They called her Amrapali, but of course that wasn’t her true name. She was the Nagar Vadhu (Bride of the city), she of boundless beauty and her fame spread so far that rich men and princes and kings from distant lands traveled to the little hamlet of Vaishali to be entertained by her, and of course, for coital pleasure.
The young monk quietly arrived, late one night. The people had heard of him, for he had learnt the path from Buddha himself.
She softly entered his chamber, and in her moonlit face, he saw more beauty than the valleys and ravines that he had crossed. As she ran her hand under the monk’s habit, the monk stood up, and spake, ‘You are not ready.’
Amrapali was a wasted woman, who beggared for scraps. The beauty, youth and the lust was waylaid in an inanimate stupor, with the summer sun breathing down her wrinkled back. The cynosure of Vaishali, was a decaying corpse.
The young monk arrived quietly, that sunny afternoon. The people had heard of him, for he had learnt the path from Buddha himself.
He placed her on her lap, caressed her thinned grey hair, and gently whispered, ‘You are ready now.’