Once upon a time, long long ago in some ancient land where magic was still possible and gods actually listened to their people, there lived a very lonely, very stupid man. He was a sculptor by trade and by passion (thus his stupidity. When he was supposed to be learning math or history or science, he was too busy doodling naked women in the margins of his homework.) Anyway, this perverted little boy grew up to become the aforementioned sculptor, and his talent earned him such esteem that kings from all over the world (except for the areas that hadn't been "discovered" by white people yet) summoned him and commissioned him to create statues of them or their wives.

As such, our sculptor spent much of his youth and even his middle years engaged in his work. Although he enjoyed the company of many kings and their courts, he grew lonely, and many times a day, his thoughts turned toward an ideal partner for himself. He eventually voiced his lament to some of his dearest friends, and they scoured the country trying to find a suitable match for this Pygmalion. Alas, none of the women presented to our sculptor were beautiful enough to appease the demands of his aesthetic ideals (He was, after all, an artist.) He rejected them one by one for being "too fat," or "too thin;" the luckier ones were "eh, just pretty" and none of his friends could persuade him of their other virtues.

As he grew restless and depressed, his friends urged him to take some time off and return to his home and focus on his own pleasures. He took heed of their advice and, within a fortnight, he had made arrangements to go home. As he mounted his buggy or chariot (whatever vehicle they had back then) and bade his friends farewell, one of them joked that he should return within a month with a sculpture of his ideal woman and that they would find her for him.

Now at leisure, our artist, who rather fancied the idea but considered it impossible, found himself chiseling away at a rather appealing piece of stone. Day by day, it grew smoother and shapelier, and finally one day, he stepped back in amazement to find that he had created the image of his dreams. At once, he fell to knees and implored the gods to breathe life into his creation, to turn stone to flesh. For weeks, he didn't move from that position (not even to go to the bathroom.)

When at last the gods were kind enough (or annoyed enough) to give in to his pleas, one of them descended from the heavens (where he had been losing at his poker game anyway) and exhaled in the face of the statue. Suddenly the cold white marble warmed up and flushed a deep golden brown, and the cold white pupils were suddenly swept by a wash of black. They turned to stare at the sculptor who was still kneeling in supplication. When he felt a warm hand upon his shoulder, he jumped back with alarm, but when he looked up to see his beloved, he cried tears of joy. He grasped her hands and told her how much he loved her, how she was more beautiful that he could have ever imagined, and begged her to stay and be his wife.

The (former) statue stared at him for a second or two, absorbing his balding pate, his weak, petulant mouth, his soft second chin, his dirty hands, his greedy eyes and his stained pants. She recoiled from him in disgust and horror and fled screaming from the room never to be seen again.

Moral of the story: Be sure you are worthy of your own ideals.

This story appeared on January 18, 2001 in Minnesota Daily Online.

The author, Jasleen Modi, is a senior in philosophy. She welcomes comments at modi0007@tc.umn.edu. Send letters to the editor to letters@daily.umn.edu