Chapter 12
Dr. Urmila Deshpande adjusted the illuminated scan on the viewing panel, studying it once more before speaking. On a surprisingly short notice she agreed to see her new patient..
Komolini Chatterjee!
"This isn't what I expected to see, Mrs. Chatterjee."
Komolini folded her arms. "Neither did I."
"The fullness you're experiencing isn't because of inflammation or a tumor." Urmila traced a section of the image with her pen. "The glandular tissue appears unusually active. Your milk ducts are markedly distended, and the glands seem to be producing an extraordinary volume of milk."
Komolini stared at the scan. The pale branching structures filled much of the image.
"So... that's why they feel so heavy?"
Urmila nodded slowly.
"Yes. They're engorged with milk. In someone who isn't pregnant or nursing—especially at your age—this is exceptionally unusual."
Komolini let out a slow breath.
"I knew something was wrong. Every day the pressure keeps increasing."
The doctor's expression shifted from surprise to intense curiosity.
"I've practiced medicine for nearly twenty years," she said quietly, "and I've never encountered a case quite like this. Lactation outside the normal reproductive period can happen, but not to this extent."
She reached for her notebook.
"I'd like to investigate this thoroughly. We'll need a complete hormone profile, pituitary imaging, and samples of the milk for laboratory analysis. Something is driving this process, and until we identify the cause, we're only seeing the symptom."
Komolini nodded.
"I came here because I knew someone would finally believe me."
Dr. Urmila gave a reassuring smile.
"I do believe you. The scan leaves no room for doubt. The real mystery is why your body has suddenly begun producing so much milk."
The room fell silent as both women looked once more at the glowing image, realizing they were facing a medical puzzle unlike anything either of them had imagined.
"I know it may sound weird but.... you need to take it out from sparking some arousal points!" Dr Urmila adjusted her glases as she said so and Komolini herself was bewildered.
"What do you mean??"
"There is a room out there, take your privacy.....but I need a good small sample and umm yes take this"
Dr Urmila handed Komolini a small container to store the milk drops and sensing the intensity of the situation, Komolini took it with shaking hands and uttered a pouting "excuse me" before heading to the room and watching the door shut, Dr Urmila took a big sigh and tapped the pen on the table. Her professional mind absolutely confused yet curious.
...............
Meanwhile
Probal stirred awake with a dull ache lingering through his body, the kind that follows an unnaturally long sleep. He let out a slow yawn, blinking repeatedly as his eyes adjusted to the soft light filtering into the room.
For a few moments, he simply sat there.
Then his gaze fell upon the dark maroon book resting across his lap.
The memory returned at once.
The woman.
Her calm smile.
The reassuring tone in which she had spoken.
"Read it when you've rested."
Taking a slow, steady breath, Probal lifted the heavy volume into his hands. Its cover remained as mysterious as before—plain, unmarked, and silent.
His fingers hesitated over the first page.
Something inside him resisted opening it.
Yet curiosity prevailed.
The page turned with a faint rustle.
His eyes widened.
Occupying nearly the entire page was a finely detailed charcoal sketch of Brihannala—the androgynous identity assumed by Arjuna during his incognito exile.
The artist had captured an extraordinary balance of strength and grace. The figure's posture was composed and dignified, adorned with ornaments and flowing garments, while the face retained an unmistakable hint of the great warrior concealed beneath the disguise. The eyes, calm yet resolute, seemed almost alive, meeting Probal's gaze across the page.
Beneath the illustration, a single line had been written in elegant script:
"The greatest disguises conceal not weakness, but the strength that awaits its rightful hour."
Probal stared at the words for a long time.
An uneasy feeling settled over him and with an immense hesitation, he saw the first chapter....
Among the lesser-known customs attributed to the warrior principalities of the Western Deccan in this account is the ceremonial office known as the Kliba. Unlike hereditary titles or military ranks, the Kliba was regarded as a condition of ritual submission, imposed upon a defeated warrior after the conclusion of a decisive conflict between rival clans.
According to the tradition described in these chronicles, martial defeat was believed to require more than the surrender of weapons or territory. A warrior who had failed to defend the honor of his lineage was expected to surrender his pride before he could once again be accepted by society. This symbolic humiliation was embodied in the role of the Kliba.
The defeated warrior was ceremonially dressed in traditional women's attire appropriate to the region, often including a Nauvari-style garment, ornaments reserved for household ceremonies, and other symbols of domestic service. The attire was not intended to signify a change of identity but rather to represent the inversion of status. The once-commanding warrior now occupied the lowest ceremonial position within the victor's household.
The Kliba's foremost duty was to escort the bride to the victorious groom during the wedding rites. The act symbolized the defeated clan acknowledging not merely military loss but the transfer of prestige, authority, and social standing to the victorious lineage. The procession was conducted without protest, and the Kliba was expected to display complete composure throughout the ceremony.
