace. Laughing echoes loudly in the kshatriya’s memory as he recalls the other royal children poking fun at his strange tongue; the once-children of Ayodhya had never heard such a funny sounding tongue. Yet the warrior knows he is strange; he is of the sky and not of the earth as the ones of Ayodhya. However the warrior lacks a true name. His only callings have been his strange features: “golden-honey curls,” “skin-of-clouds,” or “sapphire-eyes.” Although he never minds these callings, the warrior aches for his true name.

Now the-kshatriya-that-fell-from-the-clouds marches alongside his noble Prince Rama and the great monkey general Hanuman. Rama descends from his chariot and embraces his divine consort Sita. “For now my love is free,” speaks Rama to this exquisite princess. In the prince’s embrace of Sita, the kingdom commenced celebration.

The young warrior feasted a feast of the finest fruits, nuts, breads, and pastes. Exotic delicacies were brought from all over the kingdom, and some brought as gifts from kingdoms afar. Daphnis had drinks of wine of the sweetest taste; it was as if eating the grapes themselves, yet not. He had performed for the young cow maidens with his lyre, swaying their hearts in hopes for marriage. However the warrior knows his duty, and now he stands before the Ghat of Kali, outside the walls of Ayodhya, in order to give reverence to his warrior Devi of time.

His celebration must halt so that he may give to the Devi, for she demanded much sacrifice from her devotees. The sun set shines a red glow amongst the heavens; the glow is the same golden scarlet as the hair of the kshatriya. Darkness surround as the warrior enters the temple entrance, and ahead, he sees the cherry glow of light that is the temple heart.

The warrior carefully enters the temple heart of the wrathful Devi Kali. The crimson glow of the setting sun illuminates the temple through the carved out windows. Standing tall within the temple, he lays eyes upon the eight armed deity dwelling within the dark stone. Her hair is in shambles; her face is one of a grotesque nature with its blood red tongue displayed; and her arms wield a sword, a trident, a severed head, and the bowl to catch the severed head’s dripping blood. This ghat was a familiar one to the kshatriya, for this was his warrior Devi.

Blood does not flow from the Devi, as it symbolizes, but instead water from the stream below the temple pumps into the heart through the severed head and the tongue of the sacred Devi. Below Kali’s grace is the pool of life giving water that the she stands upon. Across the claret, shimmering pool the warrior’s eyes fall upon a stranger

Sitting upon the stone barrier of the pool, with her back facing the warrior, sits a young maiden. A golden ruby dances upon the exposed back of the young lady. The reflection from the pool elucidates gold around her scantily covered shoulders. Her hair lightly touches the surface of the water; shimmering with the given light. Although the pool gives off glare, the kshatriya can clearly see the maiden’s elegant hair. Her hair is in locks of golden red; not like the silken, raven strands of the Ayodhyans. The maiden’s hair is as the warriors own hair.

The royal-one quietly creeps towards the strange woman, being careful not to frighten her of his presence. Upon closer examination he notices her skin is stained with clouds. The maiden did not have the earth-stained skin as the Ayodhyan ones, but her skin is as his own skin. The warrior continues his subtle approach; he desires to see her mysterious eyes.

With his mind occupied on the sheer beauty of the womb-one, he hardly notices that she is singing an enchanting song. The tongue of the song is not of Ayodhya, or of any tongue the warrior has come across in any kingdom. However it is a tongue that is all too familiar to the-kshatriya-that-fell-from-the-clouds. Her singing stops, for she knows she has company. She stands up and turns away from the warrior, motioning her exit.

“Please, I beg of you fair maiden, do not exit this bangal,” the warrior pleads the gorgeous maiden.

“I do not know you. You have no dealings with me for I am not within any varna of this kingdom or any other kingdoms of this land. I am merely a spice trader and hired assassin,” proclaimed the maiden, “I am not a cow maiden. I was only taken in for celebration by cow maidens. They gave me the garments I wear now.”

“Fair maiden, may I gaze into your eyes?” asks the kshatriya to the turning maiden.

“For what reasons do you wish to see my eyes? My eyes contain no answers you seek. My eyes are not the strength you desire. My eyes are only my windows to this world and not to any other. If you were to embrace my eyes with your sight, nothing will be accomplished other than a wasted moment,” the maiden responds.

“I must see your eyes, for I have never seen such exquisiteness in all of my existence. No woman of this land bears skin of clouds and hair of the setting-sun as you do. Never have I seen a person with hair and skin the same stains as my own naked vestments,” answers the ever patient warrior, “if I were to know the shade of your eyes, I will know if you are the one I seek.”

