Lord Indra devised a competition. His nightly routine was to quaff nine jars of soma, then crash. He decided the Apsara who kept Him awake with her dancing till He finished the last drop of the tenth jar would be declared the winner. Since I, Menaka had just returned from a dance sabbatical my colleagues requested me to win; they were tired of dancing for Him. So it was that Tillotama and Rumba dropped out early while Urvashi gamely kept on till the ninth round. “Menaka is Best Apasaraaaa! “ Lord Indra announced, and snored, the tenth jar rolling dry.
Down on earth, Sage Vishwamitra was in deep meditation. It was his four hundred and ninetieth year. The heat of his tapas was scorching the lowest of Lord Indra’s Seven Heavens; we heard the denizens there were scampering on tiptoe. It was reported that Sage Vishwamitra would soon gain enough power to rocket into Lord Indra’s throne and topple Him.
Lord Indra decided on damage control: Despatch an Apsara. It’s a barbaric practice. Sages are at their most corruptible when poised to gain power over the Gods. But if they see us, they blow their minds on pleasure and forget Heaven. So the myth goes. None can imagine how demeaning it is for us Apsaras – sky-crossing nymphs who devote our immortality to the arts — to be dangled as bait. Besides, we face blazing heat, the lust of ancient sages, their dragon breath. Some haven’t brushed their teeth for eight hundred years.