Adultery The Swamiji

[shailu4ever]

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The Swamiji

Chapter 1 – The Red Carpet Vanishing

Scene 1 – Present Day, The Awards Night



Part 1 – The Opening

The Grand Imperial Hotel dominated Marine Drive like a palace carved from the dreams of Mumbai itself, a monument to ambition, opulence, and cinema. Its towering marble facade shimmered under the glow of thousands of golden lights, each perfectly angled to cast a soft halo across the carved arches and gilded reliefs.
 
From the street, it seemed less like a hotel and more like a living testament to the city’s love affair with film, a sacred temple where glamour and ambition collided in exquisite harmony. The terraces, lined with flowering gardens, overlooked the dark waters of the Arabian Sea, their blooms swaying gently in the humid breeze, as if bowing to the stories and secrets held within the walls below.
 
The city around it pulsed with anticipation. Marine Drive, slick from the monsoon, glimmered like a black mirror reflecting the skyscbangrs above, their lights twinkling in response to the excitement that radiated from the hotel. 

The air was thick with moisture and the intoxicating scent of night jasmine, carrying hints of wet earth and the subtle ozone of distant lightning, a residual mark of the day’s storm.
 
Streetlights flickered off puddles, casting fragments of gold and silver across the streets, and the hum of the city below rose in a measured crescendo, echoing the heartbeat of a city on the verge of spectacle.
 
Outside the Grand Imperial, the barricades held a living, writhing mass of anticipation. Fans pressed against the barriers, their faces alight with expectation. Some clutched dog-eared magazines, tattered photographs, and posters of stars long worshipped; others brandished smartphones and cameras, trying desperately to capture fleeting glimpses of fame.
 
Tourists, unfamiliar with the magnitude of the night, whispered to each other, eyes wide, their voices tinged with awe and curiosity. Every flash of the cameras created brief bursts of brilliance, illuminating faces, gowns, and tuxedos in a symphony of light and shadow, each image a fragment of a story yet to be told.
 
Security moved like a silent, invisible tide, black-suited figures flowing among the crowd with unseen precision, their earpieces buzzing softly, eyes scanning, recalculating. Each shift of a body, every glance, every whispered instruction seemed perfectly choreographed, holding back the tide of chaos with a subtle authority only those in power could wield.
 
The red carpet itself stretched ahead like a ribbon of molten velvet, glowing beneath the carefully placed spotlights. Each beam traced the path of anticipation, as though the air itself had been sculpted to guide the world’s gaze toward the Grand Imperial’s ornate doors.
 
Paparazzi crouched in calculated positions, their cameras aimed not just at faces but at moments that might never repeat, capturing sparks of glamour, tension, and beauty that hung in the humid night air.
 
Inside, the ballroom was a universe unto itself. Its ceilings soared into the shadows, festooned with chandeliers so vast and intricate that they seemed to carry the weight of history in their crystal droplets. 

The light fractured across marble floors, gilded arches, and silk gowns, creating a kaleidoscope of gold, amber, and rose tones, turning the ballroom into a living jewel.
 
Waiters glided through clusters of guests like shadows, their white-gloved hands balancing trays of champagne and exquisite canapés sculpted with the precision of a master craftsman. The aroma of saffron, rosewater, and freshly baked pastries mingled with the heady tang of imported cigars, producing a fragrance that was at once intoxicating and intoxicatingly expensive.

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