10-02-2026, 01:48 AM
(This post was last modified: 11-02-2026, 05:24 AM by Mardanamaratha. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 5: Aadesh Left Alone
The drive back from the ashram clawed at my soul like thorns in the dark, the narrow Aravalli road twisting mercilessly under our tires, each bump jolting fresh waves of agony through my chest. Suritee sat beside me in the passenger seat, her once-alluring hourglass figure now a rigid statue of fury, her shoulder-length hair whipping wildly in the wind from the cracked window like strands of unraveling sanity. The silence between us wasn’t just heavy—it was suffocating, a void pregnant with the ashram’s curses, Guru Maa’s unyielding voice echoing in my skull: “It is written.” Behind us, the family’s convoy trailed like a funeral procession—Survati’s car ahead, her white-knuckled grip on the wheel visible even from afar; Jagdish’s Innova lumbering with Surekha’s choked sobs piercing the night; Dada and Sujani huddled in another vehicle, his unyielding posture a stark reminder of his enduring strength despite the grief. Suvrat’s motorcycle had vanished into the shadows earlier, its guttural roar a harbinger of the rage boiling in us all.
My hands trembled on the steering wheel, veins bulging as I fought to keep the car steady, but inside, I was fracturing—splintering under the weight of those damned cards, the pairs that tore our world asunder. Suritee’s presence, once my anchor, now felt like a blade pressed to my throat. The forest thinned into the expressway’s harsh glow, and that’s when the dam shattered.
“This is all your family’s doing!” Suritee erupted, her voice a venomous whipcrack that sliced through the air, her eyes blazing with a hatred I’d never seen—raw, unfiltered, aimed straight at my heart. “Your so-called ‘modern’ mother, Survati, with her power suits and her endless belittling of everyone who doesn’t bow to her ego! She’s the poison! She’s the one who invited this curse—trampling traditions, emasculating men like they’re disposable. If not for her arrogance, Guru Maa wouldn’t have ripped us apart like this!”
Her words ignited a firestorm in me, a torrent of suppressed fury exploding outward. “My family? You’re delusional if you think yours is innocent!” I roared back, my voice cracking with betrayal, the car swerving slightly as my grip faltered. “Your father—Jagdish, that tyrannical bully with his mustache and his bellowing commands, treating women like property! And Suvrat? That brute, that uneducated savage who struts around like a king in his filthy world of trucks and threats! They’ve dragged us into the mud with their backward ways, their violent tempers, their refusal to evolve. If anyone’s cursed this bloodline, it’s your side—the oppressors, the relics who suffocate everything they touch!”
The accusations escalated into a brutal war, our voices overlapping in a cacophony of pain and blame, each word a dagger plunged deeper. I hurled insults at her family’s stifling patriarchy, how it bred resentment like a disease, how Jagdish’s control had warped Suvrat into a monster waiting to unleash. She countered with vicious precision, tearing into Survati’s dominance, how it had castrated Suresh and left me spineless, a shadow of a man too weak to stand against the matriarch’s reign. Tears streamed down her face, mascara streaking like black rivers of grief, but her eyes held no mercy—only scorching contempt. By the time we screeched into the South Mumbai driveway, my throat was raw, my soul battered, the air between us poisoned beyond repair.
We burst into the house like survivors of a shipwreck, the door slamming with a finality that echoed through my bones. The living room loomed dim and oppressive, shadows clinging to the walls where family photos mocked us—smiling faces from a life now obliterated. Survati and Suresh had vanished upstairs, their door closed like a tomb; Dada sat upright in his armchair, his fit frame unbowed by age or sorrow, eyes vacant as he whispered prayers that sounded like pleas for death, his morning runs still a testament to his unbreakable vitality. Suritee stormed toward our bedroom, her heels stabbing the floor like accusations, and I followed, desperation clawing at me, begging for some shred of connection amid the ruins.
She whirled at the bed’s edge, her dress unzipped in frantic jerks, the fabric crumpling to the floor to reveal her underdressed form—clad only in sheer black lace lingerie that clung to her hourglass curves like a second skin, the delicate fabric straining against her full bust, the high-cut bottoms accentuating the swell of her hips and the smooth expanse of her thighs, her skin glowing faintly in the dim lamplight. What had once been an intimate sight for my eyes alone now felt like a deliberate taunt, her body a weapon honed to inflict maximum pain. Her bust rose and fell with heaving breaths, her skin flushed with rage. “Suritee, please,” I begged, my voice fracturing into shards, tears burning my eyes as I reached for her. “We can’t let this destroy us. We’re still—”
“Still what, Aadesh?” she snarled, advancing like a predator, her gaze dissecting me with cruel accuracy. “Husband and wife? Guru Maa ended that. And you know what?” Her lips twisted into a savage, heartbreaking sneer, her words dripping with acid that seared my core. “Maybe I’d be happier with Surendra ji than with you. At least he has fire left in him.”