Some manuscripts of this fictional tradition further describe that, in particularly severe settlements between rival houses, the defeated warrior might be required to escort a woman of his own household—whether a sister, wife, concubine, or another female relative whose participation had been agreed upon by the families involved—as part of a negotiated political reconciliation. These accounts portray the gesture as an emblem of total submission by the defeated clan, though such descriptions vary greatly among different versions of the legend.
The responsibilities of the Kliba extended far beyond the wedding procession itself. Throughout the celebrations, the Kliba acted as chief domestic attendant, coordinating household preparations, assisting cooks, arranging ceremonial objects, greeting guests, and ensuring that every aspect of the marriage festivities proceeded without interruption. Contemporary descriptions within these fictional chronicles praise the ideal Kliba not for martial skill but for discipline, humility, and flawless service.
Cooking formed another important obligation. A capable Kliba was expected to prepare festive meals, oversee kitchen arrangements, and ensure that food reflected the generosity of the victorious household. Excellence in culinary skill was regarded as proof that the former warrior had abandoned arrogance in favor of devoted service.
The chronicles also describe the Kliba as a trusted household maid during the early period of the newly married couple's life. Duties included maintaining ceremonial chambers, arranging garments and ornaments for festivals, carrying messages within the household, and assisting with numerous domestic tasks. Loyalty was considered absolute, and disobedience was portrayed as a grave dishonor.
Despite the apparent humiliation associated with the office, some fictional manuscripts suggest that a Kliba who fulfilled every duty with unwavering dedication could eventually regain personal honor. In these accounts, true strength was measured not only by victory in battle but also by the capacity to endure defeat with dignity and fulfill even the most difficult obligations without resentment.
Modern historians, within the fictional setting of these chronicles, generally interpret the Kliba not as a historical institution but as a literary symbol illustrating the complete reversal of fortune experienced by defeated warriors. Whether literal or allegorical, the figure serves as a recurring reminder that power, status, and honor were portrayed as fleeting, while duty and endurance remained the enduring virtues celebrated by the narrative.
.............
Upon reading the preceding passages, Probal's hands began to tremble.
His eyes darted across the page once more, hoping he had misunderstood the words. Every sentence seemed more impossible than the last.
"Grooming..."
So that was what Ganpat had meant.
His pulse quickened.
Unable to resist the urge to understand the nightmare into which he had been drawn, Probal slowly turned the page.
..........
Chapter continued....
According to the anonymous chronicler, every Kliba was expected to look toward Brihannala—the guise assumed by Arjuna during his incognito exile in the Mahabharata—as the symbolic embodiment of endurance through humiliation. The text carefully distinguished this reverence from worship in the conventional sense. Rather, Brihannala was presented as the archetype of a warrior who concealed pride, restrained martial identity, and survived through discipline rather than force.
The manuscript asserted that the women of the victorious household bore the responsibility of instructing the appointed Kliba in the customs of domestic life. These lessons allegedly included etiquette, graceful movement through ceremonial spaces, respectful speech before elders, methods of serving honored guests, and the countless routines expected of trusted attendants within noble residences.
The chronicler repeatedly emphasized that such instruction was intended to erase the outward habits of command. Every gesture of authority was to be replaced by deliberate restraint, every instinct toward confrontation by patient obedience. The Kliba was expected to anticipate needs before they were voiced, to maintain order without recognition, and to place the comfort of the newly married household above personal dignity.
One recurring phrase appears throughout the surviving fictional manuscript:
"Strength surrendered is still strength; only its purpose has changed."
Whether intended sincerely or ironically remains a matter of debate among scholars within the fictional world.
The concluding section turns unexpectedly festive.
It describes the wedding not as a celebration of conquest alone but as a carefully choreographed affirmation of social harmony after conflict. Musicians, elders, priests, attendants, and the appointed Kliba each fulfilled symbolic roles intended to represent the restoration of order.
Special dances are described in which performers praised the courage of the victorious groom, the dignity and modesty traditionally associated with the bride, and the endurance of those who accepted the burdens imposed by fate. The Kliba was not excluded from these ceremonies; instead, the chronicler claims that the office itself became part of the ritual narrative, illustrating that every triumph inevitably cast another into hardship.
The anonymous author concludes with a final observation:
"The conqueror is remembered for his victories, the bride for the beginning of a new household, yet the Kliba remains the living memory of defeat. Thus the wedding celebrates not only joy, but the fragile balance upon which kingdoms rise and fall."
..........
When Probal finally lowered the book, he realized his hands were shaking.
His mouth had gone dry.
Every page seemed to draw an impossible connection between the strange words Ganpat had spoken and the circumstances in which he now found himself.
For the first time since waking, dread replaced confusion.
The book was no longer merely recounting an obscure tradition.
It felt as though it had been placed in his hands for a reason.
......
At the same time
Once she entered the cozy clinic room, Komolini noticed a shaking stirr inside her breasts once more and she wondered how all of a sudden she could trigger her arousal points and then....
Then Ganpat came to mind.
His piercing, unblinking gaze from earlier in the day had left an impression on her—not because it was welcome, but because it had been so intense. His imposing presence and the way he had silently scrutinized her had lingered in her thoughts despite her efforts to dismiss it.
