Nimrat blinked, confusion deepening into something almost feverish. “And how will I stay at his… ashram? I have a business, a daughter—”
Meera let out a soft, knowing laugh — not mocking, but intimate, as though sharing a private truth.
“Ashram?” She shook her head slowly. “There is no ashram, Nimrat. No orange robes, no chants at dawn, no crowd of devotees. This is one-to-one initiation. Just you… and Maan ji. Your outlook towards life will change. You will become a different person altogether. You will want Maan ji in your life thereafter. You will see.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. Nimrat stared at Meera, searching for deception, for some hidden joke. She found none. Only calm certainty.
“I… I don’t understand,” Nimrat murmured. “But… okay. I will do it. I have to do it.”
The moment the words left her lips, the dam broke. Tears welled up, hot and unstoppable. Her shoulders shook as quiet sobs escaped — not dramatic, but raw, the kind that come from a woman who has carried too much alone for too long. The CBI threat, Yasim’s betrayal, the fear for Simran’s future, the loneliness of widowhood — it all poured out in those silent tears.
Meera moved instantly. She slid off the table, knelt in front of Nimrat, and pulled her into a tight, enveloping hug. Nimrat’s face pressed against Meera’s shoulder; the scent of expensive perfume and whisky mingled with the faint salt of tears.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Meera whispered, stroking Nimrat’s hair with surprising tenderness. “All will be alright. I will contact you again once I get confirmation from Maan ji. He moves fast when he chooses to.”
They stayed like that for long moments — two women in a storm-lashed suite, one offering salvation wrapped in mystery, the other clinging to it like a lifeline.
Then Meera pulled back just enough to look into Nimrat’s wet eyes. Without warning, she leaned in and pressed her lips to Nimrat’s — not a peck, but a soft, lingering kiss. Full lips against full lips. Warm. Intentional. A strange spark passed between them.
Nimrat froze… but strangely, she did not pull away. No revulsion. No awkwardness. Only a quiet, dazed acceptance, as though the kiss were part of some larger ritual she had unknowingly already begun.
Meera broke the contact first, brushing a tear from Nimrat’s cheek with her thumb.
“Trust me,” she said simply.
Nimrat nodded once, numb.
They finished their drinks in near silence after that. The rain had eased slightly, but the city below still glittered wet and restless. Meera walked Nimrat to the suite door, gave her one last reassuring squeeze of the hand, and watched her step into the corridor.
Nimrat rode the elevator down alone. The mirrored walls reflected a woman who looked the same on the outside — elegant wine-red saree, perfectly pinned pallu, composed features — but inside she was in a trance.
What had just happened?
A powerful woman she barely knew had kissed her on the lips. Had promised to deliver her to a mysterious “guru of life lessons” who could make CBI enquiries vanish. Had spoken of 21 days of intimate, one-to-one initiation that would change her forever. And Nimrat — proud, independent Nimrat — had agreed. Had wept. Had felt no disgust at the kiss.
As the taxi pulled away from the hotel porte-cochère, carrying her back to her own Mumbai hotel, Nimrat stared out at the blurred neon lights. Her fingers unconsciously touched her lips where Meera’s had been.
A strange heat lingered there.
And deeper still — in her chest, in her belly — something unfamiliar stirred.
Not fear.
Not entirely.
Anticipation.
She closed her eyes, leaned her head against the cool window, and let the car carry her into the rain-soaked night… already wondering what it would feel like to kneel before Maan Singh for the first time.
The forty-eight hours after leaving the Taj suite felt like an eternity stretched thin.
Nimrat returned to Delhi the very next morning, the rain-soaked Mumbai night still clinging to her like a second skin. She barely slept on the flight; every time she closed her eyes, she saw Meera’s lips on hers, heard the word “disciple” echoing in the cabin hum, felt the phantom pressure of those strong hands on her shoulders promising salvation wrapped in mystery.
By afternoon she was at her flagship boutique in South Delhi’s Greater Kailash – the glass-fronted haven of silk, chiffon, and understated luxury that she had built brick by brick over two decades. The staff greeted her with their usual deference, but she barely registered their smiles. She locked herself in the back office, pulled out every financial ledger, bank statement, and transaction record related to Yasim Khan.
She spent hours cross-referencing. The investments had come in clean instalments over five years: 8 crore in 2021 for the expansion to Mumbai, 12 crore in 2022 for the international fabric sourcing tie-up, another 15 crore phased in 2023–2024 for the haute couture line, and the final 15 crore tranche last year for the flagship store renovation. Every rupee documented with proper invoices, GST filings, board resolutions, and FEMA compliance certificates. On paper, it was flawless. Yasim’s name appeared only as a “strategic investor” through layered but legitimate entities – no red flags, no hawala whispers in the books.
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