Adultery The Swamiji: The Ashram of the Sacred Angels

[shailu4ever]

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As they neared the hall, Ahalya’s eyes were drawn upward, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to take in the full scope of the Ashram. The pillars stood tall, like silent sentinels, their intricate carvings softened by the dim light of early morning.
 
Lamps had been lit, their tiny flames dancing in the shadows, casting soft, flickering light on the stone. The air was filled with the faint smell of incense, the quiet scent of sandalwood and something sweet and herbal.
 
A sense of timelessness hung in the air, as if nothing in this place could be hurried, as if the world itself had agreed to slow down for just a moment.
 
Inside, the Sevakis had already arranged themselves in rows, sitting cross-legged, their hands folded in their laps, their bodies aligned with the silent rhythm of the Ashram.
 
It was instinctive, this quiet order, this graceful synchrony that seemed to pulse through them all. Ahalya found a place near the back, beside Kavya, who was sitting stiffly, her hands tightly clasped in her lap.
 
Her face was tight with uncertainty, her eyes flickering nervously over the rows of women who sat around her.
 
Ahalya glanced at her briefly and gave a small, reassuring smile. But even as her lips curled into the semblance of a smile, a strange weight settled in her chest. Was she reassuring Kavya, or was she reassuring herself?
 
Kavya’s eyes darted briefly toward Ahalya, then away.
 
"She looks like she might disappear if no one notices her," Ahalya thought, not unkindly.
 
The other three new girls sat nearby, one with long dark hair pulled too tightly back, her posture rigid with effort; another smaller, freckled, her lips pressed together as if holding something in; the youngest, barely eighteen, her knees drawn close, shoulders folded inward.
 
Five girls. All new. All watching.
 
Meera stood at the front, her presence commanding, yet calm, like the eye of a storm. Her hands were folded, her posture perfect. She waited, still as a statue, until the last of the footsteps settled, the hall filled with stillness. Then, without a word, she began.
 
“Morning is when we remember who we are not,” she said, her voice carrying easily in the vast silence. It wasn’t loud, but it filled the room with a presence all its own. 

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