Adultery The Swamiji

[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.

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