A Mannequin

Do people ever wonder how I feel? They hardly care. They dash around and across us, never giving us a thought. No one stops by for a chat. I'm a mannequin. I live in this shop called Ira's fashion boutique. It's not bad, I guess. But nothing compared to when I was an apsara. What, you ask?

Well, welcome to my history.

It was just me and my friends roaming the woods, picking flowers and berries, talking, singing, doing whatever we wished. We were heavenly nymphs and beautiful maidens. We possessed the power to make any mortal drool at our feet. But we were not to be seen, heard or touched by any mortal, or we face immense pain and sometimes even death. Thus we kept quietly to ourselves and hid in the forest, living a life of simplicity and joy. But my happiness was short lived, for one day I was spotted by a king when I was picking flowers (to weave garlands), who was very handsome and courageous. I felt a dagger sink into my stomach, but nothing was there. I started to run away, but he chased after me in his chariot. In my fright, I shrieked for help. He heard my voice. Strike two. He neared me and brushed my shawl, which fell off, exposing my fair arms. He brushed my hand next, and that was one too many. I dropped down dead.

Soon after I found myself imprisoned in one of Ira's mannequins. I was unable to talk, sing or move. I spent my days miserably as so does every other mannequin in this world, for they were all apsaras trapped in this rigid modelling frame. Next time you see a mannequin, say hello to it. Exchange pleasantries. All right, maybe she can't talk back but if you hear closely, you can hear her silent tears.