The Siren

The carving on the wall was so absolutely beautiful, breathtaking in fact. Akhil’s finger danced lightly over its raised contours as he marvelled at the incredible craftsmanship of people long gone, people of an entirely different era.

He peered down at the figure of the woman chiselled on the stone, forever nameless and yet her posture, the tilt of her head, the arch of her spine seemed to call out like a siren to every mortal who gazed upon her.

The stone face remained silent, but her silence spoke volumes. The languorous curve of her hip told tales of sultry heat, her pointy chin, slightly raised, hinted at a fiery nature, her upraised hands were in a stance of utter indolence as if a minute more of wakefulness would be a task too difficult for her.

Her lush young body reminded him of the tales of the Apsaras he had read about, beautiful enough to charm sages from their lives of prayer and penance.

Akhil traced the shapely eyebrows, over her half-closed eyes, eyes that breathed life into her stone figure, eyes that were etched into the stone by ancient hands.

He wondered if she had been a nubile young woman caught unawares by the poisonous stare of a Gorgon, frozen in her moment of lethargy forevermore.

A/N. This was inspired by a statuette of a woman I saw at a museum in Varanasi. Her beauty stayed with me long after. And one evening I just sat down and wrote this before I forgot how speechless I had been that day. You see, memory is a fickle mistress.

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