With those words she turns to face him. Slowly the royal-one gazes into her passing eyes, revealing two sapphires of enchantment. Her golden hair encompasses her subtle round face. The skin of clouds embraces her eternal sapphire eyes. The warrior can see eternity within the blessed maiden’s graceful eyes. The sun’s reflection, from the pool, illuminates gold upon the maiden. She is the forgotten kingdom’s lost shakti.

“You are the one I seek. You are the forgotten kingdom that we are part of. You are the shakti, that I have been destined to be with,” he speaks to the maiden. “I have no name. I am the shanti force of a fallen, celestial kingdom. You are its shakti. Our dharma is to unite our once fallen sky kingdom.”

“No! We cannot unite. I can never be embraced. I, too, share the shame of no name. My curse is to not love, for it is not what I must seek. This kingdom of yours is gone. Its name is forgotten with time. If I am of this kingdom, then so be it. But I too will be gone, as the kingdom you seek,” the maiden details Daphnis, “my curse is never to love.”

“That cannot be true, for I desire you within mere moments. It is the will of the Devas,” he proclaims to the maiden, “embrace me, for it shall be entrancing.”

The maiden could not bear it anymore. She, too, searches for her fallen shanti. Her past and dharma, the maiden knows well. Her adopted shepherd parents always remind her of her duty. Love dances its way from her lotus throughout the rest of her body. It was as if an internal fire was enflaming her passions. She extends her arms and embraces the young warrior; placing a single kiss upon his gentle lips. For no moment was as beautiful as this moment.

Upon laying this sacred kiss, the temple walls begin to fade away around the embracing couple. A multitude of colors dances about the world around the two. The sounds of the trickling water fountain slowly trickles away as Kali pours her last drop before she too fades away with the dancing colors.

All the jade trees, the sapphire birds, and the blossoming fragrant flowers slowly dissipate into the atmosphere. The distant subject’s of Rama celebratory sounds disperses with the fading illusion. Rama himself fades within the distance.

Slowly, as if air drifting away; the-kshatriya-that-fell-from-the-clouds begins to fade in the arms of the fair maiden. She kisses whatever kisses she has left, and feels her embracer slip away with the vanishing maya. 

All that is left is the wandering maiden. She knows what is happening. The warrior is awakening in his world, and has abandoned the maiden to her lonely prison. For this golden-headed one does not dwell in the Mahamaya as the warrior does.

No, the one with hair-of-gold, skin-of-clouds, and eyes-of-eternity dances about in another world not unfamiliar with ours. Every time we close our soul-windows to slumber another graceful slumber, we are given a chance to dance with her. For she lives in the world of ceaseless dreams; only to exist if one dreams of her and her eternal grace. 

First draft:

The Eternal Dance of Chloe

As if thousands of elephant trunks were blaring songs from the everlasting skies, the howl, of only a handful of conch shells, welcomed home Rama and his fellow khastriya. An endless array of blossoming lotus flowers descended from the heavens. Colors of jade, sapphire, and ruby dance with the sun’s golden rays, and settle upon the brave warriors’ golden armor. The Devas are pleased with Rama and his military’s strength, and the heavenly ones are blessing them with the fragrance of eternal blossoms; blessings of grace and strength. All varna of Ayodhya are present in celebration of the return of their blessed king Rama. The warriors had been off at war, in the kingdom of Lanka, with Ravana and his army of rakashas. Rama returns to his sacred kingdom victorious over Ravana. After spending seven days in the forest purifying themselves of war’s pollution, the warriors were overjoyed to finally be home.

            A warrior walks among them named Daphnis. Daphnis is strange to the kingdom of Ayodhya. Many years ago Queen Kausalya, mother of Rama, found the toddler Daphnis picking jasmines and singing within the surrounding, immense forest. The boy was not much younger than her magnificent sons. The queen was enchanted with the child, for this toddler was no son of Ayodhya. His hair was a scarlet gold and in perfect curls, as if the hair was a helmet of celestial metal. His skin was the color of the clouds; so light and gentle. His eyes were as the eternal sky; two sapphires of enchantment. His tongue was of a different tongue, a tongue of a far off kingdom. She knew that he was no child of the sacred earth, but that he was a descendant of the ceaseless heavens.