Holding the hem of her pallu, Komolini closed her eyes, frustrated that Ganpat's words had lodged themselves so firmly in her mind...
"Marry me... Be my wife for a day..."
The memory echoed less as an invitation and more as an intrusion. His intense stare, his commanding presence, and the sheer audacity of his proposal finally made her shirt the pallu aside and slowly run her fingers around her nipple areas within the blouse. Soft murmurs escaping her lips as she played with her nipple area with small careeses of her fingers.
She stood on the small chair in the room and placed the container on the table and unbuttoned her blouse along with the bra mid strap which finally made her naked breasts bounce snd nipple-aimed on the container. Closing her eyes, she groped each breast and mauled them with a good amount of finger grip pressure on the nipples.
In her mind, Ganpat smiled and..
A drop formed and straight into the container.
Some more visions followed and more drops fell asleep Ganpat held her hand, lips closer to hers, the polite but dominant tone used for the words "marry me.."
Komolini kept mauling her breasts and finger-gripping her nipples as more snd more drops came out and fell on the container with subtle but strong forbidden visions of Ganpat scanning her body, touching her shoulder right infront of her helpless husband and then ofcoarse the last few squeezes of her hillocks were justified by the words "wife for a night.."
"Aaj uhnmmmmm...." Low sensual moans escaped her lips as she filled the container with reasonable drops of her milk and immediately got back to normal and closed her blouse buttons and rushed out of the room.
Once Komolini was seated back on her visitor chair, Dr Urmila studied the container carefully before drawing attention to Kavita....
"I'll have this analyzed as soon as possible," she said. "Once the laboratory work is complete, I'll prepare a detailed report and contact you personally."
Komolini nodded, lingering by the door.
"Doctor... I have one request."
"Of course."
"Please keep today's appointment absolutely confidential. I don't want anyone—not my family, not acquaintances—to know I came here."
Dr. Urmila reached across the desk and gently rested a reassuring hand over Komolini's.
"You have my word. Everything you've shared today is protected by doctor-patient confidentiality. Your records and the laboratory samples will be handled discreetly."
A visible weight seemed to lift from Komolini's shoulders.
"Thank you."
She adjusted her sari, offered a polite smile, and quietly left the consulting room.
As the door clicked shut, Dr. Urmila remained seated for a moment, her thoughts lingering on the unusual case. She replayed the brief encounter in her mind and wondered if, just before leaving, she had caught the faintest hint of a smile on Komolini's face—or whether it had simply been her imagination.
Shaking off the thought, she turned her attention back to the specimen.
...........
On the other hand
Probal shut the book with more force than he intended.
His breathing had become shallow.
"No..."
The word escaped him almost instinctively.
"This can't be real."
His mind raced through every page he had just read. Each paragraph had seemed more absurd than the last, yet together they formed a chilling picture. His hands curled into tight fists.
For one blinding instant, rage overwhelmed him.
He imagined confronting Ganpat—grabbing him by the collar, demanding answers, making him pay for every word in that accursed manuscript.
The thought flashed across his mind with startling clarity.
Then, just as quickly, it dissolved.
Probal frowned.
Why had his anger faded so suddenly?
He should have been consumed by it.
Instead, a strange heaviness lingered in his limbs. His body still felt sluggish, as though the effects of whatever had been injected into him had not entirely worn off. Every attempt to summon the fury burning inside him seemed to falter before it could fully take hold.
He looked around the room.
Only then did he truly notice it.
The walls were painted in warm, earthy tones. Soft afternoon light filtered through neatly drawn curtains, casting a golden glow across the polished wooden furniture. A brass oil lamp rested in one corner beside a small shrine, while the faint fragrance of sandalwood drifted lazily through the air.
The room felt... peaceful.
Almost impossibly so.
The scent settled over him with quiet persistence, slowing his breathing despite the storm inside his mind. The carefully arranged bedding, the spotless floor, and the comforting warmth of the room stood in stark contrast to the prison cell he had occupied only hours earlier.
It was unnerving.
The serenity itself felt like part of the design.
His heart continued to pound from what he had read, yet the room seemed determined to soothe him, as though urging him to stop resisting and simply rest.
That contradiction unsettled him more than the manuscript.
His thoughts screamed that he should flee, fight, do something.
Yet his body remained still on the bed, caught between lingering weakness and an inexplicable calm.
Probal slowly looked back at the dark maroon book resting beside him and slowly drifted to sleep with quick blinking of his eyes until they shut off quietly....
The Dream
He found himself standing in what resembled the magnificent court of ancient Hastinapura.
Towering stone pillars rose toward an unseen ceiling, their surfaces carved with scenes of kings, battles, and celestial beings. Hundreds of oil lamps and chandeliers bathed the royal hall in a warm amber glow, causing polished marble to shimmer beneath his feet. The air carried the fragrance of sandalwood, incense, and fresh flowers.
The court was already assembled.
