Adultery The Swamiji: The Ashram of the Sacred Angels

[shailu4ever]

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Ahalya reached down, the coolness of the earth against her fingers almost shocking. As her hands worked, pulling away weeds, a sense of something slow and meditative wrapped around her like a blanket.
 
But it was still work, labor, and soon Ahalya felt her back begin to ache. Sweat gathered at the edges of her brow, slipping down to mingle with the warmth already rising in the air. Heat pressed against her shoulders, her skin tingling beneath it.
 
She did not look at the others. She could feel the presence of the other new girls, but there was only the steady rhythm of movement, of hands in earth.
 
And the sound, soft rustling as hands moved through the plants, the gentle tugging of roots from soil, the distant hum of bees in the air. There were no words between them, no sound except for the quiet hum of their work, the breath of the earth.
 
The work was still, but it was also consuming.
 
After what felt like hours, the bell rang, its sound like a soft call, a ritual pause.
 
“We wash now,” Meera said, her voice drawing them from the garden as the others stood with unhurried ease.
 
They were led to the bathhouse, a simple structure made of stone and wood, open to the air. Water ran from bamboo pipes, filling large basins in the floor. The cool, clear liquid shimmered in the rising sun.
 
The air inside was fragrant with the scent of cedar and damp stone. The older Sevakis moved without hesitation, peeling away their clothing, the same quiet, practiced grace that Ahalya had already come to associate with them.
 
The other new girls followed, shedding their clothing without self-consciousness, as if it were as natural as the morning’s first breath. They were unburdened, their skin glowing faintly in the soft light, their bodies already becoming part of the rhythm of the Ashram.
 
Ahalya hesitated.
 
She had never been comfortable with her body, never been taught how to feel at ease in it. From childhood, it had been something to hide, to obscure, to shape into something less.
 
But now, here, in this place, there was an undeniable pull, the quiet invitation of shared vulnerability. The others were already moving toward the water, pouring cool streams of liquid over their heads, their skin slick with the sheen of the morning.

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