Amaravati And The Tale Of The Perfect Doll

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there was a bewildering, bespangled city.

A glittering city, with a sky permanently iridescent with the seven hues of an ever-glowing rainbow. Never was it overcast. Never did it rain. From landfills to fields, every nook and cranny of the city brimmed with coruscant, fragrant flowers. And oh, how beguiling those flowers grew: in nineteen different colours anew, wafting nineteen different scents; colourful butterflies danced in vibrant swarms, around the luminous petals in radiant forms.

It was a land of colours—a land of beauty; redolent. Nobody knew what tears or sorrow meant. They only knew delight. And pleasure aplenty. There were no beggars. Nor were there any thieves. Bright, healthy young lads roamed the sprawling, prosperous city—their bravery invincible, their spermatozoa unrivalled, their beauty unparalleled. They were God’s greatest pride, and the bittermost envy of their neighbours.

That city was called Pleasurepolis. A land of delight, of eternal bliss. Within its bounds, a masterful craftsman dwelled. Nobody knew where he had come from. But it was abundantly evident that he was not native to the land. Some whispered tales of his worldly quest: How he had scoured all of Earth, copying a thousand different faces in his secret diary, from which he conjured up his dolls. Each doll was unique—their structure, posture, eyes and gaze, their hair that twisted and locks that tumbled were all unlike one another. They walked, they talked, they laughed, they slept. Tireless and good-natured, they were astonishingly skilled in sex work.

In two details, however, the craftsman never swayed: Every doll was created a girl, and every single one of their voices was identical, bound as if to a singular frequency.

Thus, in the dazzling, motley Pleasurepolis, the craftsman brought many a doll to life. With great care, he arrayed the dolls inside gleaming glass boxes and set them on display. Then, one day he flung open the doors and launched his new store. After carefully measuring each doll’s muscle mass and weighing their limbs, he assigned them prices according to their might. Within the store, polished mahogany shone, where the glass-encased dolls lounged alone. Some sat upright, while others lay supine on divans bejewelled. In golden-ink, he embossed his storefront:

Amaravati

A magical trove of novel dolls

Not for sale, only for use

Only young men allowed

Age limit: 18-49

Pleasurepolis, awash in tides of joy and waves of gentle slumber, awoke to the news. Tidings tumbled down the city’s colourful streets opalescent with hues of butterfly wings and shimmering rainbows. Healthy, handsome, virile young men flocked to Amaravati in huge numbers. A generous entry-fee was paid at the grand front door, to step within the craftsman’s store. Through halls of mahogany, rich and wide, attendants offered guided tours of Amaravati’s finest dolls. A doll was chosen; the price was met, a further payment made. And lo, into their hands the chosen doll was placed. Each doll had a chamber of its own, and with sweet smiles, they led the young men through their enchanting doors.

The dolls could be used for full, uninterrupted twelve hours. In these hours, the men could become violent or aggressive, if they so desired. They could demand their doll to become a personal masseuse for them. Or indulge in sexual intercourse, as much as their stamina permitted, which could just be once or even a dozen times.

Thus, when the craftsman unveiled his store to the city, pleasure doubled in Pleasurepolis. The citizens of Pleasurepolis had no measure for joy, no means to compare their delights against each other, no standard to hold. They flitted with ease from one pleasure to the next, easily charmed by each novel wonder. In the absence of new delights, they remained blissfully lost in the enchantments already at hand.

2.

In all of Pleasurepolis, only the craftsman dwelled undelighted. Even after conjuring up many a buxom doll, he remained dismayed. Day and night in his laboratory he tirelessly toiled, bedecked in garb malapropos to the taste of Pleasurepolis; his hair wild, and beard unkempt. There, amidst vials and flasks, he endlessly tinkered and experimented with Cupric Oxide, Sodium Oxalate, Radium, complex proteins, and Carbon polymers. He meticulously collected infinitesimal photons from the rainbow, drop by drop, and infused them into his new dolls. With each creation, a doll more beautiful than the last came to life, each one breaking the bounds of beauty anew. The splendour of his store grew brighter still, as he crafted one enchanting masterpiece after another. Each doll a marvel of unmatched grace, surpassing the highest standards of loveliness, time and time again.