Rows of broad-shouldered warriors stood in disciplined silence, clad in mythological armor, jeweled armlets, and flowing royal garments befitting the age of emperors. Their imposing physiques radiated unquestioned authority.
Probal instinctively lowered his gaze.
Something felt... different.
He glanced at his own hands.
They appeared strangely delicate.
His wrists were adorned with slender golden bangles that chimed softly whenever he moved. Fine rings rested upon his fingers, while intricate patterns traced his palms in deep crimson dye. Long, carefully groomed nails reflected the warm light of the lamps.
A loose strand of dark hair brushed against his cheek.
Confused, he reached upward.
Instead of the familiar roughness of his own appearance, his fingers met a long, carefully arranged braid decorated with fragrant jasmine blossoms.
His heartbeat quickened.
He looked down.
His attire resembled that traditionally associated with Brihannala—elegant layered garments in muted royal colors, a gracefully dbangd sash, embroidered borders, and delicate ornaments that moved with the slightest shift of his body.
He did not recognize the figure.
Yet, unsettlingly...
...he recognized the posture.
His shoulders rested lower than usual.
His breathing was slower.
His movements seemed measured, practiced, almost ceremonial.
It was as though his body already understood the etiquette of the court while his mind desperately resisted it.
"What is happening to me...?"
His own voice sounded unfamiliar in the vast hall.
A ripple of murmurs spread through the assembly.
Then a booming announcement echoed across the chamber.
"Raja Kichak haazir ho rahe hai!"
The entire court immediately fell silent.
Heavy footsteps reverberated across the polished stone floor.
Each measured stride seemed to shake the pillars themselves.
Probal wanted to step back.
His feet refused.
The approaching figure first appeared as an immense shadow stretching across the marble, swallowing the light before it.
As the silhouette emerged from the darkness into the golden glow of the court, Probal's breath caught.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
Standing before him, clad in the regal attire traditionally attributed to the mighty Kichaka, broad-chested and radiating effortless command...
...was Ganpat Gawande.
The man's gaze settled upon Probal with quiet certainty.
The court remained motionless.
So did Probal.
Somewhere deep within him, reason screamed that this was impossible.
Yet the dream refused to let him wake.
The steady rhythm of the dholak broke the silence.
Dhoom... dhoom... dhoom...
Each beat echoed through the vast court like the pulse of the palace itself.
Ganpat—now bearing the commanding presence of Kichaka—did not utter a word. He merely watched.
His unwavering gaze alone seemed to command the entire hall.
Unable to understand why, Probal found his attention drawn toward the royal throne.
There sat Minister Vinayak Aapte, transformed within the dream into King Virat, clad in regal silks and heavy ornaments. The king smiled with unmistakable approval.
"Observe," he proclaimed to the gathered court. "See the grace of Brihannala. The discipline in every posture... the elegance of every movement."
Probal's heart lurched.
He looked down at himself once more.
The bangles resting upon his wrists caught the glow of the lamps.
The faint sheen upon his face reflected the golden light.
His garments, ornaments, and carefully arranged appearance all seemed impossibly real.
"No..."
His thoughts screamed in protest.
"This isn't me."
Yet the dholak continued.
Dhoom... dhoom... dhoom...
Almost against his will, his body responded.
One foot shifted.
Then the other.
The tiny bells around his ankles answered the rhythm with a delicate chorus.
His wrists lifted instinctively, tracing movements his conscious mind had never learned.
His waist turned with measured precision.
Every gesture felt practiced.
Every step seemed remembered by the dream itself.
"No..."
He tried to stop.
Nothing happened.
The music continued to draw him onward.
Around him, the two most powerful figures in the court slowly circled.
King Virat observed with approving composure.
Kichaka watched in complete silence.
Neither needed to issue commands.
The unbearable part was not the movement.
It was the attention.
Hundreds of unseen eyes seemed fixed upon him.
Every chime of a bangle.
Every soft ring of the anklets.
Every tap of his feet against the polished stone echoed through the immense hall.
He felt stripped not of clothing, but of certainty.
His thoughts raced.
"Why can't I stop?"
"Why does my body know these movements?"
"Wake up..."
The music swelled.
The lamps burned brighter.
The hall seemed to close around him.
His breathing became ragged.
He shut his eyes tightly and screamed with every ounce of strength he possessed.
"NO!!!!!!"
---
Probal jolted upright.
His lungs dragged in air as though he had surfaced from deep water.
For several moments he could hear nothing except his own breathing.
The room was quiet.
The palace had vanished.
The dholak was gone.
Only the faint fragrance of sandalwood lingered in the air.
His hands were still clutching the dark purple book against his chest.
He stared at it in silence.
His breathing remained deep and uneven as he struggled to separate the dream from reality.
Slowly, he lowered the book into his lap and to his horror, he looked at his groin area. There was a reasonable lump and his balls looked inflated as if suddenly injected with some arousal serum. The dream was awfully vivid and looked like some homo-erotic fictional scene, but certainly the hardening of his dick wasn't a fiction.
Taking a big sigh, he asked himself with terrified eyes....
"Where on earth did I get myself into??"
