Adultery The Swamiji

[shailu4ever]

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The audience, once a wave of unrelenting enthusiasm, fell into a stunned silence. Phones rose to capture the unfolding moment, yet the air felt too heavy, the moment too strange to be fully documented.
 
The cheer, which had once been deafening, collapsed into a terrifying quiet. 

The kind of silence that presses against your ears, a silence so heavy it feels like it’s pressing down on your very soul.
 
Then, the unthinkable happened.
 
Darkness. Not the kind of darkness that falls at the end of a performance, but something deeper.

Something thick, smothering, as if the very essence of the moment had been stolen away by some unseen force.
 
The smoke swallowed the stage, a void that seemed to consume all light, all sound, all presence.
 
Time stretched, and seconds felt like hours.
 
The phones of the audience flickered as they fought to capture what their eyes could not comprehend. Security personnel rushed toward the stage, their footsteps frantic, voices crackling in their radios.
 
But even they could not tear their eyes away from the growing mystery. The cameras zoomed in, capturing the moment as it unfolded, but it was clear: something had gone terribly wrong.
 
And then, as if by some cruel twist of fate, the smoke began to clear. The golden mist evaporated, revealing the stage in a stark, unnatural light. But the woman at the center of it was gone.
 
Kiara Rao, the dazzling, untouchable star, the voice of a generation, had disappeared without a trace.
 
Her microphone lay abandoned, still humming faintly, like the last echo of her presence. Her sequined jacket glittered in the spotlight, discarded on the stage floor like a forgotten relic. But Kiara? She was gone. Vanished.
 
For one long, breathless heartbeat, the entire stadium seemed to hold its collective breath, suspended in disbelief.
 
And then, like a dam breaking, panic erupted. Screams split the air, children cried, and fans scrambled toward the stage, hands outstretched, desperate to touch the place where she had been, to understand what had just occurred.
 
Security surged forward, struggling to restore order, but it was useless. The chaos was inevitable, unstoppable. The band fled in terror, their instruments left abandoned, forgotten.
 
The live feed captured it all. Across the country, millions watched, transfixed, as the impossible unfolded.
 
Kiara Rao had disappeared. And as the smoke dissolved into the night, the world was left with only one question: Where had she gone?
 
Within hours, every news outlet in the nation was ablaze with the headlines, Hyderabad’s Home Minister, gone without a trace, and Pune’s brightest star, vanished into thin air.
 
The stories, once worlds apart, now collided, two icons swallowed by a darkness that no one could explain. Two lives, fading into the same unspoken mystery, leaving behind nothing but questions.
 

-- oOo --

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[shailu4ever]

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Scene 28 – The Business Tycoon’s Jet – Delhi
 

Delhi, a city built on the power of its titans, glittered with its usual late-night brilliance.
 
By evening, the city’s vast avenues were drenched in the gold of streetlights, their rhythmic pulse in perfect harmony with the city’s ceaseless hum.
 
The embassies whispered in the cool night air, hosting their private, late receptions, while the private aviation terminal gleamed like a sanctuary for the few who commanded the skies.
 
Here, amidst the luxury of its marble-clad walls and the discreet hush of velvet-lined corridors, the world’s wealthiest and most influential men came and went with the kind of grace that only the privileged could ever know.
 
At the heart of this world stood one man.

 
Raghav Malhotra.

 
To speak of him was to speak of power itself, of empires built with steel and oil, of ports and satellites that spanned continents, of luxury hotels that bore his name and film studios that echoed with his influence.
 
His was a world of untold wealth, of unimaginable connections, a realm where his counsel was sought by political leaders from Delhi to Washington. Some called him ruthless, others called him visionary, but no one could deny his importance.
 
He was not simply the richest man in India; he was the man who defined what wealth meant.
 
The kind of wealth that didn’t just exist, it shaped the world around it.
 
Malhotra’s life was one of meticulous perfection.
 
His Savile Row suits were cut with surgical precision, his cologne from Parisian perfumeries bespoke elegance and opulence, while his Patek Philippe watch, its sapphire glint catching every ray of light, was synchronized with the very beat of his heart.
 
His presence in any room wasn’t just noticed; it commanded attention. When he entered, the world bent toward him. Every conversation, every glance, every action became a reflection of his will. To shake his hand was to grasp the pulse of an empire, cold, electrifying, and inevitable.
 