The blow struck deeper than any physical wound—my heart didn’t just break; it pulverized, fragments embedding in my lungs, stealing my breath in a gasp of pure devastation. Surendra. Dada. My grandfather, the pillar of my childhood, now the thief of my marriage. Her words hung in the air, a betrayal so profound it hollowed me out, leaving only echoing pain. “You… you can’t mean that,” I whispered, collapsing against the wall, my legs buckling as sobs wracked my body, hot tears cascading unchecked.
But she wasn’t done. Her eyes raked over me—my sagging belly, the flab from years of neglect, the exhaustion etched in every line of my face—and she humiliated me further, her voice a whip of scorn. “Look at yourself, Aadesh. You’re a mess—physically broken, out of shape, gasping for air after a simple walk. Surendra ji? At eighty, he’s stronger, fitter, running miles while you wheeze on the couch. Maybe he can give me the pleasure you never could—the endurance, the passion, the raw vitality you’ve let slip away. You’ve been inadequate for so long, too soft, too tired, leaving me starving in our bed. With him… it might finally feel alive.”
Each syllable was a fresh laceration, stripping away my dignity, exposing the insecurities I’d buried under denial. Inadequate. Soft. Starving her. Compared to my own grandfather—the taboo twisted like a knife in my gut, amplifying the horror until I could barely breathe. But then, as if to drive the blade deeper, she curled up on the bed right in front of me, still underdressed in that tantalizing lace, her body arching languidly as she pulled her knees to her chest, the movement causing the fabric to ride up slightly, revealing more of her toned thighs and the soft curve of her backside. She propped herself on one elbow, her loose hair cascading over her shoulder, framing her heaving bust that strained against the thin material, nipples faintly visible through the sheer black mesh. Her skin, smooth and inviting, flushed with a mix of anger and something darker—perhaps anticipation—gleamed under the low light, every inch a reminder of what I’d lost.
“You can’t have this anymore, Aadesh,” she mocked, her voice a sultry purr laced with venom, running a hand slowly down her side, tracing the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, lingering on the swell of her bust as if appraising a prize. “This body—my full, firm breasts that you used to worship but could never satisfy long enough; my narrow waist that leads to these wide, childbearing hips you barely touched in months; these long, smooth legs that wrap around a man so perfectly… all of it wasted on you. But with Surendra ji? Oh, he’ll serve it better. His strong hands—callused from years of real work, not your soft office palms—will grip these curves with the vigor you lack. He’ll appreciate the bounce of my bust, the way my thighs quiver under real stamina, the heat of my core that you’ve left cold for too long. At eighty, he’s got more life in him than you ever did—running those miles every dawn, his body lean and powerful, ready to claim what’s his now. He’ll make this body sing, Aadesh, in ways you never could. And you’ll hear it, every night, knowing it’s his touch making me arch and moan, not yours.”
The shame burned through me like acid, but she pressed on, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction as she shifted on the bed, letting one strap of her lingerie slip down her shoulder, exposing more of her creamy skin. “Do you remember how you’d fumble, Aadesh? Panting after just a few minutes, your weak thrusts barely registering? Pathetic. Surendra ji won’t falter like that. He’ll take his time, exploring every inch—squeezing these breasts until I gasp, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave marks you were too timid to make. He’ll bury his face in my cleavage, tasting what you’ve neglected, making my nipples harden under a real man’s mouth. And when he enters me? God, it’ll be deep, relentless, filling me completely—stretching me in ways your sorry excuse for manhood never did. You’ll be in the next room, listening to the bed creak under his weight, my cries echoing because finally, someone knows how to handle a woman like me.”
I whimpered, curling tighter on the floor, my face buried in my hands as waves of humiliation crashed over me, each word eroding what little pride I had left. “Please… stop…” I begged, voice muffled and broken, but she only laughed—a low, mocking sound that twisted the knife further.
“Stop? Why? You need to hear this, Aadesh. You’ve been a disappointment in bed for years—too quick, too selfish, too damn lazy to even try anymore. Surendra ji? He’ll worship this body properly. His endurance will have me writhing, my legs locked around his waist as he drives into me again and again, hitting spots you couldn’t reach if you tried. Imagine it—my back arching off the bed, my full breasts bouncing with every powerful thrust, sweat glistening on my skin as I scream his name. Dada ji. Your grandfather, outlasting you, outpleasing you, making me come harder than you ever have. And you? You’ll be alone, touching yourself to the sounds, knowing you’re not man enough for this anymore.”
Her words left me utterly ashamed, reduced to a sobbing wreck, every ounce of self-worth shattered beyond repair. The taboo, the betrayal, the vivid details—it was too much, branding my soul with indelible humiliation. But amid the haze of pain, a question clawed its way out, my voice trembling as I lifted my head just enough to meet her eyes. “Why… why are you calling him Surendra ji now? He’s Dada ji to you—he’s always been Dada ji. Our marriage… is it done yet? Just like that?”
Suritee paused, her mocking smile fading into something colder, more resolute, as she adjusted the fallen strap with deliberate slowness, her gaze never leaving mine. “Dada ji? That’s what I called him when I was your wife, Aadesh—part of your family, bound by your rules. But Guru Maa’s words changed everything. He’s Surendra ji now—my future husband, my equal in this new alignment. Not some grandfather figure anymore. The stars demand respect for the bond that’s coming. And our marriage? It’s as good as dissolved. The moment those cards were flipped, we were over. Guru Maa’s decree is final—no papers, no ceremonies needed to end what the planets have cursed. We’re free… or rather, I’m free. Free from you.”
