Of Lotus & Love - by Perzaia

Nymphs are characterized by their attachment to a specific locale. Siren contributor Perzaia tells of her transformative trip to India, and her attendant attachment to this magical land of beauty and grace.

Bahá'í House of Worship in Delhi, India, popularly known as the Lotus Temple

The Sutra of India by Perzaia Dance behind perfumed veils of lotus petals, in a garden full of eternal ponds; there welcomes a golden peeper, croaks once for me; twice for luck, in the land of ten billion colored lights. Afternoon’s heat drops a leathery wing, from every balboa tree; to catch the scented swami wind, arresting the skies, pigmented as never seen. Oleander’s blossoms glow shocking white littering the fragrant walk, Kama down in colored Holi strewn in tinted kites fluttered down, down, down to touch the golden beaches. Lord Ganesh my reincarnated lord of Ganas, I seek your wisdom to overcome, the cobra that keeps me far away; away from spice, your heated Namasté one. I tear away from my moment’s pant, my heart— a refreshed starved, in the golden temple of Krishna and Radha; she the flower, he the dew, await until drawn by their next breath.

Think of me my beloved India, until our next chanced meet; rumored once for me, twice for luck embedded within my skin.

Stepping out of the cold canned air of a Boeing 747, my known world, my world of sterile, over processed and ‘normal’, my life flipped one hundred and eighty the moment the stewardess ushered me out the door, on to the hot tarmac. India is a brick wall of humid heat persuasion mingling in an exotic atmosphere. A heavy, hot air that sucks your worth the moment you breathe in its scented skin. I have seen people swoon when taking their first breath of Indian air.

This is not a travel blog or the latest guide to India, this is the testimony of how India pushed out the cobwebs of my consumer predictable life and replaced it with the priceless glow that encompasses unpredictability, compassion, humility, and history. India had taken a spoiled, arrogant girl and transformed me into a woman who learned that I am not the bellybutton of the world, yet still a precious gift. I learned that if anything can go wrong, it would. So laugh. Have another cup of sweet tea and carry on. In a word, acceptance of the things I couldn’t change. India is a land that gives more than it takes.

India is a catalyst, a scent, a bell, the blue divine and ten-headed demons, elephants and painted ponies, holy men parading for coins or bits of saffron rice, the gentle sway of a glittering sari, the rush to see the latest action movie, spiced in winds that encompass a plethora of many things. India is a desire.

The love of desire.

The Kama of desire.

A lush, I cannot breath without the steamy colored richness of sari stalls and perfume dealers, gold intoxicating me in the heady persistent swooning that only musk can possibly revive. That, ‘ special deal for only you Madame’ that falls like a giggle even from the most stalwart of men. They sell you more than a language that spans the Silk Road to the borders of Indus. I am under your spell.

Leaving my life in the hands of my friend, Devika’s brother Rahul’s driving abilities, we went on yet another, ‘where can we get lost this time’ adventure tours Rahul seemed to specialize. One lost trip was spent wandering the voluptuous fonts that scripted the walls in illustrations of love. The Khajuraho temples of Lakshman and Chaturbuj, Ghantai and Devi Jagadambi armed in flaunting ample bosoms, curvy contours gyrating on impossible penises covered in covetous jewelry and immortalized in stone. These positions of love stood in various states from active worship to columns lying flaccid and spent upon dry weeds.

Yet, as true love never dies, they continued to trance and liquefy even after a thousand years. I cannot help think about the precise caresses it took to shape the eternal beauty of carved love. I have returned here a few times, drawn not by the erotic stories these sentinels tell, but of the trust that their exposed poses portrayed. The book of the Kama Sutra isn’t a book of lust, it is a book of trust.

Although I have lived in India and visited many times since the age of sixteen, my Hindi and Urdu are not what they should be, everyone wants to practice their English, including Devika’s family. I was adopted as one of their own six daughters and three brothers of my school chum’s family, they too practicing their perfect English on me, embracing me in everything, loving me enough to include trying to marry me off as part of their parental duty.

Devika’s family lives a roomy house in the Old District of New Delhi not too far from the university. I love them. They are British Indians. Proud to be Indians, however they have been sent to school in England to broaden the mind. Minds broaden but still insist that because I have been single for far too long they knew the most perfect man for me.

I walked into their home for the first time, blessed in a blaze of incense and a slash of red bindi powder, my friend’s family introduced me as their long lost daughter.

