Fantasy Cross Marriages within Family Season 2

[Mardanamaratha]

Chapter 3: Unfortunate Tragic Events

The six months that followed Guru Maa’s pronouncement were the quiet before the storm nobody saw coming.

At first everything felt suspended—tense, watchful, but still ordinary. Survati went to work every day in her blazers and heels, came home, shouted at Suresh about something trivial, and pretended the ashram visit had never happened. Suvrat kept his distance, showing up only for family functions where he stood at the edges, arms crossed, staring. Suritee and I tried to keep the house running normally, talking about work, avoiding the subject like it was a live wire. Even Jagdish and Surekha stayed away more than usual.

Then the deaths started.

First was Dadi—my grandmother. Seventy-seven, still walking to the market every morning with her cane, still insisting on making the morning chai herself. One evening in early August she cooked dinner—simple dal, rice, bhindi sabzi, the way she always did. We all ate together at the dining table; nothing tasted strange. She went to bed early, saying she felt a little tired. By morning she was gone. No struggle, no warning. The doctor who came said it was a massive heart attack in her sleep—peaceful, instantaneous. But Dadi had never had heart trouble. Not once. Dada sat on the floor beside her body for hours, whispering apologies to the photograph of Guru Maa’s mother that hung on the wall. Survati didn’t cry in front of anyone; she just stared at the wall until her eyes were red. The cremation was quiet. Nobody mentioned the dinner, but we all remembered it.

Less than two months later, my sister’s husband died.

He was thirty, healthy, worked in IT, jogged every evening. One Sunday night they came over for dinner—my sister had made paneer butter masala and everyone ate with the usual chatter. He laughed at something Suresh said, helped clear the plates, went home with my sister. The next morning she found him cold in bed. Again, heart failure. Sudden. No history of illness. The autopsy report said cardiac arrest, cause unknown. My sister sat on the floor of their flat for two days, refusing to eat, refusing to speak. When she finally looked up, her eyes were empty. “He ate the same food I did,” she kept whispering. “Why him? Why not me?” Survati drove to her house every day, sat silently beside her, but even she had no answers. The family started avoiding leftovers. Nobody said it out loud, but the question hung in every room: was something in the food?

Then, in January—barely six months after Dadi—the third death.

Suvrat’s wife.

She was twenty-eight, quiet, always in pastel sarees, never raised her voice. One Friday evening the whole extended family gathered at Jagdish’s house for a small get-together—nothing festive, just dinner to “normalize things” after the previous losses. Surekha had cooked mutton curry, rice, raita. Everyone ate. Suvrat’s wife smiled softly, served seconds to Jagdish, helped clear the table. She went to lie down early, complaining of a mild headache. By midnight she was gone. Same story: sudden cardiac arrest in sleep. No poison found, no infection, no blockage—nothing the doctors could explain. Suvrat didn’t cry at the funeral. He just stood there, fists clenched, staring at the pyre until the flames died down. When people offered condolences he only said one thing, over and over: “She ate what we all ate.”

Three deaths. Three dinners. Three perfectly healthy people gone in their sleep within six months.

No poison. No pattern the security officer could trace. No enemies anyone could name. Just… silence after the plates were cleared.

The family shattered in slow motion.

Dada stopped running. He sat in the courtyard every morning staring at Dadi’s empty chair, whispering to himself. My sister barely left her flat; she lost weight, stopped answering calls. Suritee started waking up crying in the night, convinced something was watching us. Survati—my mother, the woman who never bent—began chain-smoking on the balcony at 2 a.m., staring at the city lights like they might give her an answer. Suresh withdrew even further, if that was possible. Jagdish roared at everyone and no one, smashing a glass against the wall one evening because “someone must know something.” Suvrat grew quieter, darker—his usual swagger replaced by a simmering, dangerous stillness.

Nobody talked about coincidence anymore.

After the third death, the families did the only thing they still knew how to do.

They went to Guru Maa.

All of us—Survati driving with white knuckles again, Jagdish’s Innova packed with people, Dada insisting on coming despite barely being able to walk the path. We arrived at the ashram at dusk. The havan fire was already burning, blue smoke thick in the cold air. Guru Maa sat under the neem tree as always, eyes half-closed, waiting.

We sat in a ragged semicircle on the mats—old, young, broken, angry.

Nobody spoke first.

Guru Maa opened her eyes, looked at each face slowly, then folded her hands in her lap.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t offer comfort.

She simply said, in that soft, ash-falling voice:

“The planets are speaking. Loudly.”

And then she was silent again.

We waited.

We are still waiting.

Nobody has left the ashram yet.

Nobody knows what comes next.

But for the first time in three generations, the family that always obeyed her words is terrified of what those words might be.

