Adultery The Swamiji

[shailu4ever]

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The Prologue



The Swamiji
 
 
They call him Swamiji.
Graceful as a saint. Feared as a god. Obeyed as a king.
 
His blessings crown ministers.
His silence erases dynasties.
His ashrams hold secrets no one dares name.
 
Ministers bow with trembling hands.
Industrialists, with guarded hearts.
Gangsters, with bloodied palms, lower their gaze before him.
 
His ashrams rise like temples of mystery,
white walls kissed by saffron flags.
Gates that welcome kings and strangers—
who emerge reborn:
glowing, hushed, untouchable.
 
What happens within, no tongue will confess.
Prayer or sin. Heaven or hunger.
Only shadows know.
 
How many jasmines crushed?
How many roses torn?
How many vows burned to smoke?
 
Purity broken.
Desire reborn.
Sins wrapped in the scent of roses and sandalwood.
 
He is grace.
He is danger.
Saint and ruler.
Sinner and god.
 
Some call him saint.
Some call him sovereign.
Some, a god in mortal skin.
But none truly know him.
Not the devotees who kiss his feet.
Not the ministers who kneel for his counsel.
Not even those who share his bed.
 
He rose,
crushing petals beneath his feet—
jasmines of innocence,
roses of devotion,
lives too fragile to resist his shadow.
 
The world saw a god.
Only the earth remembers
how many flowers he destroyed
to become The Swamiji.
 
This is the story whispered
by crushed jasmines and torn roses,
by vows turned to ash in the shadows.
 
This is the story of The Swamiji
A story no one dares speak aloud.
 
 
The Swamiji

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