And tonight, after yet another negotiation swaying firmly in his favor in Dubai, he was coming home. Word had already leaked to the markets, and stocks tied to his empire surged, causing ripples in the international financial pool.
 
His aides stood waiting at the private terminal, discussing tomorrow’s announcements with practiced ease, while black Mercedes cars lined the tarmac, their engines purring with readiness.
 
A handful of journalists crouched at the barricades, their long lenses poised, eager for a single frame of the man who had shaped India’s skyline.

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[rajesh93]

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The Swamiji
 
They call him a saint.
They fear him as a god.
They obey him as a king.
 
In his ashrams, purity breaks, desire is reborn,
and sins hide beneath sandalwood and roses.
 
No minister, no devotee, no lover truly knows him.
This is the story of The Swamiji
the man whose silence can shatter empires.

Hi, Nice concept. I really enjoy stories with a backdrop of Swamiji, Baba, or Guruji in this erotic genre, great choice.  Sounds like the web series Ashram theme

[rajesh93]

That night, Rhea Malhotra was not just attending the awards.

 
She was the awards.

What a wonderful story! That scene felt so magnificent, truly rich and luxurious in detail.

[shailu4ever]

Hi, Nice concept. I really enjoy stories with a backdrop of Swamiji, Baba, or Guruji in this erotic genre, great choice.  Sounds like the web series Ashram theme

Hi Rajesh93

Good Evening to you.  Your message is the first message I saw today after I woke up.  Thank you very much.  While this thread has been getting dull and inactive, seeing your messages made me happy and energetic to share more updates.

Thank you so much for your feedback and for the timing. I’m really glad you enjoyed the concept. The backdrop of spiritual figures like Swamiji, Baba, or Guruji does create an intriguing setting, and I wanted to dive into that dynamic of spirituality and desire in a unique way.
 
I do appreciate the comparison to the Ashram series, but just to clarify, this story is completely different and not connected to that web series in any way. While both explore themes of power, influence, and human desires, my story takes a different approach and focuses more on the personal, emotional journeys of the characters involved.
 
Thanks again for your input, and I’m excited to hear your thoughts as the story progresses!
 
With warm regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

What a wonderful story! That scene felt so magnificent, truly rich and luxurious in detail.

Hi rajesh93

Thank you so much for your compliments,  I’m thrilled that you enjoyed the story and found the scene so rich and luxurious.
 
Your feedback inspires me to keep crafting moments that feel just as impactful and meaningful. 

I hope you continue to enjoy the rest of the journey!

With warm regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

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The private terminal itself was a testament to his world, a place where the line between luxury and necessity blurred into something almost sacred. Its Italian marble floors gleamed, veins of silver running through them like frozen rivers of liquid wealth.
 
Chandeliers of Bohemian crystal bathed the space in a warm, golden glow, casting long, elegant shadows over the sleek leather armchairs. The scent of aged oak lingered in the cigar lounge, an intoxicating promise of exclusivity.
 
Here, only the most powerful of men were allowed to breathe the rarefied air.
 
And outside, under towering floodlights, the magnificent Gulfstream G700, the very embodiment of Malhotra’s fortune, rolled to a stop, its white body gleaming under the lights like an ivory statue. 

Its tail bore the Malhotra Global crest: a stylized lion standing atop a globe, marking it as a vessel of his empire.
 
This was not simply a jet. It was a flying palace, adorned with Persian carpets, Lalique crystal, and custom Italian leather that seemed to echo with the imprint of its master’s form.
 
As the engines hummed their last note and fell silent, all eyes turned toward the staircase that would soon descend from the cabin door.
 
Tonight, like every night, the ritual was the same. Malhotra would appear first, always first. His tall figure, framed by the cabin’s dim light, descending with the casual grace of a man who was used to ruling the skies and everything beneath them. Behind him, his entourage: aides, assistants, bodyguards, careful not to outshine the master.
 
But tonight, something was wrong.
 
The door opened, but Malhotra did not appear.
 
Instead, the crew emerged first, his chief attendant descending the stairs with her hands folded stiffly before her, her smile too fixed, her eyes betraying something darker. Behind her came two stewards, their steps hesitant, unnervingly slow.
 