Her response crushed whatever fragile hope remained, the finality in her tone sealing my isolation.
She turned away finally, slipping into her nightgown with cold finality, climbing under the covers as if I were already a ghost. “I was your wife—your pathetic, unfulfilled wife,” she hissed over her shoulder, her voice laced with venomous finality, each word a sharpened dagger aimed at my crumbling spirit. “But now? I’m his. And thank the stars for that, because anything is better than being chained to a weak, worthless failure like you.” Her back to me became an unbreachable fortress, the silence that followed heavier than any curse.
I remained there on the floor, shattered and alone, the house’s silence mocking my isolation. Dada’s steady breathing from the next room, a reminder of his unyielding fitness, only deepened the wound—his vitality a mirror to my failures. The curse had claimed us all, but in that moment, I was the one left utterly forsaken, drowning in a sea of betrayal and self-loathing.
Chapter 6: Weddings Under the Neem Tree
The ashram courtyard had transformed into a sacred theater under the full moon of February 20, 2026. The ancient neem tree spread its branches like a vast, protective canopy, leaves rustling softly in the night breeze, releasing their faint bitter-green scent that mingled with the thick smoke of the havan fire. Ghee hissed and popped in the flames, sending bursts of white smoke skyward, carrying prayers no one dared voice aloud. Marigold garlands swayed from every pillar; brass diyas flickered along the ground, their tiny flames dancing in pools of melted wax. The air tasted of camphor, roasted sesame, and the metallic tang of anticipation.
Four mandaps stood in a loose square around the central fire, each simple yet adorned with fresh flowers and vermilion-painted symbols. No music played—only the low chant of mantras from Guru Maa and two assisting pandits, their voices weaving through the crackle of wood. Tonight was not celebration; it was surrender. Four couples waited, bound by the same decree that had shattered them two weeks earlier.
Surendra and Suritee Suritee stood beneath the first mandap like a flame given form. Her heavy red bridal lehenga gleamed under the firelight, the silk so richly embroidered with gold zari that it caught every flicker. The deep-necked choli plunged daringly low, cradling the full swell of her bust, the fabric stretched taut across her curves with each shallow breath. A sheer red dupatta dbangd loosely from her shoulders, slipping deliberately to reveal the smooth golden expanse of her midriff and the gentle dip of her navel. Her long black hair flowed unbound, jasmine strands woven through, brushing the small of her back. Kohl rimmed her eyes, making them smolder; her lips were painted deep crimson, parted slightly as if tasting the inevitability. Green glass bangles climbed her wrists in stacks, clinking softly whenever she moved. A heavy gold choker pressed against her throat, its pendant resting just above the deep cleavage—a mark of possession already claimed.
Beside her, Surendra—eighty, yet unbowed—stood bare-chested in a simple red dhoti tied low on his lean hips. His skin, bronzed and oiled, shone in the firelight; silver chest hair curled against defined pectorals still sculpted from decades of dawn runs. His arms hung relaxed but powerful, veins tracing like rivers over corded forearms. Gray hair neatly combed, mustache sharp, a fresh red tilak gleamed on his forehead. A thin gold chain lay against his sternum, catching sparks. His eyes—dark, steady—rested on Suritee with quiet intensity, no shame, only acceptance laced with something deeper, almost reverent hunger.
Suritee’s fingers trembled faintly as she adjusted her dupatta, but her chin lifted high. She felt the heat of the fire on her exposed skin, the weight of gazes she no longer cared to avoid. Relief warred with guilt in her chest; the old life had suffocated her, and this—wrong as it was—promised release.
Sujani and Jagdish Under the second mandap, Sujani appeared almost fragile in her bridal red saree. The silk clung to her petite frame, the low blouse revealing the gentle curve of her breasts and the narrow dip of her waist. Her single long plait hung down her back like a dark rope, fresh marigolds tucked into it. A small red bindi sat between her brows; her eyes—once soft and downcast—now held a glassy, distant sheen, as though she had retreated somewhere deep inside herself. She clutched the edge of her pallu so tightly her knuckles whitened, the fabric bunching over her midriff.
Jagdish towered beside her, broad and imposing in a cream dhoti and angavastram slung across his massive chest. The cloth dbangd low, exposing the thick mat of gray-black hair on his barrel torso, his prominent belly rising and falling with heavy breaths. His mustache—thick, oiled—twitched as he shifted his weight; his eyes, usually thunderous, now burned with a strange mix of triumph and unease. A thick gold chain rested on his chest hair, catching the light. His large hand hovered near Sujani’s elbow, not quite touching—yet the air between them crackled with unspoken power.
Sujani’s mind spun in tight, panicked circles. The man who had once been “Uncle Jagdish,” the roaring patriarch, now stood as her groom. Shame burned her cheeks, but beneath it lay a numb resignation—she had lost everything already; what was one more fracture?