Dr. Urmila Deshpande adjusted the illuminated scan on the viewing panel, studying it once more before speaking. On a surprisingly short notice she agreed to see her new patient..
Komolini Chatterjee!
"This isn't what I expected to see, Mrs. Chatterjee."
Komolini folded her arms. "Neither did I."
"The fullness you're experiencing isn't because of inflammation or a tumor." Urmila traced a section of the image with her pen. "The glandular tissue appears unusually active. Your milk ducts are markedly distended, and the glands seem to be producing an extraordinary volume of milk."
Komolini stared at the scan. The pale branching structures filled much of the image.
"So... that's why they feel so heavy?"
Urmila nodded slowly.
"Yes. They're engorged with milk. In someone who isn't pregnant or nursing—especially at your age—this is exceptionally unusual."
Komolini let out a slow breath.
"I knew something was wrong. Every day the pressure keeps increasing."
The doctor's expression shifted from surprise to intense curiosity.
"I've practiced medicine for nearly twenty years," she said quietly, "and I've never encountered a case quite like this. Lactation outside the normal reproductive period can happen, but not to this extent."
She reached for her notebook.
"I'd like to investigate this thoroughly. We'll need a complete hormone profile, pituitary imaging, and samples of the milk for laboratory analysis. Something is driving this process, and until we identify the cause, we're only seeing the symptom."
Komolini nodded.
"I came here because I knew someone would finally believe me."
Dr. Urmila gave a reassuring smile.
"I do believe you. The scan leaves no room for doubt. The real mystery is why your body has suddenly begun producing so much milk."
The room fell silent as both women looked once more at the glowing image, realizing they were facing a medical puzzle unlike anything either of them had imagined.
"I know it may sound weird but.... you need to take it out from sparking some arousal points!" Dr Urmila adjusted her glases as she said so and Komolini herself was bewildered.
"What do you mean??"
"There is a room out there, take your privacy.....but I need a good small sample and umm yes take this"
Dr Urmila handed Komolini a small container to store the milk drops and sensing the intensity of the situation, Komolini took it with shaking hands and uttered a pouting "excuse me" before heading to the room and watching the door shut, Dr Urmila took a big sigh and tapped the pen on the table. Her professional mind absolutely confused yet curious.
...............
Meanwhile
Probal stirred awake with a dull ache lingering through his body, the kind that follows an unnaturally long sleep. He let out a slow yawn, blinking repeatedly as his eyes adjusted to the soft light filtering into the room.
For a few moments, he simply sat there.
Then his gaze fell upon the dark maroon book resting across his lap.
The memory returned at once.
The woman.
Her calm smile.
The reassuring tone in which she had spoken.
"Read it when you've rested."
Taking a slow, steady breath, Probal lifted the heavy volume into his hands. Its cover remained as mysterious as before—plain, unmarked, and silent.
His fingers hesitated over the first page.
Something inside him resisted opening it.
Yet curiosity prevailed.
The page turned with a faint rustle.
His eyes widened.
Occupying nearly the entire page was a finely detailed charcoal sketch of Brihannala—the androgynous identity assumed by Arjuna during his incognito exile.
The artist had captured an extraordinary balance of strength and grace. The figure's posture was composed and dignified, adorned with ornaments and flowing garments, while the face retained an unmistakable hint of the great warrior concealed beneath the disguise. The eyes, calm yet resolute, seemed almost alive, meeting Probal's gaze across the page.
Beneath the illustration, a single line had been written in elegant script:
"The greatest disguises conceal not weakness, but the strength that awaits its rightful hour."
Probal stared at the words for a long time.
An uneasy feeling settled over him and with an immense hesitation, he saw the first chapter....
The Kliba Role
Among the lesser-known customs attributed to the warrior principalities of the Western Deccan in this account is the ceremonial office known as the Kliba. Unlike hereditary titles or military ranks, the Kliba was regarded as a condition of ritual submission, imposed upon a defeated warrior after the conclusion of a decisive conflict between rival clans.
According to the tradition described in these chronicles, martial defeat was believed to require more than the surrender of weapons or territory. A warrior who had failed to defend the honor of his lineage was expected to surrender his pride before he could once again be accepted by society. This symbolic humiliation was embodied in the role of the Kliba.
The defeated warrior was ceremonially dressed in traditional women's attire appropriate to the region, often including a Nauvari-style garment, ornaments reserved for household ceremonies, and other symbols of domestic service. The attire was not intended to signify a change of identity but rather to represent the inversion of status. The once-commanding warrior now occupied the lowest ceremonial position within the victor's household.
The Kliba's foremost duty was to escort the bride to the victorious groom during the wedding rites. The act symbolized the defeated clan acknowledging not merely military loss but the transfer of prestige, authority, and social standing to the victorious lineage. The procession was conducted without protest, and the Kliba was expected to display complete composure throughout the ceremony.