Chapter 4: Shocking Solutions

We sat in that neem-shaded courtyard for what felt like hours—maybe it was. The havan fire crackled softly, but the air was heavy, thick with the scent of sandalwood and unspoken fear. Guru Maa didn’t rush. She never did. She closed her eyes, hands resting on her knees, face grim as stone. Her plump cheeks, usually soft and maternal, were drawn tight; her brow furrowed like she was wrestling with shadows only she could see. We waited—Survati rigid beside me, her Louboutin heels digging into the dirt mat like anchors; Suresh staring at his folded hands; Jagdish shifting impatiently, his thick mustache twitching; Surekha clutching her pallu; Suvrat leaning against a pillar, arms crossed but eyes darting; Suritee next to me, her hand cold in mine; my sister Sujani, hollow-eyed and silent since her husband’s death; even Dada (Surendra), frail and leaning on his cane, watching with the quiet resignation of someone who had lost too much already.

Finally, Guru Maa opened her eyes. They were darker than usual, polished onyx reflecting the dying firelight.

“The stars are in chaos,” she said, voice low and grave, like falling ash. “The marriages that have held this family together for generations… they will hold no longer. Planetary alignments have shifted. Rahu and Ketu devour the bonds. Saturn demands repayment. What worked before brings only poison now.”

A murmur rippled through us—soft, disbelieving gasps. Survati’s breath hitched; she leaned forward, silver bob swinging like a pendulum. “What do you mean, Guru Maa? The marriages… won’t work?”

Guru Maa nodded slowly, her expression unchanging, grim as a funeral rite. “They must be broken. Dissolved. The unions are cursed. To save the family—to stop the deaths—you must remarry. New bonds, new alignments, or the shadows will claim more.”

The courtyard spun. Broken? Dissolved? Jagdish’s face turned red; he slammed a fist into his palm, mustache quivering. “Broken? My marriage? Thirty years with Surekha—gone? Just like that? Guru Maa, this can’t be—” His voice cracked, the big man suddenly small, eyes wide with shock.

Surekha let out a small sob, hand flying to her mouth, pallu slipping to reveal a sliver of her conservative saree. “No… please… what have we done to deserve this?”

Sujani—my sister, already widowed, her single plait hanging limp down her back—stared blankly, as if the words were rain on glass. But her hands trembled in her lap, knuckles white. Dada gripped his cane tighter, whispering something under his breath—a prayer, maybe, or a curse.

Suritee squeezed my hand so hard it hurt, her hourglass figure tense beside me, shoulder-length hair falling across her face like a veil. “Guru Maa… all of us? Even… even Aadesh and me?” Her voice was small, disbelieving, the ambitious woman who idolized Survati suddenly reduced to a whisper.

Guru Maa raised a hand, silencing the rising chaos. “All. The curse touches every bond. But the planets bind these two families together. The remarriages must stay within—crossing bloodlines, mending the rift. No outsiders. The stars demand it.”

Dumbfounded doesn’t begin to cover it. Survati’s face drained of color, her confident VP mask cracking for the first time I’d ever seen—eyes wide, mouth parted in silent horror. Suresh just sat there, blinking slowly, as if the words were in a language he didn’t speak. Suvrat’s arms uncrossed; he stepped forward, muscles bulging under his shirt, face twisting into something between rage and disbelief. “Remarry? Within families? Guru Maa, this is madness—”

But Guru Maa was already moving. She reached into the folds of her saffron robes and pulled out a worn deck of tarot cards—edges frayed, colors faded from years of use. She shuffled them slowly, deliberately, the sound like dry leaves scbanging stone. Her grim expression deepened, lips pressed thin. “The cards will show what the planets want. No arguments. Each of you—pick one. Face down. The symbols will pair you.”

We obeyed—because what else could we do? The air felt electric, charged with turmoil. One by one, we leaned forward, hands shaking, and drew a card from the fanned deck in her plump hands. Survati’s fingers trembled as she picked hers, her red-thread bracelet catching the firelight. Suresh fumbled his, nearly dropping it. Jagdish snatched his like it burned. Surekha’s hand hovered before selecting, tears streaming silently. Sujani moved like a ghost, her petite frame hunched. Suritee glanced at me, eyes wide with fear, before drawing. Suvrat took his last, mustache twitching, a savage glint in his eye. Even Dada, with his cane propped, reached out with gnarled fingers.

Guru Maa collected the cards, laid them out in a row on the white sheet before her. She flipped them one by one—slow, ritualistic, her voice intoning the symbols as they appeared.

“The Wheel of Fortune… The Tower… The Lovers… Death… The Star… The Moon… The Sun… The Chariot… The Empress…”

Then she paused, grim face unchanging, and grouped them by matching symbols—pairs the stars supposedly demanded.

“Suresh,” she said, pointing to a card with a swirling wheel. “And Surekha. The Wheel of Fortune binds you.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Suresh’s head jerked up. His mild, perpetually defeated eyes widened in pure, childlike terror. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, face turning ashen. “Me… with Surekha ji?” The words came out as a hoarse whisper, barely audible. He looked at Jagdish—his lifelong rival, the man who had always looked down on him—then at Surekha, whose conservative saree suddenly seemed too thin a shield. Surekha’s hand flew to her chest; her pallu slipped further, exposing the soft curve of her collarbone she always hid. A strangled sob escaped her. “No… Suresh ji… I… I can’t…” Her voice broke into heaving, silent tears, shoulders shaking violently. The age gap, the decades of quiet hostility between the two households, the sheer wrongness of it—it landed like a physical blow. Jagdish stared at them both, face purple, veins bulging at his temples, unable to speak.