Suresh and Surekha The third mandap held the quietest pair. Surekha wore a deep maroon saree, conservative yet bridal—pallu pinned tightly across her generous bust, the blouse modest but unable to hide the soft fullness beneath. Her hair was parted in the center, bound in a low bun adorned with jasmine; a simple gold chain circled her neck, resting against the deep cleavage she always tried to conceal. Her hands—soft, trembling—clasped together at her waist, fingers twisting the edge of her saree. Her eyes stayed fixed on the ground, tears gathering but never falling.
Suresh stood beside her in a plain white dhoti and kurta, sleeves rolled up to reveal thin arms. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath the thin cotton; his face—usually mild and averted—now carried a look of stunned bewilderment, as though he still expected someone to declare this all a mistake. A small red tilak marked his forehead; his hands hung limp at his sides, fingers twitching occasionally.
Surekha felt the pallu slip slightly with each breath, exposing a sliver of midriff she quickly adjusted. Decades of quiet obedience had prepared her for many things, but not this—not standing beside the man she had silently pitied for years, now bound to him by divine command. Fear coiled in her gut, yet a tiny, traitorous part of her wondered if this gentleness might be kinder than the life she had known.
Suvrat and Survati The final mandap crackled with different energy. Survati stood rigid in a bold scarlet saree, the blouse low and fitted, accentuating her ample bust and the confident curve of her hips. Silver streaks gleamed in her short bob; no dupatta covered her—her shoulders bare, skin glowing under the firelight. Heavy gold jewelry weighed her neck and wrists; her Louboutins had been replaced by simple mojari, but she carried herself as though still in heels, chin high, eyes blazing defiance even as her lips pressed into a thin line.
Suvrat loomed next to her, bare-chested in a blood-red dhoti, his wrestler’s frame oiled and massive. Thick muscles bunched under dark skin; a dense mat of chest hair trailed down to the low knot of his dhoti. His mustache twitched with barely contained satisfaction; his eyes—dark, predatory—raked over Survati openly, lingering on every exposed inch. A thick vermilion tilak slashed across his forehead like war paint.
Survati’s pulse hammered in her throat. Revulsion warred with something darker—fascination, perhaps, or the sick thrill of finally facing the man she had despised for so long on equal, terrifying terms. Her body felt exposed, vulnerable, yet alive in a way boardrooms never allowed.
Suvrat flexed his fingers once, twice. Victory tasted like smoke and sweat on his tongue. The high-and-mighty Survati Sharma—reduced, remade, his.
Guru Maa raised her hand. The chants swelled. One by one, the couples stepped closer to the fire.
Surendra lifted the garland first, his strong hands steady as he placed it around Suritee’s neck—fingers brushing her collarbone, lingering a heartbeat too long. She inhaled sharply, jasmine and ghee filling her lungs.
Jagdish’s large hands shook slightly as he garlanded Sujani; she flinched at the weight settling on her shoulders, the rough petals scratching her skin.
Suresh fumbled the garland, nearly dropping it; Surekha reached up herself, guiding it gently, their fingers touching for the first time—soft, hesitant, electric.
Suvrat snatched the garland from the pandit and dbangd it over Survati with deliberate force, his callused fingertips grazing the tops of her breasts. She stiffened, nostrils flaring, but did not step back.
The fire roared higher. Mantras rose. Four new bonds sealed under the neem tree—each one a wound, each one a strange, unwilling rebirth.
From the shadows, I watched, the heat of the havan fire licking at my skin like invisible tongues, searing through my clothes and into my flesh, as if the flames themselves mocked my isolation. The bitter neem scent clawed at my nostrils, mixing with the acrid smoke that stung my eyes, blurring the scene into a nightmarish haze. My heart pounded erratically, a thunderous drum in my ears that drowned out the mantras, each beat a fresh stab of betrayal—Suritee, my wife, garlanded by my grandfather’s steady hands, her body arching ever so slightly toward him, the jasmine in her hair wafting betrayal on the breeze. Tears burned tracks down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting, tasting of salt and despair as I choked on the lump in my throat, my breaths coming in ragged gasps that scbangd like sandpaper. How could this be real? My sister Sujani, fragile and withdrawn, flinching under Jagdish’s looming touch—her plait swinging like a noose, the marigolds crushing under the garland’s weight. My father Suresh, fumbling like the defeated man he always was, now claiming Surekha, her pallu slipping to reveal skin that should have remained hidden, their hesitant fingers brushing in a mockery of intimacy. And my mother Survati—the unbreakable queen—stiffening as Suvrat’s rough hands claimed her, his predatory gaze devouring her exposed shoulders, the gold jewelry clinking like chains. Every clink of bangles, every hiss of ghee in the fire, every rustle of silk amplified the agony twisting in my gut, a vortex of rage, grief, and helpless revulsion that left me trembling, knees weak against the cold stone pillar. My family—remade without me, their new bonds forged in flames that consumed my world—left me utterly alone, the shadows closing in like a shroud, the moon above indifferent to the ruins of my soul. The heat reached me even there, burning everything that remained, until all I could feel was the hollow echo of loss, raw and unending.
