The dancing in Robam Tamng Buon is intensely slower than usual, with each dance bleeding into one another like light bleeding into the sky at dawn.  On the surface, it may appear that the work merely depicts pairs of gods and goddesses who “pralaing lo leng,” who play with and tease one another.  But their joyous courtship is nothing less than a symbolic union of masculine and feminine energies, a harmonious image of heaven given shape and form in the human realm to inspire the divine order and creative power of the prior into the latter.

 

Finally, the last lyrical section of Robam Tamng Buon, Melim, is almost exactly the same as a melody used solely for flight in the contemporary repertoire.  In this section, the dancers are likened to beautiful kenar (Sanskrit: kinnara), creatures who are half-bird and half-human.  In India, these creatures were identified with the shape-shifting yogini who, possessed with the power of flight, met their tantrika lovers in open-air temples much like Phimeanakas.  That ancient Khmers would have understood the yogini and kenar in this manner is evidenced by the yogini of Banteay Chhmar who "have third vajra eyes and hold flowers with outstretched, feathered arms and stand astride on Garuda legs."[28]  

​

With Zhou Daguan’s account of how only musicians came to the palace to perform during the thngai ram (according to Cravath’s text), with knowledge of the king’s sacred lovemaking that took place at Phimeanakas inside the palace compound, and with awareness of a stele recording dance ritual found at this same temple (to be discussed later), perhaps it can be argued that dancers were in fact the serpent-yogini women who appeared nightly to make love to the king.  Indeed the dancer, whose body served as a vehicle for the gods and territorial spirits, would have been a most potent, strategic, and efficacious agent to unite with.  Whatever the case, this song of flight—a desired power (siddhih) of the tantric practitioner—further indicates the dance’s tantric roots and sets the scene for the other performance work that I hold to originate during this era.

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That second dance, Moni Mekhala Ream Eyso, is a dramatic work that illustrates the creation of rain to speed its fall in our world.  It is an expression of what Ian Mabbett and David Chandler describe as “cosmological thought,” in which “[a]ctions or objects in the profane, physical world are thought to influence the invisible, transcendent world when they imitate its structure.”[29]  This is a way of seeing the world that is alive in the many dances and cultural practices of Cambodia, and one not out of line with David Gordon White’s definition of tantra.

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In the story, three students of a powerful ascetic named Lok Ta Moni Eisey (who may or may not be the same as the ultimate teacher spirit of Khmer dance) end their studies and compete in a contest where they must collect morning dew for him.  Instead of waking up early to collect individual drops like her male peers Vorachhun (Prince of the Earth) and Ream Eyso (The Storm Demon), Moni Mekhala merely leaves her sbai out overnight, lets it soak up dew, and wrings the water into her glass.  She presents her glass first and wins with this clever strategy.

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Proud of all his students, Lok Ta Moni Eisey transforms each of their glasses of dew into precious prizes.  Vorachhun is given a magic dagger, Ream Eyso a diamond axe, and Mekhala a diamond ball that radiates a brilliant light when she holds it.  Covetous and jealous, Ream Eyso decides to steal the jewel from Mekhala.  He first kills Vorachhun before pursuing the goddess through the clouds and the two engage in battle: Moni Mekhala’s diamond ball unleashing lightning and Ream Eyso’s axe cutting through air and clouds creating the sound of thunder.  Mekhala blinds Ream Eyso and avoids further violence by escaping into the clouds.  The union of their unleashed energies, of lightning and thunder, of feminine and masculine, of good will and bad will, creates rain, falling upon the earth to bring Vorachhun back to life.  Rejoicing his revival, Mekhala and Vorachhun join the other gods in dance.  They form a makar (crocodilian sea monster) as they fly through the sky, delivering life-giving water to the world.