They avoided each other’s gaze, their faces pale, their hands clenching the railings in a way that seemed almost frantic.
 
A subtle ripple of unease spread through the reception line. His aides exchanged nervous glances. Journalists leaned forward, sensing the shift in the air. The black SUVs stood motionless, their headlights cutting sharp lines through the night, as if waiting for the inevitable.
 
Still, no Raghav Malhotra.
 
An aide broke rank, his steps fast, his breath shallow. 

He hurried up the stairs and disappeared into the belly of the jet. 

A minute passed, one heavy with an unnerving stillness. When the aide reappeared, his face had drained of color.

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[shailu4ever]

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His lips moved, but the words came out barely a whisper.
 
“He… he isn’t here.”
 
The words were incomprehensible at first. How could a man, a living titan, simply vanish from a plane? From the world? How could such a thing happen?
 
But disbelief was short-lived. It quickly curdled into something darker. Something more chilling.
 
Inside the jet, all seemed untouched. The luxurious cabin, a testament to Malhotra’s wealth, was as pristine as always.
 
A glass of Macallan sat on the armrest, a single bead of condensation tracing a path down the glass as though time had stopped, mocking the silence that had begun to suffocate the scene. 

A newspaper lay open on a headline about oil futures, a fountain pen balanced atop it.
 
His reading glasses, unmistakable to those who had worked with him, rested beside it, discarded but untouched. 

And the air, the air still smelled faintly of his signature cologne, the sharp notes of citrus and cedar clinging to the leather.
 
It was as though he had been there just moments ago. Paused mid-sip. Mid-thought. And yet, he was gone.
 
The pilot later swore that he had exchanged words with Malhotra after the descent, casual, simple words through the cabin intercom. 

The chief attendant insisted she had seen him stretch his legs in the aisle, his figure familiar and composed, a man at ease in his own world.
 
But when the CCTV footage from the cabin was leaked, something even more unsettling emerged: there he was, walking down the aisle, phone in hand, dictating notes with his usual calm authority.
 
And then, a flicker. A strange static. A white crackle.
 
When the footage resumed, the aisle was empty.
 
On the seat where Malhotra had last been, a single square of saffron cloth lay folded with the kind of precision that spoke to ritual. 

The color, bright and striking, glowed faintly under the cabin lights. It was as if the cloth itself had been placed there with the weight of meaning.
 
No one moved to touch it.
 
For long minutes, the aides, the crew, the security officers stood in silence, staring at the cloth. 

Its presence was like a strange omen, suffocating the space with its implications. They didn’t speak, as though the very air had thickened, demanding their attention, asking for an explanation they could not give.

.

[shailu4ever]

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Outside, the press began to sense the gravity before the words reached them.

 
They saw the aides running, the bodyguards huddling in urgent conversation, the chief of staff furiously pressing numbers into his phone.
 
Cameras zoomed in, their lenses desperate to capture every frame of the unfolding chaos. Within moments, the headlines spread like wildfire:
 
“India’s Wealthiest Man Vanishes Midair.”
 
The stock markets, still open overseas, shuddered.
 
In London, traders stared at screens flashing red, fingers trembling over keypads.
 
In Singapore, investors frantically dialed, their voices shaking with anxiety.
 
In Mumbai, futures tied to Malhotra Global froze, trapped in wild swings of uncertainty.
 
Television anchors fumbled through theories: kidnapping, assassination, corporate sabotage.
Was it the work of foreign operatives?
 
Rival tycoons?
 
Terrorists with an agenda?
 
Every theory crumbled under the weight of one inescapable truth: he had been there, and then, he was not.
 
Mumbai. Hyderabad. Pune. Delhi.
 
The Bollywood’s Most Beautiful Superstar. The Home Minister of Telangana. The Superstar of Indian Music. The India’s Top Business Tycoon.
 
Four figures, each an icon in their own right, vanished in the span of couple of days.
 
Four cities, one inexplicable force, and a nation left grasping for answers.
 
By midnight, India was in turmoil.
 
It wasn’t just the markets that trembled, it was the people. Mothers hushed their children, switching off the television to shield them from the unfolding nightmare.
 
Businessmen canceled flights. Politicians locked themselves behind iron gates.
 