The drive back from the ashram clawed at my soul like thorns in the dark, the narrow Aravalli road twisting mercilessly under our tires, each bump jolting fresh waves of agony through my chest. Suritee sat beside me in the passenger seat, her once-alluring hourglass figure now a rigid statue of fury, her shoulder-length hair whipping wildly in the wind from the cracked window like strands of unraveling sanity. The silence between us wasn’t just heavy—it was suffocating, a void pregnant with the ashram’s curses, Guru Maa’s unyielding voice echoing in my skull: “It is written.” Behind us, the family’s convoy trailed like a funeral procession—Survati’s car ahead, her white-knuckled grip on the wheel visible even from afar; Jagdish’s Innova lumbering with Surekha’s choked sobs piercing the night; Dada and Sujani huddled in another vehicle, his unyielding posture a stark reminder of his enduring strength despite the grief. Suvrat’s motorcycle had vanished into the shadows earlier, its guttural roar a harbinger of the rage boiling in us all.
My hands trembled on the steering wheel, veins bulging as I fought to keep the car steady, but inside, I was fracturing—splintering under the weight of those damned cards, the pairs that tore our world asunder. Suritee’s presence, once my anchor, now felt like a blade pressed to my throat. The forest thinned into the expressway’s harsh glow, and that’s when the dam shattered.
“This is all your family’s doing!” Suritee erupted, her voice a venomous whipcrack that sliced through the air, her eyes blazing with a hatred I’d never seen—raw, unfiltered, aimed straight at my heart. “Your so-called ‘modern’ mother, Survati, with her power suits and her endless belittling of everyone who doesn’t bow to her ego! She’s the poison! She’s the one who invited this curse—trampling traditions, emasculating men like they’re disposable. If not for her arrogance, Guru Maa wouldn’t have ripped us apart like this!”
Her words ignited a firestorm in me, a torrent of suppressed fury exploding outward. “My family? You’re delusional if you think yours is innocent!” I roared back, my voice cracking with betrayal, the car swerving slightly as my grip faltered. “Your father—Jagdish, that tyrannical bully with his mustache and his bellowing commands, treating women like property! And Suvrat? That brute, that uneducated savage who struts around like a king in his filthy world of trucks and threats! They’ve dragged us into the mud with their backward ways, their violent tempers, their refusal to evolve. If anyone’s cursed this bloodline, it’s your side—the oppressors, the relics who suffocate everything they touch!”
The accusations escalated into a brutal war, our voices overlapping in a cacophony of pain and blame, each word a dagger plunged deeper. I hurled insults at her family’s stifling patriarchy, how it bred resentment like a disease, how Jagdish’s control had warped Suvrat into a monster waiting to unleash. She countered with vicious precision, tearing into Survati’s dominance, how it had castrated Suresh and left me spineless, a shadow of a man too weak to stand against the matriarch’s reign. Tears streamed down her face, mascara streaking like black rivers of grief, but her eyes held no mercy—only scorching contempt. By the time we screeched into the South Mumbai driveway, my throat was raw, my soul battered, the air between us poisoned beyond repair.
We burst into the house like survivors of a shipwreck, the door slamming with a finality that echoed through my bones. The living room loomed dim and oppressive, shadows clinging to the walls where family photos mocked us—smiling faces from a life now obliterated. Survati and Suresh had vanished upstairs, their door closed like a tomb; Dada sat upright in his armchair, his fit frame unbowed by age or sorrow, eyes vacant as he whispered prayers that sounded like pleas for death, his morning runs still a testament to his unbreakable vitality. Suritee stormed toward our bedroom, her heels stabbing the floor like accusations, and I followed, desperation clawing at me, begging for some shred of connection amid the ruins.
She whirled at the bed’s edge, her dress unzipped in frantic jerks, the fabric crumpling to the floor to reveal her underdressed form—clad only in sheer black lace lingerie that clung to her hourglass curves like a second skin, the delicate fabric straining against her full bust, the high-cut bottoms accentuating the swell of her hips and the smooth expanse of her thighs, her skin glowing faintly in the dim lamplight. What had once been an intimate sight for my eyes alone now felt like a deliberate taunt, her body a weapon honed to inflict maximum pain. Her bust rose and fell with heaving breaths, her skin flushed with rage. “Suritee, please,” I begged, my voice fracturing into shards, tears burning my eyes as I reached for her. “We can’t let this destroy us. We’re still—”
“Still what, Aadesh?” she snarled, advancing like a predator, her gaze dissecting me with cruel accuracy. “Husband and wife? Guru Maa ended that. And you know what?” Her lips twisted into a savage, heartbreaking sneer, her words dripping with acid that seared my core. “Maybe I’d be happier with Surendra ji than with you. At least he has fire left in him.”
The blow struck deeper than any physical wound—my heart didn’t just break; it pulverized, fragments embedding in my lungs, stealing my breath in a gasp of pure devastation. Surendra. Dada. My grandfather, the pillar of my childhood, now the thief of my marriage. Her words hung in the air, a betrayal so profound it hollowed me out, leaving only echoing pain. “You… you can’t mean that,” I whispered, collapsing against the wall, my legs buckling as sobs wracked my body, hot tears cascading unchecked.