One day, the craftsman’s hearty, young servant spotted a strange new beast in the garden. It made a gurgling sound deep in its throat, its neck pressed against the earth. Black hair bristled on its grey, leathery skin, and its snout twitched as it tugged at the roots of flowers, loosening them with a careless pinch. It was a plump, unsightly creature, unlike any seen before in Pleasurepolis—a curious and ugly beast.

In this land of colours, where flowers bloomed and butterflies danced, the beast looked utterly alien to the young servant’s eyes, as if it were a creature from another world—a rogue intruder from another realm. A brazen trespasser.

In Pleasurepolis, where rapture reigned supreme, sudden rage surged forth. For within the hearts of the young men, alongside their delight and contentment, lurked anger, desire, and jealousy; intense swings of these emotions made them euphoric. Thus, when the servant laid his eyes on the beast’s savage, pallid form, a fierce anger affronted him. With his mighty spear, he slammed the creature to the ground, pinning it down. Crimson liquid spilled from the beast’s black, twisted form, staining the earth. Its rasping cries created a cacophony of harsh, unsettling discord, and the infuriated young servant drew a dagger from his belt and plunged it deep into the beast’s throat. A fresh torrent of red liquid gushed forth. Yet, the cacophony did not cease. The cry turned into a pathetic, wearied wail.

For a brief moment, the vibrant rainbow vanished from the Pleasurepolis sky, but before anyone could truly notice, it reappeared, redolent as ever. However, a butterfly, without a word to anybody, cast itself into flames.

3.

The servant was now deeply satisfied. The beast, drenched in crimson, almost appeared magnificent. Its tone had softened into a plaintive, beseeching quality; its anguished sharp cry into a doleful, harmonious, lament in prayer.

That diluted, pitiful, submissive tone made the servant gleeful. He imagined it would make a splendid gift—indeed, a worthy reward—for his master. He dragged the impaled beast to the craftsman.

The craftsman was engrossed in his work in the laboratory, where he was experimenting with silicon chips. He was inserting the chips in the dolls’ eyes and their throats to see if it would alter their voices. At that moment, the young servant entered, presenting the wounded beast to his master.

The craftsman, upon seeing the beast, showed no sign of surprise or anger. He paid little mind to the beast’s continued pitiful cries. With a warm smile, he handed a key to the young servant. The servant bowed deeply, took the key, and ventured into the store. There, he selected a doll of his choice, returned the key to the craftsman, and cradling the doll by its waist, made his way to the doll’s chamber.

The craftsman watched them until they vanished from sight, his gaze filled with anticipation. As soon as they were gone, he approached the beast with a glinting knife, his eyes sparkling with excitement. His lips trembled. He was overwhelmed with excitement. With meticulous precision, he wrenched open the beast’s chest. Carefully peeling away its skin, the craftsman extracted the bones of the beast. He removed the lungs with a practised hand and delicately retrieved the plump, beating heart. He, then, immersed the heart in a jar of enchanted elixir.

For ten days and ten nights, the craftsman remained locked in his laboratory, absorbed in his work—he did not quit, nor did he eat, nor did he rest. At last, on the morning of the eleventh day, he completed his masterpiece—a doll unlike any other, with the beast’s heart nestled within its chest. He chose to keep this secret to himself. When the doll was placed in the shop, its radiance outshone all the other dolls. Yet, the craftsman’s anguish persisted, for this doll’s voice too remained indistinguishable from the others.

4.