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According to Sophiline Cheam Shapiro, Vorachhun represents the earth, Ream Eyso’s passionate anger the fire, heat, and light of the sun, and Mekhala the water—all essential elements in an agricultural society.[30]  Each character is associated with a color as well: kheav (blue) for the goddess of the ocean; chheam chruk (pig’s blood), a rich burgundy, for Ream Eyso; and meas (gold) for Vorachhun.  It is interesting to note that blood-colored items are attested in ancient Khmer epigraphy through the Sanskrit word rudhira.[31]  And although green or brown are colors that we associate with the earth today, it is important to note that gold and yellow conjures a rice field ready for harvest and their association with earth is also a convention of tantric Buddhist iconography.  Ratnasambhava, for example, is a jina, a victorious aspect of the Buddha, who is associated with the earth and depicted with gold skin.[32]

 

Furthermore, tantric relationships to the Khmer story become stronger when we realize that the vajra, from which Vajrayana or tantric Buddhism takes its name, means both diamond and thunderbolt and respectively represents indestructible nature and “irresistible force.”[33]  In its form as diamond, the vajra was associated with the color blue and represented water in tantric iconography much like the Khmer goddess of the ocean and her jewel.[34]  Indeed, the dual meaning of vajra is mirrored in Moni Mekhala and Ream Eyso who are feminine and masculine expressions of a single teacher’s heritage and the lightning and thunder of a single rainstorm.  The goddess, associated with the diamond nature, is the “passive but persistent victor” whereas Ream Eyso represents the thunderbolt nature in his “role as destroyer of life, a doer and initiator.”[35]  Musicologist Curt Sachs, who “classified fertility dances as rain charms,” further reveals the tantric nature of Moni Mekhala Ream Eyso by interpreting the dance as “a courtship dance that ends in sexual union . . . The male is exhausted and the female continues on her way.”[36]  This interpretation is supported by the fact that the vajra as a thunderbolt was often a “thinly veiled” symbol for the penis amongst tantric practitioners.[37]

 

•••••

 

Both Robam Tamng Buon and Moni Mekhala Ream Eyso exist in the modern Thai repertoire but I believe they are specifically Khmer in origin.  Dhanit Yupho, in the 1952 book Classical Siamese Theatre, writes that the melodies of Rabam Si Bot (Dance of Four Songs) “are understood to be very old . . . are infer[r]ed to have come down from the days when Sukhothai was the capital of Siam.”[38]  This seems unlikely however when examining these dances with scrutiny.

 

First off, the name Sukhothai is derivative of Sukhodayapura, as the Khmer city was originally known.  There is evidence that the first Thai king of Sukhothai was educated at Lavo in the Khmer fashion and adopted Khmer cultural forms—a pattern that we will see amongst other early Thai nations.[39]  There is further evidence that the first queen of Sukhothai may have in fact been Khmer and that this king’s rule was only validated with the authority of the Khmer king at Angkor.[40]

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More than anything, this assertion reflects modern Thai attitudes for Sukhothai as:

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“Luang Wichit Wathakan (1898 – 1962), an influential nationalist and popular historian in modern Thai historiography, though now highly criticized and discredited by counter-official-nationalist discourse academics, is most responsible for the nationalist emplotment of Thai history and the idealization of Sukhothai.  He constructed two contrasting paradigms of Thai rules: Sukhothai as an ideal, pure Thai-Buddhist society and culture, and Ayutthaya as a destructive, declining, degraded era, contaminated by Khmer culture and ideology.”[41]

  

Secondly, Yupho says the work is also known as “The Great Dance."[42]  This for me conjures the mahotsava, the “great festivals” staged by Khmer kings of Angkor.  It is not unlikely that the “great dances” were performed at their “great festivals” by pedanataka (groups of dancers) who sometimes numbered in the hundreds according to Khmer and foreign sources.[43] 

 

Thirdly, the work employs a great deal of Khmer in its lyrics with varying degrees of success.  In some instances in which Thai follows Khmer, like the third and fourth verses of Phra Thawng, there is a clear loss of alliteration and rhyme that breaks the poeticism of the music.  Interestingly, there are fifth and sixth lyrical verses in the dance that do not appear in the Khmer versions.  They display this disjointed quality as well and break with the sacred numerology that is the inherent structure of the Khmer version.  It is my hypothesis that these were added in a later period as Thai dance increasingly evolved into an entertainment of the royal court and into a symbol of Thai nationhood.  Phya Anuman Rajadhon, for example, stated in the introduction of the same publication:

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“In its original form dancing was ‘Rabam’ . . . Since the ‘Rabam’ is a set of dance-movements with no connecting theme, it has been considered less interesting than the dancing of other kinds, and has not therefore been very popular [in Thailand].  Thus, even though the ‘Rabam’ has been retained it was made to approximate its rival by taking the dancers to represent mythological characters like Mekhala, Ramasun and Orajun.”[44]

 

This explanation for the development of dance drama and Moni Mekhala Ream Eyso is not sufficient however.  And, in fact, the four-by-four mandala structure of Robam Tamng Buon—nothing less than a symbol of cosmic omniscience and the creative power of the universe—is mirrored in many aspects of Khmer art, architecture, and religion.  For example, King Jayavarmann VII commissioned towers of the four-faced Lokesvara at the Bayon in the form of his smiling face.  This play on fours can be seen in the four purification ponds believed to cure pilgrims of disease and rid them of sin at the temple of Neak Poan as well.  Each pond respectively represented the elements of water, earth, fire, and wind and were believed to internally balance these forces within the body of those who entered them.

 

It is my belief that Robam Tamng Buon serves the same purpose as the purification ponds: Preah Thaong, explained below, is associated with water; Balut, a little bit heavier in its melody, with earth; Sarabarong, a little bit lighter with a twisting and rising quality, with fire; and Melim, in association with kenar and flight as mentioned earlier, with wind.  Just as these ponds were supposed to balance these elements within the body—healing, curing, and ridding of sin—the dances balanced these elements in the bodies of the dancers and the world they danced for.  In a sense, Robam Tamng Buon can be seen as a purity of water, earth, fire, and wind and purification by these means as well.  The order in which they appear indicates a cycle of life which starts with a cosmic, primordial ocean that touches the earth that sprouts flowers and forests, which are then burned causing smoke to rise to the heavens and return to their oceanic source in the form of rain.

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While presenting this idea to dancers of the Sophiline Arts Ensemble during a trip to Cambodia in August 2014, Neak Kru Sophiline noted that Robam Tamng Buon is always performed with twelve dancers and thus breaks the play of four-by-four which would require sixteen dancers.  There are very specific reasons for this however.

 

The very last verse of Melim, the final dance, are: “Pralaing lo leng, thlai euy mul maitrei, tevea krop reasei, sain sokha.”  In other words, “Playing and teasing, oh precious ones full of compassionate love, gods of every reasei, so very tranquil.”  It is important to note that reasei literally means “path” or “level.”  In Khmer culture, however, people are believed to mean reasei or “have reasei.”  The implication then is that we as human beings possess a level of vital and essential life forces that can rise and fall at certain points of our lives, and thus dictate our earthly circumstances.

 

Reasei is derived from the Sanskrit rashi, the twelve cosmological directions of Vedic astrology that are each associated with a part and force of the body.  This last line suggests qualities of fullness and completeness in the lyrics and it is interesting to note that the word mul, which I have translated as “full” above, literally means “round” or “circular” in Khmer.  In this, the image of a Vedic astrological chart, sometimes depicted as a circle with twelve congruent segments, is conjured.  This last line then, is a nod to tantric conceptions of the universe as a body and the body as universe.  It is expressive of an overarching tantric idea that takes multiple artistic and material forms, one which perceives “holy sites as an internal mandala identical with the structure of the practitioner’s body.”[45]

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Tying these sacred landscapes, universal directions, vital life forces, essential elements, and cosmo-human bodies with Robam Tamng Buon further, it is interesting to look at a tantric rite that was used to induce possession in young girls and boys in China.  In order to seek the advice of ancestor and territorial spirits, of whom the young children served as vessels for, the tantric priest was instructed to:

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“Then, with his hand forming a Mudra he touches and thus empowers the five parts of his own body and then with the same Mudra he touches the girl’s head, her mouth, his heart, and his navel visualizing in these the symbols of fire, water, earth, and wind respectively.”[46]

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Again, as with Indian tantric practices, we will never know if this exact ritual took place in Cambodia.  However, its essence—the body as a vehicle in the state of spirit possession, a universal and human body made of and balanced by the four elements of water, earth, fire, and wind—clearly exist in Khmer tantric beliefs and can be associated with Robam Tamng Buon.