But she wasn’t done. Her eyes raked over me—my sagging belly, the flab from years of neglect, the exhaustion etched in every line of my face—and she humiliated me further, her voice a whip of scorn. “Look at yourself, Aadesh. You’re a mess—physically broken, out of shape, gasping for air after a simple walk. Surendra ji? At eighty, he’s stronger, fitter, running miles while you wheeze on the couch. Maybe he can give me the pleasure you never could—the endurance, the passion, the raw vitality you’ve let slip away. You’ve been inadequate for so long, too soft, too tired, leaving me starving in our bed. With him… it might finally feel alive.”
Each syllable was a fresh laceration, stripping away my dignity, exposing the insecurities I’d buried under denial. Inadequate. Soft. Starving her. Compared to my own grandfather—the taboo twisted like a knife in my gut, amplifying the horror until I could barely breathe. But then, as if to drive the blade deeper, she curled up on the bed right in front of me, still underdressed in that tantalizing lace, her body arching languidly as she pulled her knees to her chest, the movement causing the fabric to ride up slightly, revealing more of her toned thighs and the soft curve of her backside. She propped herself on one elbow, her loose hair cascading over her shoulder, framing her heaving bust that strained against the thin material, nipples faintly visible through the sheer black mesh. Her skin, smooth and inviting, flushed with a mix of anger and something darker—perhaps anticipation—gleamed under the low light, every inch a reminder of what I’d lost.
“You can’t have this anymore, Aadesh,” she mocked, her voice a sultry purr laced with venom, running a hand slowly down her side, tracing the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, lingering on the swell of her bust as if appraising a prize. “This body—my full, firm breasts that you used to worship but could never satisfy long enough; my narrow waist that leads to these wide, childbearing hips you barely touched in months; these long, smooth legs that wrap around a man so perfectly… all of it wasted on you. But with Surendra ji? Oh, he’ll serve it better. His strong hands—callused from years of real work, not your soft office palms—will grip these curves with the vigor you lack. He’ll appreciate the bounce of my bust, the way my thighs quiver under real stamina, the heat of my core that you’ve left cold for too long. At eighty, he’s got more life in him than you ever did—running those miles every dawn, his body lean and powerful, ready to claim what’s his now. He’ll make this body sing, Aadesh, in ways you never could. And you’ll hear it, every night, knowing it’s his touch making me arch and moan, not yours.”
The shame burned through me like acid, but she pressed on, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction as she shifted on the bed, letting one strap of her lingerie slip down her shoulder, exposing more of her creamy skin. “Do you remember how you’d fumble, Aadesh? Panting after just a few minutes, your weak thrusts barely registering? Pathetic. Surendra ji won’t falter like that. He’ll take his time, exploring every inch—squeezing these breasts until I gasp, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave marks you were too timid to make. He’ll bury his face in my cleavage, tasting what you’ve neglected, making my nipples harden under a real man’s mouth. And when he enters me? God, it’ll be deep, relentless, filling me completely—stretching me in ways your sorry excuse for manhood never did. You’ll be in the next room, listening to the bed creak under his weight, my cries echoing because finally, someone knows how to handle a woman like me.”
I whimpered, curling tighter on the floor, my face buried in my hands as waves of humiliation crashed over me, each word eroding what little pride I had left. “Please… stop…” I begged, voice muffled and broken, but she only laughed—a low, mocking sound that twisted the knife further.
“Stop? Why? You need to hear this, Aadesh. You’ve been a disappointment in bed for years—too quick, too selfish, too damn lazy to even try anymore. Surendra ji? He’ll worship this body properly. His endurance will have me writhing, my legs locked around his waist as he drives into me again and again, hitting spots you couldn’t reach if you tried. Imagine it—my back arching off the bed, my full breasts bouncing with every powerful thrust, sweat glistening on my skin as I scream his name. Dada ji. Your grandfather, outlasting you, outpleasing you, making me come harder than you ever have. And you? You’ll be alone, touching yourself to the sounds, knowing you’re not man enough for this anymore.”
Her words left me utterly ashamed, reduced to a sobbing wreck, every ounce of self-worth shattered beyond repair. The taboo, the betrayal, the vivid details—it was too much, branding my soul with indelible humiliation. But amid the haze of pain, a question clawed its way out, my voice trembling as I lifted my head just enough to meet her eyes. “Why… why are you calling him Surendra ji now? He’s Dada ji to you—he’s always been Dada ji. Our marriage… is it done yet? Just like that?”
Suritee paused, her mocking smile fading into something colder, more resolute, as she adjusted the fallen strap with deliberate slowness, her gaze never leaving mine. “Dada ji? That’s what I called him when I was your wife, Aadesh—part of your family, bound by your rules. But Guru Maa’s words changed everything. He’s Surendra ji now—my future husband, my equal in this new alignment. Not some grandfather figure anymore. The stars demand respect for the bond that’s coming. And our marriage? It’s as good as dissolved. The moment those cards were flipped, we were over. Guru Maa’s decree is final—no papers, no ceremonies needed to end what the planets have cursed. We’re free… or rather, I’m free. Free from you.”