I was welcomed by the whole family living like a princess in their large boisterous home. The house was filled with family pictures and honored teachers lazing about on carved little tables. The living room a riot of colorful cushions and couches that enveloped in tints never to be used back home. In the rear, heavenly

scents emanating from the kitchen as there always seemed to be endless stream of sweetly spiced dainties and limeade or sweet tea, dinners as riotous as my own family’s. Upstairs, the whitewashed bedrooms, mine an airy tiled guest loft, scented by incense always suspended on the humid air originating from the family shrine below.

Off the living room, the family shrine was housed in a small stone grotto, fresh flowers strewn daily on statues of elephant headed Ganesh hands raised his blessing along side sacred blue Krishna both in his child form and as a shepherd, worshiped with his love Radha looking so peaceful and full of benevolence. There, behind, stood a monkey god grinning mockingly to remind of us of our human folly and last but not least, the beauteous Lakshmi to bless with prosperity and grace.

When not being dressed like a bejeweled doll for the never-ending weddings that went on for days, we prepared for birthdays or holidays. We always seemed to be going to weddings, a subtle yet poignant reminder to us single girls as to what we were missing not being married.

My favorite holidays became Diwali, the festival of lights, and the riot of enthusiastic color of Holi. Only in India, can they turn fire and ash and cow poo into color and dance through another festival dedicated to Radha and Krishna. Any chance to celebrate these two divine beings, I partook, and they became my favorites.

I escaped on my own. Risking life and limb on crazy bus rides, which are safer if you ride on top away from the goat and chicken passengers, to witness the real India and what was considered the lower orders of Indian society.

This is when I chanced to meet Teresa from the mean streets of Calcutta, an untouchable according to customs. For me she was a guide and friend, a tiny dry woman, frail from a lifetime of starvation, her skeletal wrists smaller than a child’s, she was kind and giving. Although by our terms she had nothing, however, the awakening I received from this shrunken lady whose own family were responsible for the cleaning of Poo Street, (yes, it was an actual street for this function), helped put my privileged and spoiled life into perspective. She had nothing but gave me everything. She became my guide and mentor, always making sure I got the best deals or the first seat.

In Odisha, the land of a thousand temples, two little twin girls, Preeti and Parvati adopted me as well, their parents owning a dance studio that taught tradition dance. Learning that I was a ballet dancer at home, they took over my dance training. Waking me every morning at my hotel, always at an ungodly hour, we would kindle the sun from the parapets of local temples as they taught me the finer skills of Indian dancing midst the carved stone shrines that doted the landscape. They improved my correct ballet hand positions with the exaggerated hand positions of an Scheherazade storyteller.

India is in my blood now. There is a silk string colored red that connects me to India. I cannot hide from the lessons I learned there. India’s memories are mine to lean on whenever I want. India flavors my days.

As we close an another day, India evenings splashes more than falls brilliantly staining the skies in colors found only in India, while the fruit bats drop as if on queue, in search of food.

Wood & Plant Nymphs

THE DRYADES & OREIADES were the beautiful Nymphs of the trees, groves, woods and mountain forests. They were the ladies of the oaks and pines, poplar and ash, apple and laurel. For those known as Hamadryades, trees sprung up from the earth at their birth, trees to which their lives were closely tied. While the tree flourished, so did its resident nymph, but when it died she passed away with it.

There were several classes of Dryades associated with a particular types of tree: • The Meliai were the Nymphs of the ash-trees.

They sprang up from Gaia the Earth when she was impregnated by the blood of the castrated

Ouranos. The men of the Silver Age married these Nymphai (in the time before women were created) and from them all of mankind was descended. • The Oreiades were the Nymphs of the mountain conifers. The first of these were offspring of the five Daktyloi and the five

Hekaterides. Subsequent generations were descended from these elder Oreiades and their brothers the Satyroi. (NB The old forests of ancient Greece were primarily found high in the mountains, since the majority of the lowland forest had been cleared for farming. It was therefore natural for the Greeks to think of the

Dryades as mountain-dwelling). • The Hamadryades were the

Nymphs of oak and poplar trees. These were usually associated with river-side trees and sacred groves. • The Maliades, Meliades or Epimelides were

Nymphai of apple and other fruit trees. They were also protectors of sheep. The

Greek word melas from which their name derives means both apple and sheep. • The Daphnaie were Nymphs of the laurel trees, one of a class of rarer tree-specific Nymphai. Others included the Nymphai Aigeiroi (black poplar),

Ampeloi (grape vine), Balanis (ilex), Karyai (hazelnut), Kraneiai (cherry-tree), Moreai (mulberry),

Pteleai (elm), and Sykei (fig). • Others with simply associated with a location:

Oreiades were nymphs of the mountain heights,

Alseides of the sacred groves, Aulonides of the glens, Napaiai of the vales.

[source: theoi.com] •