 

To further demonstrate the connection of Robam Tamng Buon to the elements and argue for the dance’s genesis at the Khmer courts of Angkor and perhaps before, let us examine Preah Thaong (Thai: Phra Thawng), the name of the first melody of Robam Tamng Buon.  In Cambodia, Preah Thaong is none other than a colloquial name for Kaundinya—a brahmin who is father of the Khmer lunar dynasty.  He is associated with the kingdoms we now know as Nokor Phnom (Funan) and later Chenla, both Khmer polities before the Angkor era. 

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Setting sail from either India or an Indianized state in the Malay peninsula, guided by a dream, Preah Thaong sailed into unknown waters.  He is confronted by Neang Neak, daughter of the king of the naga (serpents), and both sides go to war.  Preah Thaong finally shoots an arrow into the bow of the naga princess’s ship and she surrenders herself when realizing its magic nature.  Preah Thaong demands that she marry him, she agrees, and he clothes her naked form. The two can only be properly wed in the subterranean domain of the naga so Neang Neak, taking her true serpent form, has Preah Thaong hold onto her tail as they travel into the abyss.  The creatures of the water world sing for the bride and groom in celebration of their union.  And, after their marriage, the two return and the naga king sucks up a sea to reveal a most fertile land for them to rule: Kambujadesa, which we now know as Kampuchea or Cambodia.

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Hang Thun Hak, one of Cambodia’s pre-eminent artists and a prime minister before the Khmer Rouge regime, has stated that the Preah Thaong melody is the oldest melody in all of Khmer dance.  He states that, according to Khmer tradition, the melody was brought from the depths of the ocean by the brahmin himself; it is the song that the naga race sang in commemoration of the wedding.[47]  Listening to the Khmer version of the melody, and the melody that proceeds it—which is almost exclusively used for journeys by sea—a maritime quality is especially conjured for me in the vocals and beating of the drums.  This makes Hang Thun Hak’s words hard to argue and further ties the dance to water and Robam Tamng Buon to the four elements of a cosmic mandala.

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That said, the essence of Hang Thun Hak’s claim—the dance’s and music’s root in this narrative and the society that produced it—grows harder to dispute when considering the story’s influence on the larger sphere of Khmer culture including wedding tradition and dress.  For example, Preah Thaong clothed his wife with a piece of cloth now known as a sbai, which is worn today by Khmer dancers of female roles.  Also worn by brides, it is held by a groom as he follows behind his bride in the final rite of a Khmer wedding: one that mimics Preah Thaong’s and Neang Neak’s descent into the primordial ocean. 

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Thaong then, may possibly come from the Khmer word taong meaning to “hang onto.”  This is mirrored in the way that amulets and pendants—usually of gold, precious stones and metals, wood, teeth, or bone, materials and objects of great religious, spiritual, and social value in ancient days—are today known as p’taong.  Possibly a corruption of preah taong, they hang onto the serpentine chains that wrap around the wearer’s neck.  

Preah Thaong’s name then can mean “His Sacredness Who Hangs Onto.”  This indigenous Khmer reading can be further supported by other Austroasiatic languages such as Khmu Yuan and Khasi, with the latter's tdong  meaning "tail."[47a] This trailing, hanging onto, being at the rear, and being the tail is not insignificant as it is a common image in Khmer literature and drama (as well as the wedding rite mentioned above). In the legend of Preah Ko Preah Kaev for example, the younger, human-formed Preah Kaev always flew through the sky by hanging onto the tail of his sacred bull of a brother Preah Ko. And at the close of the Moni Mekhala Ream Eyso dance drama, in which a makar is formed, it is Vorachhun, the male character lead, who runs to the rear to become the tail of the mythical beast.