Her response crushed whatever fragile hope remained, the finality in her tone sealing my isolation.
She turned away finally, slipping into her nightgown with cold finality, climbing under the covers as if I were already a ghost. “I was your wife—your pathetic, unfulfilled wife,” she hissed over her shoulder, her voice laced with venomous finality, each word a sharpened dagger aimed at my crumbling spirit. “But now? I’m his. And thank the stars for that, because anything is better than being chained to a weak, worthless failure like you.” Her back to me became an unbreachable fortress, the silence that followed heavier than any curse.
I remained there on the floor, shattered and alone, the house’s silence mocking my isolation. Dada’s steady breathing from the next room, a reminder of his unyielding fitness, only deepened the wound—his vitality a mirror to my failures. The curse had claimed us all, but in that moment, I was the one left utterly forsaken, drowning in a sea of betrayal and self-loathing.
Chapter 6: Weddings Under the Neem Tree
The ashram courtyard had transformed into a sacred theater under the full moon of February 20, 2026. The ancient neem tree spread its branches like a vast, protective canopy, leaves rustling softly in the night breeze, releasing their faint bitter-green scent that mingled with the thick smoke of the havan fire. Ghee hissed and popped in the flames, sending bursts of white smoke skyward, carrying prayers no one dared voice aloud. Marigold garlands swayed from every pillar; brass diyas flickered along the ground, their tiny flames dancing in pools of melted wax. The air tasted of camphor, roasted sesame, and the metallic tang of anticipation.
Four mandaps stood in a loose square around the central fire, each simple yet adorned with fresh flowers and vermilion-painted symbols. No music played—only the low chant of mantras from Guru Maa and two assisting pandits, their voices weaving through the crackle of wood. Tonight was not celebration; it was surrender. Four couples waited, bound by the same decree that had shattered them two weeks earlier.
Surendra and Suritee Suritee stood beneath the first mandap like a flame given form. Her heavy red bridal lehenga gleamed under the firelight, the silk so richly embroidered with gold zari that it caught every flicker. The deep-necked choli plunged daringly low, cradling the full swell of her bust, the fabric stretched taut across her curves with each shallow breath. A sheer red dupatta dbangd loosely from her shoulders, slipping deliberately to reveal the smooth golden expanse of her midriff and the gentle dip of her navel. Her long black hair flowed unbound, jasmine strands woven through, brushing the small of her back. Kohl rimmed her eyes, making them smolder; her lips were painted deep crimson, parted slightly as if tasting the inevitability. Green glass bangles climbed her wrists in stacks, clinking softly whenever she moved. A heavy gold choker pressed against her throat, its pendant resting just above the deep cleavage—a mark of possession already claimed.
Beside her, Surendra—eighty, yet unbowed—stood bare-chested in a simple red dhoti tied low on his lean hips. His skin, bronzed and oiled, shone in the firelight; silver chest hair curled against defined pectorals still sculpted from decades of dawn runs. His arms hung relaxed but powerful, veins tracing like rivers over corded forearms. Gray hair neatly combed, mustache sharp, a fresh red tilak gleamed on his forehead. A thin gold chain lay against his sternum, catching sparks. His eyes—dark, steady—rested on Suritee with quiet intensity, no shame, only acceptance laced with something deeper, almost reverent hunger.
Suritee’s fingers trembled faintly as she adjusted her dupatta, but her chin lifted high. She felt the heat of the fire on her exposed skin, the weight of gazes she no longer cared to avoid. Relief warred with guilt in her chest; the old life had suffocated her, and this—wrong as it was—promised release.
Sujani and Jagdish Under the second mandap, Sujani appeared almost fragile in her bridal red saree. The silk clung to her petite frame, the low blouse revealing the gentle curve of her breasts and the narrow dip of her waist. Her single long plait hung down her back like a dark rope, fresh marigolds tucked into it. A small red bindi sat between her brows; her eyes—once soft and downcast—now held a glassy, distant sheen, as though she had retreated somewhere deep inside herself. She clutched the edge of her pallu so tightly her knuckles whitened, the fabric bunching over her midriff.
Jagdish towered beside her, broad and imposing in a cream dhoti and angavastram slung across his massive chest. The cloth dbangd low, exposing the thick mat of gray-black hair on his barrel torso, his prominent belly rising and falling with heavy breaths. His mustache—thick, oiled—twitched as he shifted his weight; his eyes, usually thunderous, now burned with a strange mix of triumph and unease. A thick gold chain rested on his chest hair, catching the light. His large hand hovered near Sujani’s elbow, not quite touching—yet the air between them crackled with unspoken power.
Sujani’s mind spun in tight, panicked circles. The man who had once been “Uncle Jagdish,” the roaring patriarch, now stood as her groom. Shame burned her cheeks, but beneath it lay a numb resignation—she had lost everything already; what was one more fracture?