Some manuscripts of this fictional tradition further describe that, in particularly severe settlements between rival houses, the defeated warrior might be required to escort a woman of his own household—whether a sister, wife, concubine, or another female relative whose participation had been agreed upon by the families involved—as part of a negotiated political reconciliation. These accounts portray the gesture as an emblem of total submission by the defeated clan, though such descriptions vary greatly among different versions of the legend.
The responsibilities of the Kliba extended far beyond the wedding procession itself. Throughout the celebrations, the Kliba acted as chief domestic attendant, coordinating household preparations, assisting cooks, arranging ceremonial objects, greeting guests, and ensuring that every aspect of the marriage festivities proceeded without interruption. Contemporary descriptions within these fictional chronicles praise the ideal Kliba not for martial skill but for discipline, humility, and flawless service.
Cooking formed another important obligation. A capable Kliba was expected to prepare festive meals, oversee kitchen arrangements, and ensure that food reflected the generosity of the victorious household. Excellence in culinary skill was regarded as proof that the former warrior had abandoned arrogance in favor of devoted service.
The chronicles also describe the Kliba as a trusted household maid during the early period of the newly married couple's life. Duties included maintaining ceremonial chambers, arranging garments and ornaments for festivals, carrying messages within the household, and assisting with numerous domestic tasks. Loyalty was considered absolute, and disobedience was portrayed as a grave dishonor.
Despite the apparent humiliation associated with the office, some fictional manuscripts suggest that a Kliba who fulfilled every duty with unwavering dedication could eventually regain personal honor. In these accounts, true strength was measured not only by victory in battle but also by the capacity to endure defeat with dignity and fulfill even the most difficult obligations without resentment.
Modern historians, within the fictional setting of these chronicles, generally interpret the Kliba not as a historical institution but as a literary symbol illustrating the complete reversal of fortune experienced by defeated warriors. Whether literal or allegorical, the figure serves as a recurring reminder that power, status, and honor were portrayed as fleeting, while duty and endurance remained the enduring virtues celebrated by the narrative.
.............
Upon reading the preceding passages, Probal's hands began to tremble.
His eyes darted across the page once more, hoping he had misunderstood the words. Every sentence seemed more impossible than the last.
"Grooming..."
So that was what Ganpat had meant.
His pulse quickened.
Unable to resist the urge to understand the nightmare into which he had been drawn, Probal slowly turned the page.
..........
Chapter continued....
According to the anonymous chronicler, every Kliba was expected to look toward Brihannala—the guise assumed by Arjuna during his incognito exile in the Mahabharata—as the symbolic embodiment of endurance through humiliation. The text carefully distinguished this reverence from worship in the conventional sense. Rather, Brihannala was presented as the archetype of a warrior who concealed pride, restrained martial identity, and survived through discipline rather than force.
The manuscript asserted that the women of the victorious household bore the responsibility of instructing the appointed Kliba in the customs of domestic life. These lessons allegedly included etiquette, graceful movement through ceremonial spaces, respectful speech before elders, methods of serving honored guests, and the countless routines expected of trusted attendants within noble residences.
The chronicler repeatedly emphasized that such instruction was intended to erase the outward habits of command. Every gesture of authority was to be replaced by deliberate restraint, every instinct toward confrontation by patient obedience. The Kliba was expected to anticipate needs before they were voiced, to maintain order without recognition, and to place the comfort of the newly married household above personal dignity.
One recurring phrase appears throughout the surviving fictional manuscript:
"Strength surrendered is still strength; only its purpose has changed."
Whether intended sincerely or ironically remains a matter of debate among scholars within the fictional world.
The concluding section turns unexpectedly festive.
It describes the wedding not as a celebration of conquest alone but as a carefully choreographed affirmation of social harmony after conflict. Musicians, elders, priests, attendants, and the appointed Kliba each fulfilled symbolic roles intended to represent the restoration of order.
Special dances are described in which performers praised the courage of the victorious groom, the dignity and modesty traditionally associated with the bride, and the endurance of those who accepted the burdens imposed by fate. The Kliba was not excluded from these ceremonies; instead, the chronicler claims that the office itself became part of the ritual narrative, illustrating that every triumph inevitably cast another into hardship.
The anonymous author concludes with a final observation:
"The conqueror is remembered for his victories, the bride for the beginning of a new household, yet the Kliba remains the living memory of defeat. Thus the wedding celebrates not only joy, but the fragile balance upon which kingdoms rise and fall."
..........
When Probal finally lowered the book, he realized his hands were shaking.
His mouth had gone dry.
Every page seemed to draw an impossible connection between the strange words Ganpat had spoken and the circumstances in which he now found himself.
For the first time since waking, dread replaced confusion.
The book was no longer merely recounting an obscure tradition.
It felt as though it had been placed in his hands for a reason.
......
At the same time
Once she entered the cozy clinic room, Komolini noticed a shaking stirr inside her breasts once more and she wondered how all of a sudden she could trigger her arousal points and then....
Then Ganpat came to mind.
His piercing, unblinking gaze from earlier in the day had left an impression on her—not because it was welcome, but because it had been so intense. His imposing presence and the way he had silently scrutinized her had lingered in her thoughts despite her efforts to dismiss it.
