Adultery The Swamiji

[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.

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