Suresh and Surekha The third mandap held the quietest pair. Surekha wore a deep maroon saree, conservative yet bridal—pallu pinned tightly across her generous bust, the blouse modest but unable to hide the soft fullness beneath. Her hair was parted in the center, bound in a low bun adorned with jasmine; a simple gold chain circled her neck, resting against the deep cleavage she always tried to conceal. Her hands—soft, trembling—clasped together at her waist, fingers twisting the edge of her saree. Her eyes stayed fixed on the ground, tears gathering but never falling.
Suresh stood beside her in a plain white dhoti and kurta, sleeves rolled up to reveal thin arms. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath the thin cotton; his face—usually mild and averted—now carried a look of stunned bewilderment, as though he still expected someone to declare this all a mistake. A small red tilak marked his forehead; his hands hung limp at his sides, fingers twitching occasionally.
Surekha felt the pallu slip slightly with each breath, exposing a sliver of midriff she quickly adjusted. Decades of quiet obedience had prepared her for many things, but not this—not standing beside the man she had silently pitied for years, now bound to him by divine command. Fear coiled in her gut, yet a tiny, traitorous part of her wondered if this gentleness might be kinder than the life she had known.
Suvrat and Survati The final mandap crackled with different energy. Survati stood rigid in a bold scarlet saree, the blouse low and fitted, accentuating her ample bust and the confident curve of her hips. Silver streaks gleamed in her short bob; no dupatta covered her—her shoulders bare, skin glowing under the firelight. Heavy gold jewelry weighed her neck and wrists; her Louboutins had been replaced by simple mojari, but she carried herself as though still in heels, chin high, eyes blazing defiance even as her lips pressed into a thin line.
Suvrat loomed next to her, bare-chested in a blood-red dhoti, his wrestler’s frame oiled and massive. Thick muscles bunched under dark skin; a dense mat of chest hair trailed down to the low knot of his dhoti. His mustache twitched with barely contained satisfaction; his eyes—dark, predatory—raked over Survati openly, lingering on every exposed inch. A thick vermilion tilak slashed across his forehead like war paint.
Survati’s pulse hammered in her throat. Revulsion warred with something darker—fascination, perhaps, or the sick thrill of finally facing the man she had despised for so long on equal, terrifying terms. Her body felt exposed, vulnerable, yet alive in a way boardrooms never allowed.
Suvrat flexed his fingers once, twice. Victory tasted like smoke and sweat on his tongue. The high-and-mighty Survati Sharma—reduced, remade, his.
Guru Maa raised her hand. The chants swelled. One by one, the couples stepped closer to the fire.
Surendra lifted the garland first, his strong hands steady as he placed it around Suritee’s neck—fingers brushing her collarbone, lingering a heartbeat too long. She inhaled sharply, jasmine and ghee filling her lungs.
Jagdish’s large hands shook slightly as he garlanded Sujani; she flinched at the weight settling on her shoulders, the rough petals scratching her skin.
Suresh fumbled the garland, nearly dropping it; Surekha reached up herself, guiding it gently, their fingers touching for the first time—soft, hesitant, electric.
Suvrat snatched the garland from the pandit and dbangd it over Survati with deliberate force, his callused fingertips grazing the tops of her breasts. She stiffened, nostrils flaring, but did not step back.
The fire roared higher. Mantras rose. Four new bonds sealed under the neem tree—each one a wound, each one a strange, unwilling rebirth.
From the shadows, I watched, the heat of the havan fire licking at my skin like invisible tongues, searing through my clothes and into my flesh, as if the flames themselves mocked my isolation. The bitter neem scent clawed at my nostrils, mixing with the acrid smoke that stung my eyes, blurring the scene into a nightmarish haze. My heart pounded erratically, a thunderous drum in my ears that drowned out the mantras, each beat a fresh stab of betrayal—Suritee, my wife, garlanded by my grandfather’s steady hands, her body arching ever so slightly toward him, the jasmine in her hair wafting betrayal on the breeze. Tears burned tracks down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting, tasting of salt and despair as I choked on the lump in my throat, my breaths coming in ragged gasps that scbangd like sandpaper. How could this be real? My sister Sujani, fragile and withdrawn, flinching under Jagdish’s looming touch—her plait swinging like a noose, the marigolds crushing under the garland’s weight. My father Suresh, fumbling like the defeated man he always was, now claiming Surekha, her pallu slipping to reveal skin that should have remained hidden, their hesitant fingers brushing in a mockery of intimacy. And my mother Survati—the unbreakable queen—stiffening as Suvrat’s rough hands claimed her, his predatory gaze devouring her exposed shoulders, the gold jewelry clinking like chains. Every clink of bangles, every hiss of ghee in the fire, every rustle of silk amplified the agony twisting in my gut, a vortex of rage, grief, and helpless revulsion that left me trembling, knees weak against the cold stone pillar. My family—remade without me, their new bonds forged in flames that consumed my world—left me utterly alone, the shadows closing in like a shroud, the moon above indifferent to the ruins of my soul. The heat reached me even there, burning everything that remained, until all I could feel was the hollow echo of loss, raw and unending.
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