Holding the hem of her pallu, Komolini closed her eyes, frustrated that Ganpat's words had lodged themselves so firmly in her mind...
"Marry me... Be my wife for a day..."
The memory echoed less as an invitation and more as an intrusion. His intense stare, his commanding presence, and the sheer audacity of his proposal finally made her shirt the pallu aside and slowly run her fingers around her nipple areas within the blouse. Soft murmurs escaping her lips as she played with her nipple area with small careeses of her fingers.
She stood on the small chair in the room and placed the container on the table and unbuttoned her blouse along with the bra mid strap which finally made her naked breasts bounce snd nipple-aimed on the container. Closing her eyes, she groped each breast and mauled them with a good amount of finger grip pressure on the nipples.
In her mind, Ganpat smiled and..
A drop formed and straight into the container.
Some more visions followed and more drops fell asleep Ganpat held her hand, lips closer to hers, the polite but dominant tone used for the words "marry me.."
Komolini kept mauling her breasts and finger-gripping her nipples as more snd more drops came out and fell on the container with subtle but strong forbidden visions of Ganpat scanning her body, touching her shoulder right infront of her helpless husband and then ofcoarse the last few squeezes of her hillocks were justified by the words "wife for a night.."
"Aaj uhnmmmmm...." Low sensual moans escaped her lips as she filled the container with reasonable drops of her milk and immediately got back to normal and closed her blouse buttons and rushed out of the room.
Once Komolini was seated back on her visitor chair, Dr Urmila studied the container carefully before drawing attention to Kavita....
"I'll have this analyzed as soon as possible," she said. "Once the laboratory work is complete, I'll prepare a detailed report and contact you personally."
Komolini nodded, lingering by the door.
"Doctor... I have one request."
"Of course."
"Please keep today's appointment absolutely confidential. I don't want anyone—not my family, not acquaintances—to know I came here."
Dr. Urmila reached across the desk and gently rested a reassuring hand over Komolini's.
"You have my word. Everything you've shared today is protected by doctor-patient confidentiality. Your records and the laboratory samples will be handled discreetly."
A visible weight seemed to lift from Komolini's shoulders.
"Thank you."
She adjusted her sari, offered a polite smile, and quietly left the consulting room.
As the door clicked shut, Dr. Urmila remained seated for a moment, her thoughts lingering on the unusual case. She replayed the brief encounter in her mind and wondered if, just before leaving, she had caught the faintest hint of a smile on Komolini's face—or whether it had simply been her imagination.
Shaking off the thought, she turned her attention back to the specimen.
...........
On the other hand
Probal shut the book with more force than he intended.
His breathing had become shallow.
"No..."
The word escaped him almost instinctively.
"This can't be real."
His mind raced through every page he had just read. Each paragraph had seemed more absurd than the last, yet together they formed a chilling picture. His hands curled into tight fists.
For one blinding instant, rage overwhelmed him.
He imagined confronting Ganpat—grabbing him by the collar, demanding answers, making him pay for every word in that accursed manuscript.
The thought flashed across his mind with startling clarity.
Then, just as quickly, it dissolved.
Probal frowned.
Why had his anger faded so suddenly?
He should have been consumed by it.
Instead, a strange heaviness lingered in his limbs. His body still felt sluggish, as though the effects of whatever had been injected into him had not entirely worn off. Every attempt to summon the fury burning inside him seemed to falter before it could fully take hold.
He looked around the room.
Only then did he truly notice it.
The walls were painted in warm, earthy tones. Soft afternoon light filtered through neatly drawn curtains, casting a golden glow across the polished wooden furniture. A brass oil lamp rested in one corner beside a small shrine, while the faint fragrance of sandalwood drifted lazily through the air.
The room felt... peaceful.
Almost impossibly so.
The scent settled over him with quiet persistence, slowing his breathing despite the storm inside his mind. The carefully arranged bedding, the spotless floor, and the comforting warmth of the room stood in stark contrast to the prison cell he had occupied only hours earlier.
It was unnerving.
The serenity itself felt like part of the design.
His heart continued to pound from what he had read, yet the room seemed determined to soothe him, as though urging him to stop resisting and simply rest.
That contradiction unsettled him more than the manuscript.
His thoughts screamed that he should flee, fight, do something.
Yet his body remained still on the bed, caught between lingering weakness and an inexplicable calm.
Probal slowly looked back at the dark maroon book resting beside him and slowly drifted to sleep with quick blinking of his eyes until they shut off quietly....
The Dream
He found himself standing in what resembled the magnificent court of ancient Hastinapura.
Towering stone pillars rose toward an unseen ceiling, their surfaces carved with scenes of kings, battles, and celestial beings. Hundreds of oil lamps and chandeliers bathed the royal hall in a warm amber glow, causing polished marble to shimmer beneath his feet. The air carried the fragrance of sandalwood, incense, and fresh flowers.
The court was already assembled.
