I thought: One last effort before I rest. I leapt into a 360-degree pirouette in the air while breaking my garlands and showering petals on him, I somersaulted in slow motion. I was upside down, hair streaming, hip bells slipping on my breast, skirt on my face when he awoke. He looked, stretched one arm to grab mine dangling above his face; one tug and I was below him. That was it.
He wasn’t good. Even… but that’s another story. Vish came instantly; but what can you expect from a sage who’s been planning to usurp the power of the Gods? After a decade his body temperature fell to 300 degrees centigrade so I knew all but the Lower Heavens should have cooled to egg-cooking heat. Another twenty years passed in singing, dancing and sex. Vish said he felt hungry –for food. This meant he had lost most of his supra-natural powers. I was delighted for I could now plan to return home and seek solace, solitude, through my art. I became a food gatherer for him like archaic mortal tribeswomen. I diligently gathered fruits and berries, de-stoned and de-piped each one before popping these into his open mouth. An artist, reduced to this!
At this point in my story I must inform you that we Apsaras aren’t like mortal women who are routinely raped but still get pregnant; we need the touch of tenderness to become fecund. He was tender with me once and I conceived. I told Vish he must be a good father, I needed him to bond with his child. I remember he rolled his eyes.