And deep in the shadows of whispers, from temple to temple, from one WhatsApp group to the next, something far darker stirred.
 
A voice no one dared to speak aloud, an ancient fear, rising once again.
 
 

-- oOo --

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[shailu4ever]

Scene 29A – The Playback Singer’s Black SUV – Mumbai


 
Mumbai, a city that never sleeps, had long since shed its day-to-day fatigue. As the clock struck midnight, the metropolis shimmered under a blanket of humidity, an organism whose pulse quickened with every passing moment. The skyline, a jagged silhouette against the velvety night, gleamed with glassy arrogance, its reflections stretching across the wet streets like whispers of forgotten secrets.
 
The sea-face, still wet from the monsoon's kiss, murmured softly against the shore, as though in conversation with the winds. Even now, long past the hour when most would rest, the city hummed, a restless symphony of neon lights and distant echoes, a city alive with possibilities, as though the night were only just beginning.
 
At the heart of this living, breathing entity stood Oceanic Studios, a place as modest as it was legendary. From the outside, it was easy to miss: a simple cube of whitewashed walls, its palm tree leaning against the gate like an old, weathered sentinel.
 
Yet, to those who understood the pulse of the industry, this unassuming studio was sacred ground. Within these walls, blockbusters were born, songs immortalized, and legends created. The corridors were aglow with soft, ambient lighting, and the faint scent of strong coffee mixed with the residual warmth of hours spent in creative frenzy.
 
And in the center of it all, in a soundproof booth where the air still seemed to hum with her presence, lingered the voice that had defined an entire generation.
Anaya Sharma.
 
She was more than just a playback singer, Anaya was a national treasure. Her voice had become the soundtrack of modern India: the melody that accompanied weddings, the anthem that filled cricket stadiums, the lullaby that rocked newborns to sleep, the soundtrack to political rallies that echoed across the nation.
 
She had woven herself into the very fabric of the country, a voice that transcended music itself. Her range was legendary, velvety and tender in the quiet moments, sharp and commanding in her crescendos, fierce with passion, and poignant in her sorrow. To hear her was to be moved, to be transported into another world.
 
Her voice had been the heartbeat of a thousand film scores, the soul of countless performances. No actor dared to claim a performance was complete until her voice had graced it. Directors had built their careers around her, and fans had elevated her to near-divine status. She was raag ki devi, the goddess of melody, her artistry an emblem of a bygone era when music was an untouchable art form.
 
Tonight, after six grueling hours of recording takes, she emerged from the sound booth like a vision, a goddess stepping out of the tapestry of sound she had created. Her ivory silk kurta, embroidered with delicate gold vines, shimmered under the studio lights. A pale shawl dbangd effortlessly over her shoulders, while diamond studs sparkled against the soft glow, catching the light like fragments of the stars themselves.

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[shailu4ever]

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Fatigue seemed foreign to her, she moved with a quiet grace that suggested she was untouched by the long hours of work.
 
Her team, a close-knit family of musicians and technicians, stood around her, their eyes filled with admiration. 

The director, a man who had worked with the finest talents, clapped enthusiastically, his voice almost reverent. “Perfect. If this song doesn’t win awards, the awards themselves are unworthy.”
 
Anaya smiled, but it wasn’t the smile of an untouchable diva, it was the smile of someone who had seen it all, of someone who had chosen humility in a world that had tried to pedestal her. 

She bent down and signed sheet music for a young flautist, her fingers brushing against his in a gesture that felt like a blessing.
 
“Remember,” she whispered, her voice low and tender, “never sing for the spotlight. Sing for the silence inside you.”
 
She was, to them, both an untouchable icon and an elder sister, an embodiment of paradox.

Her voice had elevated her to celestial heights, but her kindness kept her grounded in the real world, within reach, human and untouchable all at once.
 
As the clock inched toward midnight, her usual driver messaged her, informing her that her Range Rover was waiting, idling in the street below. 

The paparazzi, ever present, lingered like shadows, adjusting their cameras in nervous anticipation.
 
Even in the simplest of shawls, Anaya Sharma was the headline.
 
She gathered her things, a soft murmur of goodbyes trailing behind her as she made her way toward the glass doors of the reception. 