Rows of broad-shouldered warriors stood in disciplined silence, clad in mythological armor, jeweled armlets, and flowing royal garments befitting the age of emperors. Their imposing physiques radiated unquestioned authority.
Probal instinctively lowered his gaze.
Something felt... different.
He glanced at his own hands.
They appeared strangely delicate.
His wrists were adorned with slender golden bangles that chimed softly whenever he moved. Fine rings rested upon his fingers, while intricate patterns traced his palms in deep crimson dye. Long, carefully groomed nails reflected the warm light of the lamps.
A loose strand of dark hair brushed against his cheek.
Confused, he reached upward.
Instead of the familiar roughness of his own appearance, his fingers met a long, carefully arranged braid decorated with fragrant jasmine blossoms.
His heartbeat quickened.
He looked down.
His attire resembled that traditionally associated with Brihannala—elegant layered garments in muted royal colors, a gracefully dbangd sash, embroidered borders, and delicate ornaments that moved with the slightest shift of his body.
He did not recognize the figure.
Yet, unsettlingly...
...he recognized the posture.
His shoulders rested lower than usual.
His breathing was slower.
His movements seemed measured, practiced, almost ceremonial.
It was as though his body already understood the etiquette of the court while his mind desperately resisted it.
"What is happening to me...?"
His own voice sounded unfamiliar in the vast hall.
A ripple of murmurs spread through the assembly.
Then a booming announcement echoed across the chamber.
"Raja Kichak haazir ho rahe hai!"
The entire court immediately fell silent.
Heavy footsteps reverberated across the polished stone floor.
Each measured stride seemed to shake the pillars themselves.
Probal wanted to step back.
His feet refused.
The approaching figure first appeared as an immense shadow stretching across the marble, swallowing the light before it.
As the silhouette emerged from the darkness into the golden glow of the court, Probal's breath caught.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
Standing before him, clad in the regal attire traditionally attributed to the mighty Kichaka, broad-chested and radiating effortless command...
...was Ganpat Gawande.
The man's gaze settled upon Probal with quiet certainty.
The court remained motionless.
So did Probal.
Somewhere deep within him, reason screamed that this was impossible.
Yet the dream refused to let him wake.
The steady rhythm of the dholak broke the silence.
Dhoom... dhoom... dhoom...
Each beat echoed through the vast court like the pulse of the palace itself.
Ganpat—now bearing the commanding presence of Kichaka—did not utter a word. He merely watched.
His unwavering gaze alone seemed to command the entire hall.
Unable to understand why, Probal found his attention drawn toward the royal throne.
There sat Minister Vinayak Aapte, transformed within the dream into King Virat, clad in regal silks and heavy ornaments. The king smiled with unmistakable approval.
"Observe," he proclaimed to the gathered court. "See the grace of Brihannala. The discipline in every posture... the elegance of every movement."
Probal's heart lurched.
He looked down at himself once more.
The bangles resting upon his wrists caught the glow of the lamps.
The faint sheen upon his face reflected the golden light.
His garments, ornaments, and carefully arranged appearance all seemed impossibly real.
"No..."
His thoughts screamed in protest.
"This isn't me."
Yet the dholak continued.
Dhoom... dhoom... dhoom...
Almost against his will, his body responded.
One foot shifted.
Then the other.
The tiny bells around his ankles answered the rhythm with a delicate chorus.
His wrists lifted instinctively, tracing movements his conscious mind had never learned.
His waist turned with measured precision.
Every gesture felt practiced.
Every step seemed remembered by the dream itself.
"No..."
He tried to stop.
Nothing happened.
The music continued to draw him onward.
Around him, the two most powerful figures in the court slowly circled.
King Virat observed with approving composure.
Kichaka watched in complete silence.
Neither needed to issue commands.
The unbearable part was not the movement.
It was the attention.
Hundreds of unseen eyes seemed fixed upon him.
Every chime of a bangle.
Every soft ring of the anklets.
Every tap of his feet against the polished stone echoed through the immense hall.
He felt stripped not of clothing, but of certainty.
His thoughts raced.
"Why can't I stop?"
"Why does my body know these movements?"
"Wake up..."
The music swelled.
The lamps burned brighter.
The hall seemed to close around him.
His breathing became ragged.
He shut his eyes tightly and screamed with every ounce of strength he possessed.
"NO!!!!!!"
---
Probal jolted upright.
His lungs dragged in air as though he had surfaced from deep water.
For several moments he could hear nothing except his own breathing.
The room was quiet.
The palace had vanished.
The dholak was gone.
Only the faint fragrance of sandalwood lingered in the air.
His hands were still clutching the dark purple book against his chest.
He stared at it in silence.
His breathing remained deep and uneven as he struggled to separate the dream from reality.
Slowly, he lowered the book into his lap and to his horror, he looked at his groin area. There was a reasonable lump and his balls looked inflated as if suddenly injected with some arousal serum. The dream was awfully vivid and looked like some homo-erotic fictional scene, but certainly the hardening of his dick wasn't a fiction.
Taking a big sigh, he asked himself with terrified eyes....
"Where on earth did I get myself into??"
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