Guru Maa continued, unflinching. “Jagdish. And Sujani. The Tower unites you in destruction and rebirth.”

Jagdish exploded.

He surged to his feet, broad shoulders heaving, mustache quivering with rage. “The girl?! My daughter-in-law’s little sister?! She’s barely out of her twenties—I’m old enough to be her father!” His roar echoed off the ashram walls; spit flew from his lips. “This is blasphemy! This is—” He turned to Sujani, eyes wild with disbelief and something darker—shame, maybe, or forbidden hunger he refused to acknowledge. Sujani recoiled as if slapped. Her petite body curled inward, single plait swinging like a pendulum of grief. Fresh tears streamed down her face; she shook her head violently, voice cracking into a whisper-scream: “No… please… not him… not Uncle Jagdish… I can’t… I won’t survive this…” Her hands clawed at her dupatta, knuckles white, body trembling so hard she nearly collapsed. The age difference, the family ties, the power imbalance—it was obscene, unthinkable, a violation of every boundary she had left after losing her husband. Survati reached for her daughter instinctively, but her own face was a mask of frozen horror.

Guru Maa’s voice cut through again, calm and merciless.

“Surendra. And Suritee. The Empress binds you.”

Dada’s cane slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. The old man—eighty, frail, still carrying the quiet dignity of a lifetime—looked at Suritee with eyes that suddenly filled with tears. “Beta… my own granddaughter-in-law…” His voice cracked, thin and broken. Suritee’s hand flew to her mouth; her hourglass figure froze beside me, loose hair trembling across her shoulders. She stared at Dada—my grandfather, the man who had always been gentle, who used to carry her on his shoulders when she was small—and her face crumpled. “Dada ji… no… this can’t…” she whispered, voice shaking so badly the words barely formed. The generational taboo, the tenderness turned grotesque, the betrayal of every family boundary—it hit her like a physical wave. She turned to me, eyes pleading, but I had no words.

And then—the final pair.

“Suvrat. And Survati. Death claims you both—for transformation.”

The courtyard detonated.

Survati shot upright like she’d been electrocuted. Her silver bob whipped across her face; her eyes—usually sharp, commanding—were huge, glassy with pure, animal panic. “Me? With… with him?” The word came out as a strangled choke. She pointed at Suvrat, finger trembling. “That… that goon? The uneducated thug who reeks of bidis and cheap daru? The one I’ve spent years pretending doesn’t exist?” Her voice rose to a raw, cracking pitch—decades of disdain, contempt, and class superiority shattering in one breath. “Guru Maa—no—no—this is impossible. I’d rather die. I’d rather—” She choked on the words, tears spilling over, chest heaving with hyperventilated breaths.

Suvrat’s gigantic frame went rigid. For a heartbeat he looked stunned—then something dark and savage lit in his eyes. His thick mustache twitched into a twisted, predatory grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Her? The high-and-mighty bitch who’s looked at me like dog shit on her designer shoes for twenty years?” He barked a harsh, disbelieving laugh, stepping forward until he towered over Survati. “Marry Survati Sharma? The woman who called me filth behind my back at every family wedding? The one who had security throw me out of Suritee’s reception like I was trash?” His voice dropped to a low, venomous growl. “You think I want that? You think I want her sharp tongue and her fancy degrees in my bed?” But his eyes—dark, burning—betrayed something else: hunger, revenge, the sick thrill of finally having power over the woman who had always dismissed him.

Survati recoiled as if struck, face draining to gray. “You… you disgust me…” she whispered, but the words cracked, weak, her body trembling with revulsion and something she refused to name.

Suritee let out a broken sob, clutching my arm so hard her nails drew blood. “This can’t be happening… Mummy… no…” Dada muttered frantic prayers, head bowed. Jagdish roared again, fists clenched. Surekha wept openly, rocking back and forth. Sujani curled into a ball, silent sobs shaking her frame.

And then—quietly, almost imperceptibly—Suritee looked at me.

Our eyes met. For a split second, the chaos around us faded. Her lips curved—just the tiniest fraction—into a silent, bitter smile. No words. No sound. Just that small, private, devastating smile that said everything: We’re next. And we both know it.

Jagdish—still standing, still furious—suddenly went still. His eyes flicked to Sujani, then away. His fists unclenched slightly. A strange, almost guilty flush crept up his neck. He didn’t protest again. He didn’t roar. He just… looked almost relieved beneath the anger, like a man who had secretly wanted something forbidden for years and now had permission he could never admit to wanting. He sat down heavily, avoiding everyone’s gaze.

Suvrat did the same. The savage grin lingered a moment longer—then softened into something quieter, darker, more private. He didn’t shout anymore. He simply stared at Survati with a hunger he no longer bothered hiding, shoulders relaxing as though a weight had finally lifted. He didn’t need to say it out loud. His body language screamed it: Finally.

Everyone was shattered—expressions of raw shock, disbelief, horror, and fractured grief frozen in the firelight.

But we had followed regardless.

Guru Maa rang her brass bell once—sharp, final.

“It is written.”

The nightmare deepened.

And none of us could look away.