But before stepping outside, she paused, just for a moment, her gaze lifting to the night beyond.
 
Through the glass, the Mumbai night stretched out before her, neon haze curling against the drizzle-dark streets, the pulse of the city humming, as always.

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[shailu4ever]

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Her lips parted, and with a voice that almost seemed to carry a note of nostalgia, she called softly, “Goodnight, everyone.” It was a simple farewell, yet somehow, it resonated, as though it too were a song, an elegy to an evening well-spent, a parting that echoed with both finality and a promise to return.
 
And then, the CCTV footage, later dissected frame by frame by every news channel, captured the moment.
 
Anaya stepped into the heavy air, her laughter, light and musical, floating above the sharp click of paparazzi cameras. 

She raised her hand, a radiant smile lighting her face as she waved toward the photographers. 

But then, inexplicably, something shifted. Her gaze drifted beyond the flashing bulbs, beyond the cameras and security guards.
 
Her expression softened, a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. It was the kind of look one reserved for someone familiar, someone trusted, a fleeting moment of quiet intimacy amidst the chaos of her world.
 
Her lips parted in a barely perceptible whisper, the words lost to the night air. A greeting? A name? No one could say. But whatever it was, it was something that no one could have anticipated.
 
Across the street, a black SUV sat, still and silent in the shadows. It was sleek, imposing, its tinted windows reflecting the soft glow of the streetlights, a creature of the night, mysterious and implacable. The engine hummed, a faint sound, barely a whisper.
 
Its number plate gleamed faintly under the streetlight.

Later, it was discovered to be fake.
 
Without hesitation, Anaya walked toward the vehicle. 

A paparazzo, confused by her sudden change in direction, shouted, “Madam! Your car’s on the other side!” But Anaya didn’t respond. 

She moved with purpose, as though guided by some invisible hand, as though destiny itself had called her forward.
 
The rear door of the SUV opened. Anaya leaned in, her smile still radiant, warm, and almost knowing. 

She entered the vehicle, the door shutting behind her with a soft, deliberate click.
 
The SUV pulled away, gliding into the labyrinth of Bandra’s late-night traffic, vanishing as silently as it had appeared.
 
To the untrained eye, it seemed like nothing more than another celebrity stepping into a car. 

Yet, to those who would soon learn the truth, it was a moment that would become a cultural touchstone, a moment of disappearance, of something slipping away without explanation.

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[shailu4ever]

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Minutes later, Anaya’s Range Rover arrived. The driver honked, his confusion growing as guards informed him that Anaya had already left. 

The paparazzi, still processing the sight of her entering the wrong car, replayed their photos in disbelief. "She… she got into a car, but not this one."
 
At 1:30 a.m., her manager’s frantic voice broke through the stillness of the night. “Which car? With whom?”
 
By dawn, India awoke to breaking headlines:
"Bollywood’s Nightingale Anaya Sharma Vanishes in Black SUV."
 
The security officer had already begun their investigation, scouring every frame of footage, combing through every lead. 

The SUV’s fake license plate was traced to a dead registry entry. 

Traffic cameras showed no such vehicle on Bandra’s roads. It was as if the car had simply dissolved into the night itself, leaving no trace behind.
 
By 6 a.m., as the monsoon winds swept the streets, the studio's old watchman noticed something strange. At eye level, tied neatly to the iron gate, fluttered a saffron thread. Delicate yet deliberate, its knot too precise to be accidental.
 
The watchman swore it hadn’t been there just moments before. The security footage confirmed his memory, the thread had appeared out of nowhere, hanging in the breeze like a silent witness.
 
With a whisper of prayer, the watchman stepped back, the weight of the moment pressing on him. Later, he would say that the thread didn’t feel like a blessing. It felt like a warning.
 
And in the hours that followed, as the nation grappled with the disappearance of Anaya Sharma, the weight of the inexplicable grew.
 
Television channels suspended all programming, looping her songs as anchors wept on air. Crowds gathered outside her mansion, chanting her name, singing her songs.
 
The music industry, the very heart of Bollywood, spiraled into an unprecedented silence. 

Young playback singers refused to step into the studios. “If Anaya-ji can vanish like this,” one whispered, “what safety is there for us?”
 
