Adultery The Swamiji: The Ashram of the Sacred Angels

[shailu4ever]

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At times, she would glance nervously at Ahalya, as though searching for reassurance, but Ahalya didn’t know how to offer it. She could feel the tension in Kavya, but the Ashram’s rhythm had already begun to wrap itself around her, and she didn’t know how to break it.
 
After four days, Meera pulled Kavya aside. Ahalya didn’t hear what was said, but when Kavya returned to the garden, her eyes were red, her face drawn tight with something unspoken.
 
Her movements were no longer as erratic, but there was a stiffness to her work now, a forced compliance that looked like obedience but felt like resistance barely contained.
 
She worked in silence, her shoulders hunched, eyes lowered, and Ahalya could sense the turbulence within her. There was no grace in her now, just the heavy rhythm of someone trying to hold onto control, unwilling to fully surrender to the silence of the Ashram.
 
Ahalya caught herself wondering if Kavya would ever find peace here. Would the Ashram’s quiet rhythm be enough to soften her, or would she always struggle, trapped in the whirlwind of her own thoughts?
 
Ahalya could sense the subtle tension in Kavya’s body, the way she pressed her lips together, fighting against something invisible, something she couldn’t name. There was no place for words here, only action, and Ahalya could see that Kavya hadn’t yet learned that.
 
Ahalya wanted to ask if Kavya was all right, to reach out, but by now, the Ashram's rhythms had already begun to work on her. Speaking felt like a disruption, like the flow of energy would be interrupted by the smallest ripple of sound.
 
Questions felt like ego, a noise that would disturb the deep quiet she was learning to hold.
 
She stayed silent, feeling the pull of the work, the cool earth under her fingers, the way the sun began to climb higher, warming her skin as she returned to the weeding. Each plant she pulled, each leaf she trimmed, was a small act of surrender, of giving in to the moment.
 
In the silence of the garden, Ahalya became more and more aware of how her body moved with the rhythm of the place, how her muscles flexed when she bent down, the smooth stretch of her arms as she reached for a weed.
 
The faintest sheen of sweat began to form on her skin, but it didn’t feel like discomfort; it felt like part of the process, a subtle offering to the task at hand.
 
Her body, like the others around her, was starting to blend into the natural rhythm of the Ashram, as though she, too, was becoming one with the earth beneath her feet.
 
The days were no longer a series of motions to be endured, but a slow dance, every moment a step in the direction of something deeper, something more true.
 
She didn’t have to ask herself what came next. In the Ashram, the answer was always the same: what comes next is always now.

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