Curling up in the cramped dungeon, I flip over the dilapidated pages of an ancient scroll. “As the about-to-be Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, sat in meditation, Mara brought his most beautiful daughters to seduce Siddhartha. Siddhartha, however, remained in meditation. Then Mara sent vast armies of monsters to attack him. Yet Siddhartha sat still and untouched.” A cold drop of memory moistens the scroll. My hands shiver.
It has been 2597 years, yet I still remember him. Occasionally, when I struggle in and out of nightmares, I see his sublime halo right in front of my eyes, lighting up the gloomy cell like a savior. Like a god, in name of which his followers worship him yet he denies. He insists that he is no god but a human being, a teacher who dedicates to helping the rest of humanity to reach where he stands. Yet I always wonder, if he is but a human being –and I believe he truly is- is there the slightest possibility of him loving me –like, not hating me as much as my identity deserves to be hated?
Yet all these are nothing but my aerial fantasy beyond the wildest imagination, although as a lifetime convict I have lost my judgment of where the boundary between illusion and reality lays. I guess there never exists one in the first place. What seems absurd can turn out to make sense in a split of second, and perhaps the opposite too. Nonetheless, I know one thing as clear as the fact that I will be manacled in this somber dungeon till the end of eternity –I know that he is long gone. He is in that heavenly dimension which is impervious of the endless circle of rebirth and suffering. Nirvana. That’s where he is, and that’s what my father struggled to prevent his from entering. Also that’s why I’m here, as a betrayer, spurned and censured and penalized. Is it worth it? I hear a sigh, not realizing it’s coming from my own parched lips.
As if aiming to unveil some hidden clue from a detective film or to capture that subtle microsecond when magician performed the trick, I replay the inception over and over again in my mind over the past thousand years, only to tear open the scab constantly for a distorted sense of release from the overwhelming pain of recollection. They say in the end you remember the beginning. For me, there will never be an ending. Hence every minute is the ending, for me to go over the trailer of my poignant story.
When we first met, he was a prince who sneaked out from palace, curious to get a sense of what outside world is like; I was the youngest daughter of the notorious Lord of Death, wandering around the mortal world with imperishable beauty and age. I wasn’t that old then, at least younger than my sisters, but still, I know enough of the ignorance and affliction of the mortals. Their absurd caste system and the oblivion towards fellow creatures are what I and my sisters laugh about every day.
Therefore imagine how stricken I was when I first saw him. Totally clueless of the lives of common folks. Complete stranger to death, sickness and old age. Honestly, he amuses him more than the mortals does. My observation continues, and surprisingly, I found him displaying sympathy towards the poor and miserable.
I was not sure what exact action of his triggered my heart. Like seedlings peeking tentatively from underneath a bleak icy tundra. I didn’t even know where the seedlings come from. But they grew as fast as spring bamboo shoots and soon my heart became grassland. I no longer joked with my sisters about the silliness of mortals. And I was no longer satisfied with simply observing him secretly.
You are not a spy, I rebuked myself, you have your magic and beauty, knowledge and experience. Why do you hesitate? What do you fear? I guess I knew the answer. I simply didn’t want to ruin this ambiguous feeling, which I had never experienced before. But I made the decision to follow this feeling, to approach him and help him perceive this world through the right lens.
Plan was set. He was not to get suspicious at any rate. Changed into avatar of a wandering ascetic, I taught him to renounce the world and seek release from fear of death and suffering. He took my lesson with astounding intelligent, which pleased me greatly. After a week he said he has to go back to the palace. But he promised he would come back.
I remember the day when he left. It was windy and cold. It was not like snowy cold that aimed to bury you. It was not like icy cold that tried to petrify you. It was not like rainy cold that seeps into your bones and soaks your innards. It was simply windy cold that blows and blows as if threatening to blow away something precious from me. And apparently it succeeded. In that old narrow alley he took leave. Leaves from a tree fluttering and swirling in the wind, along with my sadness. He gazed at me as if trying to imprint my continuance into his memory. I almost flushed. Even if I did, I was in form of an ascetic so he wouldn’t have noticed. The sun landed on top of the roof near horizon, waiting to be engulfed. Inevitable. Just like his leaving. I gazed back at him. There was the reflection of sunset in his dark pupils. His pupils were deep like abyss, inscrutable like black holes. I watched the sun sinking in his eyes. To the horizon where it disappeared. I felt my heart sinking in my chest. To lower than horizon where it broke into pieces.