Across India, WhatsApp groups buzzed with theories, abduction, sabotage, foreign agents, lovers’ kidnappings. Yet, none of these explanations could account for the saffron thread.
 
And in the halls of power, beneath the fervent discussions and hostile demands for answers, a singular truth began to emerge.
 
The Bollywood’s Most Beautiful Superstar had vanished. The Home Minister of Telangana had vanished.
 
The Superstar of Indian Music in Pune had vanished. The Billionaire Tycoon in Delhi had vanished.
 
Coincidence was no longer possible.

-- oOo --

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[Prakash1986]

The Vanishing act scene is well written. The attention for the details is awesome.

Great Job Shailu

[shailu4ever]

The Vanishing act scene is well written. The attention for the details is awesome.

Great Job Shailu

Hi Prakash1986 sir

Thank you very much for your encouraging words. That means a lot to me.

Hopefully you will like the new updates I gave.

Thank you once again for your support.

Best regards

-- Shailu

[masti.bhai]

Hi, Nice concept. I really enjoy stories with a backdrop of Swamiji, Baba, or Guruji in this erotic genre, great choice.  Sounds like the web series Ashram theme

Me too. I have sleeveless and underarm fetish. Please ? include whenever you can. You don't lose anything

[shailu4ever]

Me too. I have sleeveless and underarm fetish. Please ? include whenever you can. You don't lose anything

Hi masti.bhai

Thank you for your message.  Sure, you will see that coming in the update coming scenes.

Really appreciate your continued support.

Best regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

Scene 29B – A Nation Trembles



India had always been a land steeped in mysteries. From saints who levitated in temples to fakirs who walked barefoot through fire, the subcontinent had long been a cradle for the inexplicable, the mystical.
 
This was a place where the divine and earthly often brushed against each other, where miracles seemed as natural as the dawn.
 
It was a nation defined by the unexplained, by the folklore that made believers of skeptics, and dreamers of the practical.
 
But now… this was different.
 
It began on the red carpet in Mumbai. Rhea Kapoor, the darling of Bollywood, the face that graced every magazine cover, stepped into the flashing lights and was swallowed whole by them. She never emerged on the other side. At first, the crowd laughed, was it a stunt? A scandal? An affair, perhaps? “Actors,” they scoffed, “they live for drama.”

But the laughter withered, fading into an unease that no one could quite name.
 
Hours later, the next blow fell. The Home Minister of Telangana, Aarav Kapoor, who had been addressing the nation live, resigned mid-sentence, his voice dying on air. The camera lingered on an empty podium, a lingering silence as his phone, his briefcase, and, strangely, a single bead of saffron rolled across the podium like a sign.
 
A symbol of something unraveling. But, as with Rhea’s disappearance, people shrugged it off. Politics. Who could ever truly understand it?
 
 
Then came the third vanishing. Kiara Rao, pop music’s reigning goddess, the voice that had filled stadiums and hearts across the nation, simply dissolved into smoke on stage. A crowd of fifty thousand eyes swore she had been there one second and gone the next.
 
The air shifted, the speakers hummed with something ancient and unsettling, and then, silence. As if the world had simply paused. The footage looped on every screen. The nation watched, transfixed, as the image branded itself into their consciousness, a scar of something unknowable.
 
The fourth disappearance, Raj Malhotra, the patriarch of Delhi’s billion-dollar empire, vanished mid-flight, leaving behind nothing but the haunting image of a folded saffron cloth. Panic, subtle at first, began to take hold.
 
The stock markets trembled, shuddering as though the very ground beneath them had given way. Men in tailored suits whispered prayers beneath their breath, their eyes darting nervously across sleek boardrooms.

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[shailu4ever]

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An unspoken truth spread like wildfire through embassies, offices, and private jets: something far darker was at play.

 
Then came Anaya Sharma. The nation’s beloved nightingale, the voice that had shaped an era of Bollywood. She vanished into the night, swallowed whole by a black SUV. Her last known location: Oceanic Studios.
 
Her last known gesture: a smile, a wave, and a nod toward some unseen presence that seemed to beckon her into the shadows. The security officer found no trace of the vehicle.
 
No records, no leads, just the haunting image of a saffron thread tied to the studio’s gate at dawn, fluttering softly in the wind.
 