 

Preah Thaong's mundane and functional name then—functional as in, associated with a defining narrative action and therefore easy to remember and pass on in oral storytelling—is only mirrored by the way his wife has come to be known in everyday Khmer as Neang Neak which means “Serpent Lady.”  As mentioned in temple inscriptions, she was actually known as Saoma—a lunar deity, or a plant or root that was squeezed in Vedic ritual to procure amrita, a nectar or elixir believed to grant immortality.  This transformation of taong to thaong is supported further by how Sanskrit mekala (belt) now survives as mekhala, vina (harp) as pin, and so on.

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As one last point, it is important to note that thaong is conventionally taken to mean “gold,” thereby creating a clear relationship to the Thai word thawng.  Whatever the case, all roads lead back to Cambodia.  For kampu, from which our mythological father takes his name, is nothing but a Pali word for “gold.”  Although Preah Thaong is most commonly associated with the Sanskrit name Kaundinya, Peter Harris notes that: “In Cambodian mythology, Kambuja was named after the founding ancestor, Kambu, an Indian who arrived by ship, married the daughter of the local serpent king, and founded a dynasty with her.  This myth may explain the story of the Cambodian king’s nightly coupling with a serpent spirit.”[48]

  

•••••

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When we are young, we are taught in an oversimplified linear fashion and consequently understand our world in the same manner.  And often, in our history texts, a monumental Buddhism is cited as a factor that brought about the fall of an oversimplified and nostalgic Hindu Angkor.  It would be hard then to associate the Khmer Buddhist story of Moni Mekhala Ream Eyso with this cultural legacy.  This is further compounded by the fact that we have a “complete blank” in Old Khmer literature which Saveros Pou accounts for:

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“Unlike short official texts which could be easily engraved on stone, the main literary works would have been copied down in large manuscripts made of perishable materials such as paper or palm-leaves, easily destroyed by the elements or through wars and battles accompanied by looting.”[49]

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To further complicate the issue, to my knowledge, for such an important drama, there are no known depictions of Moni Mekhala Ream Eyso on the reliefs of Angkorean temples.  However, this is not enough evidence to disassociate the dance drama from the era, as despite being father and mother of the Khmer people, to my knowledge, no images of Kampu and Mera are actually known to exist either—not from the Angkor period nor from the eras of Chenla and Nokor Phnom before.

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We do know however that Angkor was a religiously diverse society in which multiple forms of Buddhism held a place inside and outside of the palace.  Peter D. Shamrock notes how, from 1080 CE to 1270 CE—at the height of Angkor's power—five out of six kings were Buddhist.[49a]  Even the thirteenth-century Treatise on the Various Foreigners, a Chinese text, “mentions three hundred dancing girls responsible for offering food to the devoutly worshipped Buddha” at Angkor.[50]  So if we look closely then, we can find that Moni Mekhala Ream Eyso, as we know it as a dance drama, has its origins in the Khmer dance tradition.  Before I illustrate this though, it is important that I share a differing opinion.

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Dhanit Yupho, again from Classical Siamese Theatre, notes that the drama, “from ancient times . . . has served to introduce longer performances.”[51]  Yupho’s words hint at the dance work as a form of pure entertainment, one pre-existing more recent artistic creations of greater relevance to the Thai people.  This is in contrast to the drama in Cambodia, which, approximately two hours in length, is the climax of dance offerings during the buong suong ritual.  Yupho then contradicts himself by stating, “The words of the songs are from the version of the ‘Ramakian’ [Thai version of the Ramayana] composed by King Rama I, and the instrumental music for the dance was originally chosen for them by the Prince of Nakon Rajasima.”[52]  King Rama I, who began his reign in 1782—only 170 years prior to Yupho’s writing—hardly makes it into what we would call “ancient times.”