Night started to take over. We couldn’t wait any longer. He picked up his package and threw it on his broad, manly shoulders. He gazed at me once more and politely asked for my name. I paused for a second, my mind suddenly entangled like all these flamboyant necklaces he was wearing.
He was the prince, as if stricken by a lightening I realize, and I mumble in a hardly audible voice, “My name is Siren, descendant of Mara.” He nodded gently at this, as if Siren and Mara are utterly common names for ascetics. He thanked me composedly, and turned around. A cold drop fell from my eyes but was blown away by wind. Another cold drop reached the cold quivering lips, sealing whatever was brooding behind them.
Leaves were dancing a poignant dance. Days dragged by in the same manner. The broken hole in my heart was enlarging, and it engulfed anything else. Like a black hole. I wished his eyes could be planted in my heart so that he could see my despair. And panic. I couldn’t deny that. I could hardly believe that I, as the daughter of Lord of Death, just taught a completely stranger how to fight against death, to find a solution to solve the mysterious puzzle of death. How ironic! How frightening! I must have completely lost my mind.
Yet the next day, annoyingly, I found myself in the same alley again, unconsciously looking for him. “No, Siren, you are just looking for him so that you can kill him, as well as kill your fear of further betraying your father.” I admonished myself, yet when he appeared my heart was lightened by exultation and all my artful weapons got frozen by an enigmatic power –which I later find out to be what my father had been teaching me to despise and loathe ever since I was created.
The enormous hole in my heart was immediately patched and fixed, but my whole heart ached for interaction. A desire for further intimacy flooded my veins like torrents. In whatever form of intimacy, I didn’t care. As long as he was with him. As if a powerful portion infiltrated my blood, set my soul on fire. Every inch of my body had been stained with tears of longing and desperation. I felt I was possessed by demons, but I was the daughter of demon, how did that explain things?
Anyway, I couldn’t resist reappearing as the wise ascetic Siren, teaching young Siddhartha more about this world, including many religious philosophies and ways of meditation; I even gave me a little clue about how to achieve enlightenment –just the slightest hint, though, since if I tell more I would be condemned as the most egregious betrayer in the history of us devils. Insane as I was, I knew where the ultimate boundary lay. As a result, Siddhartha was extremely thankful towards his omniscient instructor that he almost admired me as a god. As for me, I was satiated enough of being equal with him as mortals. Or rather, just being with him. Without any boundaries of knowledge or status.
“Siren, we will achieve enlightenment together, and then we will save the rest of human beings from samsara and suffering.” Once he said, his intelligent dark eyes shining with aspiration. His looming halo was already recognizable, though obscure.
“Yeah, we will.” I unintentionally stressed the word “we” a little bit, immersing myself in this rare moment of intimacy. I smiled and looked into his abysmal eyes, as if gazing through the entrance of my eternal catastrophe.
“Siddhartha,” I pronounced his name with such uncontrollable tenderness that I had to bit my tongue and remind myself that I was in avatar of a teacher rather than a lover.
“Let’s meditate.” I finished the sentence with nonchalance, and allowed my eye lashes to fall. Later I realize, that was the calm before the advent of storm.
Soon enough my father noticed. Not me, though. He perceived that some mortal was trying to break free from the endless circle of death and rebirth (known as samsara) and explore the way towards the sacred world of Nirvana.
“The seat of enlightenment rightfully belong to me! Not to you, you abject mortal!” Father claimed in front of Siddhartha who was meditating under a Bodhi tree. His voice vibrated in the forest, disturbing the branches. A swarm of birds got frightened and hustled to flee. That was the day of the final battle, when my father Mara confronted Siddhartha in person, and directly challenged him. The latter was already enshrouded by visible halo, and I could see he was struggling to concentrate in this clamor.
“Come on, my beautiful daughters, go entice him, seduce him, and bring him down to perdition! My brave beasts, attack him, harass him, and stop his evil plan!” Mara’s instruction before we set out for this crusade (as my father called) echoed in my mind, but I dispersed it like an insignificant circling insect. I saw my sisters leaning forward and displaying all their glamour, alluring him with their nudity and obscene postures. The monsters were using all tools they could gather to dig a hole on his impenetrable halo which now acted as a tenacious shield against all these malice and schemes.