It is said that when the queen revealed her presence to the small child, Daphnis began to cry. Where his tears fell on the fertile ground, a ruby lotus blossomed from the soft earth. The ruby lotus proclaimed itself to be the child’s incarnate and spoke, “I am one of a forgotten heavenly kingdom with its name lost over time. I am one half of a whole. My kingdom fell to a selfish asura, named Nomia, who killed off our queen and all her subjects in a jealous feud. As my kingdom fell from heaven, her atman split into its shanti and shakti, and I am that shanti manifestation. Only I and one other sun-headed-she-child, remain. She is the embodiment of my kingdom’s shakti. If we two find each other, and embrace one-another, the forgotten kingdom will rise once again. Until then, my name does not exist.” With those words the lotus wilted into three sacred objects; a golden sickle, a wooden instrument, and a ruby-headed golden staff. Daphnis tears had now become the sound of the wooden mouth instrument. Queen Kausalya knew that the objects symbolized his strength, wisdom, and beauty; all symbols of his sacred varna. The queen took it upon herself to adopt this forgotten child, many years ago.

The golden headed boy grew up to be called Daphnis by Sumitra, one of his adopted mothers. Known as the one who speaks the language of the Devas: the musician. Daphnis grew up alongside Rama and the other brother princes; always being embraced as a fellow brother prince. Daphnis became skilled in all the arts, and he grew to learn the wisdom of the sacred Vedas. When it came to skills of war, Daphnis was phenomenal; truly displaying his warrior colour. Daphnis knew his purpose well, for Queen Kausalya made sure to remind him of his forgotten past, and what he must do to rebuild his kingdom.

Now Daphnis marches alongside his noble king Rama, and the great monkey general Hanuman. Rama rides, along side Daphnis, in the eight-wheeled, golden chariot being pulled by seven magnificent horses. All of Ayodhya welcome home the great warriors of their sanctified kingdom. The days to follow will be days of celebration to honor the Devas and give thanks for the victory. Seven black goats and four white horses were sacrificed by several Brahmin priests. The sound of heavenly conchs and cries of praise, compliments the array of raining flowers and fragrances of the Devas kisses. Rama descended from his chariot, and embraced his consort Sita. “For now my love is free,” spoke Rama to his queen. In his embrace of Sita, the kingdom commenced celebration.

The young warrior Daphnis had feasted a feast of the finest fruits, nuts, breads, and pastes. Exotic delicacies brought from all over the kingdom, and some brought as gifts from kingdoms afar. Daphnis had drunk wine of sweetest taste; as if eating the grapes themselves, yet not. He had performed for the young cow maidens on his wooden instrument. An instrument the young warrior refers to as a “pan flute.” Now the sun is setting, and Daphnis wishes to dance with a fair maiden of his high standards.

Daphnis dances with one maiden to the next. Several children supply the heavenly sounds with various instruments of percussion and string. Such enchanting sounds, they were, to the intoxicated Daphnis. The warrior makes his way to one cow maiden he has yet to dance with. A bright ruby celebration mask, adorned with scarlet lotus petals and gold thread, covers her face. Although he cannot see into her eyes, he knows he has never seen this maiden before. As Daphnis approaches the mysterious maiden, she quickly turns and hastily walks away from him. In both curiosity and desire, Daphnis seeks the maiden, and stealthily pursues the fresh woman. Daphnis follows her to the bangal of Kali far away from the celebration in the castle walls. The sun set shines a red glow among the heavens. The glow is the same golden red as the hair of Daphnis. Daphnis looses sight of the maiden while pursuing her into the dark entrance of the temple. Ahead, Daphnis sees the red glow of light that is the temple heart.

Daphnis carefully enters the temple heart of the wrathful Devi Kali. The red glow of the setting sun illuminates the temple through the carved out windows. Standing tall within the temple, Daphnis lays eyes upon the eight armed deity dwelling within the dark stone. Her hair was in shambles; her face was one of a grotesque nature with its blood red tongue displayed; and her arms wielded a sword, a trident, a severed head, and the bowl to catch the severed head’s dripping blood. This temple was a familiar one to Daphnis, for this was his warrior Devi. Blood does not flow from the goddess, as it symbolizes, but instead water from the stream below the temple pumps into the heart through the severed head and the tongue of the sacred Devi. Below Kali’s grace is the pool of life giving water that the goddess stands upon. Across the red, shimmering pool Daphnis finds what he seeks.