A mark left behind by something passing through, leaving behind nothing but the faintest trace.
 
By now, the veil of coincidence had been torn apart.
 
Five vanishings. Five cities. Five lives that had touched every corner of India, cinema, politics, business, music, and stardom. Each one swept away, not with violence, not with ransom demands or blood-soaked headlines, but with the eerie, suffocating silence. Silence and saffron. A complete absence so profound, it consumed every breath, every thought, every fear.
 
The nation convulsed. Television channels, once the playground for sensationalism, turned into battlegrounds. Retired security officer chiefs barked out warnings about sleeper cells. Psychologists fumbled with theories of mass hysteria. Anchors screamed, their voices raw, accusing one another of treason or lunacy. But amidst the noise, there was only one question that hung like a suffocating fog over the entire nation: Where are they?
 
On the streets, rumors became gospel. In Lucknow, tea shops turned into gathering places for the devout and the curious. Men swore they had seen a saffron-robed figure walk across the Gomti River, his feet barely touching the water.
 
In Kerala, priests warned devotees to avoid chanting strange syllables that had entered their dreams in the dead of night.
 
In Varanasi, the city of death, saffron threads began to appear on lamp posts, railings, and temple steps every morning, delicate and deliberate, tied by hands no one saw. What had once been mysticism now threatened to consume the nation whole.
 
The stock markets reeled. Film producers froze their projects. Musicians locked away half-finished albums, too fearful to record another note. Advertising firms pulled down posters of vanished stars, only for pirated images to appear overnight, worshipped by the public with flowers, as if the missing figures had transcended the mortal realm.

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[shailu4ever]

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In Parliament, the opposition screamed of incompetence, while the ruling party blamed foreign hands, whispering of intelligence failures, terrorism, and forces unknown. But beneath the shouting, beneath the vitriol, there was something far more chilling: a vacuum, a silence so profound it felt as if the nation had been held in the grip of a collective breath.
 
Even the Prime Minister, a man of unmatched strength, disappeared from view for days. His absence ignited endless speculation. Was he hiding? Was he part of it all? Or was he simply afraid?
 
But the true earthquake, the one that shook the very foundation of the country, wasn’t in politics, nor business, nor entertainment. It had struck the human heart.
 
Parents pulled their children indoors at dusk. Mothers stopped telling stories of heroes, of legends, afraid of what those tales might bring. Elderly women, once so reverent when speaking of Swamiji, now whispered his name only in the safety of their prayer rooms.
 
Bollywood gossip, once the lifeblood of social circles, vanished overnight. Even the tabloids, in their panic, began printing verses from the Gita, their pages a poor cover for the fear creeping through the country like a silent shadow.
 
And then… the legend began to crystallize.
 
Some said Swamiji had returned. That he had come to cleanse India of its corruption, its greed, and its immorality. Others whispered that he was gathering chosen disciples, handpicked for a mission no one could understand. There were rumors that the disappeared had prayed for him, had sought him out, and that he had answered.
 
In Delhi, graffiti appeared overnight on crumbling walls, quick strokes of saffron, forming the silhouette of a man in meditation, head bowed, hands folded in prayer. No one saw the artists. No one erased the markings.
 
In Mumbai, a woman claimed her baby stopped crying the moment she hummed the chant heard on Kiara Rao’s stage. In Kolkata, an old professor, trembling with both fear and excitement, wrote in his journal: “Myth has entered reality. We are living inside a scripture being written before our eyes.”
 
Five vanishings. Five offerings, whispered in dark corners. Five chosen, others claimed.
 
Now, in every home across India, there was a question too heavy to voice. Who will be next?
 
And across the vastness of the subcontinent, from the high mountain shrines to the slums by the sea, from glittering penthouses to humble temple courtyards, an unseen presence seemed to breathe with the nation. A presence unnamed, unclaimed, unstoppable.
 
As the days passed, the saffron threads began to multiply, appearing in the most unlikely places. Tied to railings at train stations, fluttering on trees by highways, and knotted around doorknobs of abandoned homes.
 
Some claimed it was a symbol of Swamiji’s return. Others feared it marked the gathering of something far darker, an unstoppable force emerging in silence.
 
India had always lived with mysteries, but now, it was a nation defined by them.

-- oOo --

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