I stood aside and watched the whole scene like watching a movie. I completely neglected what my role should be. I was too lost to act anything that I decided to be merely an audience, a bystander in this huge battle over the rightful ticket to Nirvana.
“If possible I may even stand on his side,” I ponder over the situation, “Actually, I must stand on his side, on Siddhartha’s side.” No longer how hard I tried, there was no way for me to pacify my longing for this young man to win. I knew it meant I would have to betrayal my own father, that I would be condemned eternally, that I would be separated from him forever, since I would never be able to enter Nirvana as the daughter of demon. Yet I didn’t care. From my observation of mortals, I once concluded that everyone who makes a mistake knows in advance that he’s going to make the mistake, he simply can’t stop himself. Now I’m in this situation. I knew the consequences yet I simply couldn’t stop myself. I simply wanted him to achieve what he aspired to, for himself, for the Siren he knew and loved as a wise instructor, and for the ignorant suffering mankind. Even at the expense of my own sacrifice. Even he knew nothing about my true identity.
“But no, this I have to let him know.” I thought, my mind suddenly became as clear as his chest enshrouded under the halo, plain and hallowed, without any embellishment that indicates his status. I recalled those luxuriant necklaces he used to wear as a prince. My grin bitter and opaque. I had made my decision: I would reveal to him who I truly was, as well as the key of the final step towards Nirvana.
At that point I heard my father shouted out to me, “Siren! Are you petrified? What are you daydreaming there when we are in a battle!” I simply ignored him. I approached Siddhartha cautiously and timidly. Not because I’m afraid my father will discover, but scared of what I was going to say. His halo dazzled so brightly that it dwarfed the sunlight, his countenance solemn and concentrated, disturbed by neither the assailing monsters nor my sisters who were still trying in vain to entice him. I almost felt sorry for them. Considering all those time I had spent with them and when we joked about the foolish mortals. But their hearts were hollow. They were ignorant of pain and love. I tried not to pity them but I did. It was this man who taught me pain and love. I stopped directly in front of Siddhartha. My whole body was shaking uncontrollably that all cascading ruffles on my gown danced like fairies. I had to pinch myself to regain composure.
“My name is Siren, descendant of Mara.”
I still remember how I pronounced these words with quivering lips. I dared not look into his dark eyes, afraid that they would penetrate my heart and dissipate my meager determination. I lifted my head slightly to feign courage. His immediate astonishment was palpable. Almost blatant. The halo drastically dimmed and he stared at me with mouth half open. It actually looked comical but no one laughed.
“Siren?”
His hoarse voice assured me that he hadn’t spoken a word for several days. Yet he called me name, which flooded me with ecstasy. It was the first time he called my name to my true self rather than to my avatar. It was also the last time. I signed with pathos. Everyone else in the scene was as confounded as Siddhartha. Time was frozen. So was everything else. I and he were the only living creatures in this cryptic dimension. As if isolated in a parallel universe.
“Yes, I’m Siren. Your wise instructor. The daughter of your greatest enemy. And I love you.”
All these words burst out from my mouth without accessing my brain. I felt somehow relieved, though, since I was actually afraid I wouldn’t have the courage to say them. Good job. Now finish it. I encouraged myself. Tons of emotions pressed on me. I didn’t have time to think. Act fast. Do it now! All the past events crammed in my brain, swirling and colliding like leaves on that windy cold day. No, they can’t be blown away. Now focus! I thought I was going to faint, but I didn’t. Instead, I took a long breath, and leaned over towards the utterly petrified young man. I whispered to his ears the final key to Nirvana. As these words left my mouth I knew I was officially a betrayer now. There was no going back.
“Siddhartha…” I felt like weeping. Smile poured down from my face as I looked into his dark eyes. For the last time. There was shock, hatred, sorrow, gratitude and a bit regret.
“Let’s meditate.”
I thought I saw a transient glitter of love in his eyes. The slightest flash. Enough to illuminate my own life.

The shackles clank with indifference as I reach out my emaciated fingers and place them gently upon a faded picture on that antique scroll. My pallid nails with dried bloodstain somehow match with the mottled painting. I caress his vague countenance through the flimsy paper, through thousands of years of futile longing and numb despair. Yes, he has been in Nirvana ever since that day. Maybe he will think of me occasionally. Only occasionally. Of Siren. His instructor. His enemy. His lover.
How could I go on dragging around an amputated beginning? Yet I never regret.