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He adds further, “There is also a minor addition to the story which says that, in fact, Ramasun [Khmer: Ream Eyso] wanted for himself only the person of Mekhala.  As for the gem, he had been ordered to take it to Phra In [Indra], the king of heaven.”[53]  This re-framing of the narrative, which posits Moni Mekhala as a thief who stole the crystal from Indra, is indicative of a cultural transition in which men were increasingly seen as more righteous, moral, and superior.  Today, in Thailand and Cambodia, this male-dominant philosophy is structurally enforced through Theravada Buddhism.  And in September 2015, for example, “rebel” female Thai monks made headlines as:

 

“Thailand's top Buddhist authority bars women from becoming monks.  They can only become white-cloaked nuns, who are routinely treated as domestic servants.  Many here believe women are inferior beings who had better perform plenty of good deeds to ensure they will be reborn as men [in order to attain enlightenment].”[54] 

 

This sentiment is hardly the case of the Khmer version of Moni Mekhala Ream Eyso, which more readily reflects how the “Mahayana branch of Buddhism practiced in East Asia [and formerly in Cambodia] has historically ordained women.”[55]  This is most evident in the name of the goddess, explored later.

 

In fact, the dance drama demonstrates a clear relationship to Robam Tamng Buon and tantric Buddhist ideas and practices.  The dance is performed annually during the New Year in an elaborate propitiation ceremony known as buong suong to induce the fall of rain.  As mentioned earlier, this is known as varsapanam and ativrstidharanam in the tantric conception.  Further, as mentioned above, Neak Kru Sophiline has associated Moni Mekhala with water, Vorachhun with earth, and Ream Eyso with fire.  This is a traditional association and I would add that the tevoda, the minor characters of the story who exist solely in the skies of heaven and symbolize clouds in the dance, represent wind.  These characters then represent the four essential elements and sacred directions of a cosmic mandala, all surrounding the central figure and knowledge of Lok Ta Moni Eisey.  In this regard, the story represents the chaos and conflict that ensues as power shifts to a new center.

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Although Moni Mekhala can be found in the Mahajanaka Jataka, where she is “a daughter of the gods . . . appointed guardian of the sea by the four guardians of the world,”[56] she plays an almost minor and “obscure” role by restoring the shipwrecked protagonist to his destination.[57]  This is in great contrast to Moni Mekhala in the Khmer dance drama—who is none other than goddess of the sea and master of lightning, the chosen leader of her teacher’s lineage, a feminine triumph in a masculine-dominated universe.  This powerful image of woman and womanhood has a clear place in the pre-classical and classical societies of Cambodia, from the commanding statue of the Lady of Koh Krieng to Neang Neak, female master of the land, to the thousands of tevoda and apsara and yogini flanking temple walls.  Furthermore, from history, we know that Queen Indradevi was celebrated as an educated woman who aided her husband in administering the kingdom.  It was she who composed the stele at Phimeanakas, which celebrated the life of her deceased sister Queen Jayarajadevi.  In addition to this, “Chinese writers praise[d] the women of Cambodia for their knowledge of astrology and government and say the women of the royal family sometimes held high political posts, including that of judge.”[58]  Finally, as larger testament to the relative importance of Khmer women, the whole of Khmer society was matrilineal: evidenced through the word me (mother, master, leader) and in the fact that Jayavarmann II was only able to unify the nation in 802 CE through a series of marriages.[59]

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So who is Moni Mekhala?  Apparently, she comes in multiple manifestations throughout the world.  Just like how other stories have been shared and localized, imbued with new meaning and transformed to fit the cultural values of each community and time, her story has undergone the same process.  Moni Mekhala Ream Eyso is a mixture of both indigenous and external narratives, character types, landscapes, and mores, shaped to fit the needs of the local, in this case Khmer, people.