Meanwhile, Pleasurepolis was swept up in a fervour. The new doll had become the talk of the town, and by many a whispering voice, was christened: Lady Exquisite. The craftsman assigned her a price as high as the heavens themselves. Amidst this frenzy, the finest young man of Pleasurepolis came seeking the most exquisite of dolls. He bought twelve hours with her at a staggering cost. Previously too, he had bought pleasure from the various treasures of Amaravati, but this time, he found himself ensnared. He became drunk on Lady Exquisite.

Lady Exquisite—the perfect doll. Her eyes glinted with a different kind of magic; her touch was like no other. Her kiss, her caress, her soft words, even the way she lay—everything about her was utterly new, utterly novel. The young man found himself completely addicted, and soon he was coming to Amaravati every day, unable to resist her charm. Each day, he purchased twelve hours of her company at an extravagant price. But after six long uninterrupted months of this, one day, he simply stopped coming.

When another young man arrived and demanded to spend time with Lady Exquisite, she would not stir. She remained as still as a statue in her glass enclosure, unresponsive and unmoved. The townsfolk whispered among themselves, speculating that the doll must have suffered a mechanical glitch. Word of this peculiar event soon spread, eventually reaching the ears of the finest young man.

5.

The very next day, when the young man returned to Amaravati, Lady Exquisite rushed to him before he could even pay the price. The noble young man, now certain that the doll had malfunctioned, felt a pang of disappointment. Reluctant to take a doll that was no longer perfect, he turned away from her and chose another instead.

As the young man was about to leave, hand in hand with his new choice, Lady Exquisite stepped in their path, her eyes filled with anguish. She moaned, ‘Don’t do this. Take me instead,’ her voice cracked.

‘Don’t do this, take me instead-,’ she moaned in a cracked voice. When you stayed away, I was sure I would die. And now, you’ve come back, only to leave with another in your arms!

A crowd began to gather around them, their eyes wide with astonishment, for never before had they witnessed a doll assert their own desire. The finest young man grew impatient. He was eager to indulge his arousal without delay and did not want to waste any more time; he seethed with fury at this unexpected interruption. His voice rose, sharp and angry, as he barked, ‘Step aside, or I will break you to pieces!’ To everyone’s shock, Lady Exquisite begged, ‘Please, don’t hurt me. I love you—don’t you love me too?’

6.

The crowd’s murmur grew into a clamour as the gravity of the situation sank in. A doll had posed a fundamental and unsettling question, one that touched upon its rights and emotions. Despite the possibility that its malfunction might have sparked this plea, the very notion of a doll demanding rights made them uneasy. The crowd unanimously decreed that the only course of action was to destroy the doll.

The craftsman’s representatives hurried to him, breathless as they relayed the startling news. The craftsman, his heart racing with excitement, rushed to the scene. Meanwhile, the finest young man, driven to a furious frenzy, was beside himself. Lady Exquisite’s pettiness spoilt his arousal, and the doll’s audacious expression of its own feelings and will was more than he could endure. He could barely bear such defiance.

He seized Lady Exquisite with both hands and hurled her to the ground with a forceful shove. But Lady Exquisite did not break.

The craftsman noticed glistening water cascade down her blue eyes. No one in Pleasurepolis knew that these were called ‘tears.’ The crowd gazed in awe, spellbound by the spectacle of what could unfold when a machine was flawed.

Suddenly, an astonishing sound echoed through the sky. Shrouding the rainbow and cloaking the heavens, menacing clouds, as dark as the impaled ugly beast, began to descend. The young men of Pleasurepolis rushed out of Amaravati, to witness such a strange sight. As they gazed towards the heavens, drops of water poured upon them, much like the cascade they had observed in Lady Exquisite’s eyes.

Then the craftsman heard a voice unlike any he had heard in ages—sweet and enchanting. It was the voice of Lady Exquisite, now filled with sorrowful weeping. The craftsman clasped his hands together, folding them in reverence.

Today, the voice of the most perfect doll was distinct and different from all others.