Sitting upon the stone barrier of the pool, with her back facing Daphnis, sits the young cow maiden. A golden ruby dances upon the exposed back of the young lady. The reflection from the pool elucidates gold around her scantily covered shoulders. Her hair lightly touches the surface of the water; shimmering with the given light. Although the pool gives off glare, Daphnis can clearly see the maiden’s elegant hair. The hair was in locks of golden red; not like the silken, raven strands of the Ayodhya peoples. The maiden’s hair is as Daphnis’ hair. Daphnis quietly crept towards the lovely-one; being careful not to inform her of his presence. Upon closer examination Daphnis noticed her skin was colored as the clouds. The maiden did not have the earth colored skin as the Ayodhya ones, but her skin is as his own skin. Daphnis continued his subtle approach. He desired to see her mysterious eyes.

With his mind occupied on the sheer beauty of the womb-one, he hardly notices that she is singing an enchanting song. The tongue of the song is not of Ayodhya, or of any tongue Daphnis has come across in any kingdom. However, it is a tongue that is all too familiar to Daphnis. The maiden stops singings, for she knows she has company. She stands up and turns away from Daphnis, motioning her exit.

“Please, I beg of you fair cow maiden, do not exit this bangal,” the warrior pleads the beautiful maiden.

“I do not know you. You have no dealings with me for I am not within any varna of this kingdom or any other kingdoms of this land. I am merely a spice trader and hired assassin,” proclaimed the maiden, “I am not a cow maiden. I was only taken in for celebration by cow maidens. They gave me the garments I wear now.”

“Fair maiden, may I gaze upon your eyes?” asks Daphnis to the turned maiden.

“For what reasons do you wish to see my eyes? My eyes contain no answers you seek. My eyes are not the strength you desire. My eyes are only my windows to this world and not to any other. If you were to embrace my eyes with your sight, nothing will be accomplished other than a wasted moment,” the maiden responds.

“I must see your eyes, for I have never seen such beauty in all of my existence. No woman of this land bears skin of clouds and hair of gold as you do. Never have I seen a person with hair and skin the same stains as my own naked vestments,” answers the ever patient Daphnis, “If I were to know the shade of your eyes, I will know if you are the one I seek.”

With those words she turns to face Daphnis. Slowly Daphnis gazes into her passing eyes; two sapphires of enchantment. Her golden hair encompasses her subtle round face. The skin of clouds embraces her eternal sapphire eyes. Daphnis could see eternity within the blessed maiden’s graceful eyes. The sun’s reflection, from the pool, illuminates gold upon the maiden. She is the forgotten kingdom’s lost shakti.

“You are the one I seek. You are the forgotten kingdom that we are part of. You are the shakti, that I have been destined to be with,” Daphnis speaks to the maiden. “I am called Daphnis, but I have no name. I am the shanti force of a fallen, celestial kingdom. You are its shakti. We are destined to be.”

“No, I cannot love. I can never be embraced. I, too, share the shame of no name. My curse is to not love, for it is not what I must seek. This kingdom of yours is gone. Its name is forgotten with time. If I am of this kingdom, then so be it. But I too will be gone, as the kingdom you seek,” the maiden details Daphnis, “my curse is never to love.”

“That cannot be true, for I desire you within mere moments. It is the will of the Devas,” Daphnis proclaims to the maiden, “embrace me, for it shall be entrancing.”

The maiden could not bear it anymore. She, too, had searched for her fallen shanti. Her past and destiny, the maiden knew well. Her adopted shepherd parents always reminded her of her purpose. Love dances its way from her lotus throughout the rest of her body. It was as if an internal fire was enflaming her passions. She extends her arms and embraces the young warrior; placing a single kiss upon his gentle lips. For no moment was as beautiful as this moment.

Upon laying this sacred kiss, the temple walls begin to fade away around the embracing couple. A multitude of colors dances about the world around the two. The sounds of the trickling water fountain slowly trickles away as Kali pours her last drop before she too fades away with the dancing colors. All the jade trees, the sapphire birds, and the blossoming fragrant flowers slowly dissipate into the atmosphere. The distant subject’s of Rama celebratory sounds disperses with the fading illusion. Rama himself fades with the distance. Slowly, as if air drifting away, Daphnis begins to fade in the arms of the fair maiden. She kisses whatever kisses she has left, and feels her embracer slip away with the vanishing maya. 

All that is left is the wandering maiden. She knows what is happening. Daphnis is awakening in his world, and has abandoned the maiden to her lonely prison. For this golden-headed one does not dwell in the Mahamaya as Daphnis does. No, the one with hair-of-gold, skin-of-clouds, and eyes-of-eternity dances about in another world not unfamiliar with ours. Every time we close our soul-windows to slumber another graceful slumber, we are given a chance to dance with her. For she lives in the world of ceaseless dreams; only to exist if one dreams of her and her eternal grace.