Adultery The Swamiji

[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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