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For example, Preah Thaong Neang Neak is nearly identical to the story of Toyotama-bime and Yamasachi-biko, which first appears in the eighth-century Kojiki and explains the origins of Japan’s imperial family.  Interestingly, relating to Moni Mekhala Ream Eyso, the latter describes how Yamasachi-biko was gifted tide-ebbing and tide-raising jewels by his sea deity father-in-law to subdue his brother Umisachi-biko. And, like Preah Thaong Neang Neak, the episode details the origins of certain forms of performance as “the various postures of [Umisachi-biko’s] drowning motions have been presented until today.” As we shall see, similar stories can be found in Indian and Javanese cultures, and even as far as the Caroline Islands and Pacific Northwest.[59a]  

 

Further cross-cultural connections can be found in the Khmer dance drama of Roeung Kailas, in which the daughters of the king of heaven descend upon our world using sbai that allow them to travel between heaven and earth.  While bathing in a river, the sbai of the youngest sister is stolen by a prince and her sisters are forced to leave her in lonesome abandon.  At this moment, the smitten prince approaches her and woos her, offers her the sbai and the chance to return.  But she chooses to stay and be his wife. 

​

In Japan, this archetypal narrative is given life in the popular Noh play Hagoromo.  In it, a tennyo—a celestial woman—descends upon the human world using the magic of a hagoromo or feathered plume.  While bathing in the river by moonlight, a fisherman steals her powerful garment.  She begs for its return, feeling her power and divinity drain from her being due to the human’s possession of the hagoromo.  He agrees to return it on the condition that she reveal to him the sacred dancing of heaven.  She does so after receiving the feathered plume, and disappears into the mist of night. 

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In both Cambodia and Japan, there are variations upon this story.  They are in fact an example of how Buddhist jataka mixed with local cultures and evolved into singular expressions taking the form of dance, theater, literature, and more.  Even today, these stories continue to be adapted and given new meaning and life.  The Japanese anime series Ayashi No Ceres is but one example.

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In the case of Moni Mekhala, we find many similarities in tantric Buddhist stories of Mahasiddha Mekhala from Tibet:

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“In Devikotta, an elderly widower was burdened with [two] unmarried daughters.  It wasn’t that bad, but the [two] girls were infamous for their playfulness and mischievous tricks.  Eventually the girls were married into a fisherman’s family, and miserable their husbands were.  Finally, the younger one suggested that they run away, but Mekhala, for the first time spoke wisely to her sister, ‘You know, I suspect that we deserve what we get.  We bring it on ourselves.  I hate to tell you this, but we’re going to have to stay – it isn’t going to be different anywhere else because we take ourselves with us.’

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At that very moment, the guru Krsnacarya passed by with 700 dakas and dakinis in attendance.  Impulsively, the sisters threw themselves at his feet and begged for his instruction.  Krsna gave them initiation and instructed them in the Vajra Varahi path that unites vision and action.

 

The [two] sisters meditated diligently for [twelve] years and successfully attained their goal.  They then decided to visit their guru and seek further instruction.  When they found him, they humbly prostrated themselves and walked about him in reverential circles.  The guru received them kindly, but it was quite obvious he did not know who they were.  The sisters then said they were the [two] unhappy married sisters that he initiated [twelve] years ago.

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The guru then bellowed, ‘If I gave you initiation, then why haven’t you brought me any offerings!’  In reply, the sisters said they were at his service and asked what the guru would like.  Krsnacarya said ‘Your heads!’  Without any hesitation, the sisters pulled a sword of pure awareness and decapitated themselves and as they made their offering to their guru, the severed heads sang a beautiful song for their guru.  Krsnacarya then replaced their heads perfectly and the sisters came to be known as the Headless Yoginis.

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In gratitude, the sisters knelt before their guru and touched his feet in reverence.  No sooner had they done so than they attained Mahamudra-siddhi.  For many years thereafter they worked selflessly for the benefit of all sentient beings and were assumed bodily into the Paradise of the Dakinis.”[60]

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Miranda Shaw recounts a slightly different version worth noting in which the guru did in fact know who the students were but wanted to test their devotion.  In addition to singing for the guru the sisters also “danced away and devoted the rest of their lives to liberating others.”[61]  Nonetheless, taking these two versions of the tale of Mekhala’s ascent as a mahasiddha, or a tantric practitioner who “embodies and cultivates the ‘siddhi of perfection’ . . . who through the practice of sadhana [ritual meditation], attains the realization of the siddhis, psychic and spiritual abilities and powers,” we will note striking similarities to the Khmer image of Moni Mekhala.[62]