Brahma was not aware of the divine Mohini’s barroom debaucheries. He was absorbed in rejection. Shoot myself, he thought. But the editor would be alive. Shoot the editor. What was the use of that? He remembered the demon who grew a new head every time the standing one was chopped. Ahem, said the Goddess of Retribution, as she swung with her axe. The head rolled off and was replaced by another with a lurid grin. And so it went. Hundreds upon hundreds of heads. Each with a gaudy smile lying hacked in a pile. Brahma forgot the end of that story.
Moon on Mandara appears to be an unpublished fiction. A novel: not so much.