Misc. Erotica The Goddess (COMPLETED) - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

Swaminathan was the Village Head.


He was an older man, perhaps in his late fifties, with a calm, steady face and a white mundu he always kept clean and properly worn. His hair was mostly grey, parted simply, and his eyes held a quiet weight that made people straighten their backs when he looked at them. He did not speak loudly. He did not need to. When he called a meeting under the big banyan tree in the centre of the village, every family came without delay. Men left their work in the fields. Women set down their pots and walked over. Even the children grew quieter.

Under that banyan tree his word was final.
Boundary disputes between neighbours, the sharing of water from the common well, the timing of the Goddess festival, the rare trouble when an outsider tried to enter our forest path — all of it was placed in front of him. He listened to both sides without interrupting. He asked only a few clear questions. Then he gave his decision in a few short sentences, and the matter ended there. No one argued once Swaminathan had spoken. People respected him. Some feared the quiet disappointment in his eyes more than any raised voice. He had a way of looking at a person that made it difficult to lie or to keep something hidden.
He lived in one of the modest houses near the centre of the village with his wife, who was rarely seen outside for long. He himself moved slowly through the lanes every morning and evening, checking the temple, the well, the path that led toward the river. He was not a rich man. He was not a loud man. Yet the entire village of twenty-five families turned around his calm authority. As long as Swaminathan was the Village Head, order stayed intact and the outside world remained at a distance.
At that time none of us knew how much greater his power would one day become.


The old temple priest had been part of our village for many years before I was even married.
He was a thin man, almost bony, with a fully shaved head that shone under the temple lamps. A thick, permanent mark of sacred ash always sat on his forehead, carefully drawn each morning and never allowed to fade. His face looked soft and harmless at first glance — small eyes that stayed lowered, a mild mouth that rarely smiled widely, and a quiet, almost gentle way of speaking that made people lean in to hear him. He wore the simple orange cloth of a temple priest, dbangd in the traditional way, clean but never rich. When he walked through the village lanes he kept his head slightly bent and his hands folded, the picture of a devoted man who lived only for the Goddess.
He knew every prayer by heart.
He knew every ritual in the correct order.
He knew exactly how many oil lamps should be lit at dawn and at dusk, how the flowers should be placed at the Goddess’s feet, how the camphor should be burned, and which sacred verses should be spoken for which purpose. Because of that deep knowledge the entire village trusted him. The men respected his learning. The older women treated him with open reverence. Young married women were told to listen to him if he ever called them for a special blessing. He was allowed to be alone with women inside the temple more often than any other man in the village. No one questioned it. At that time no one thought anything wrong of it. He looked too humble, too devoted, too much like a true servant of the Goddess for anyone to imagine the hunger that lived underneath.


He always started in the name of blessings.
That was the clever part. He never began with open lust. He began with the Goddess.
After the main evening puja was over and most of the villagers had left the temple, he would wait until the outer courtyard was quiet. Then he would call one woman at a time, usually a younger married woman, and speak to her in the same soft, calm voice he used while chanting the prayers. He would tell her that the Goddess had shown him a special blessing meant only for her, or that a difficulty in her house — a child’s illness, a husband’s long absence, a money problem — could be removed only through a private ritual that needed to be done in the inner chamber. He spoke slowly, with lowered eyes and gentle hands folded in front of him, so that every word sounded pure and necessary.
Most women believed him completely.

They had grown up watching him light the lamps and offer flowers. They had heard their own mothers and aunts speak of him with respect. So when he invited them inside they followed without fear or suspicion. They stepped past the small inner door and into the narrower, darker space where the ancient black stone idol stood. The door would close behind them with a soft sound. Outside, the temple courtyard remained empty and silent. Inside, the air changed at once.

He would stand closer than any priest needed to stand.
There was only a small distance between his thin body and the woman’s. He would raise both hands and place them carefully on her shoulders, as if he was simply positioning her correctly in front of the Goddess so that the blessing could fall straight upon her. His palms rested fully on the curve of her shoulders, fingers spreading slightly over the blouse. He would adjust her stance with small, patient movements — turning her a little to the left, then to the right, pressing down gently as if settling her into the proper place. All the while his body remained too near, the orange cloth of his priest’s dress almost brushing against her saree, his breath close enough for her to feel it. The touch on her shoulders stayed longer than it should have. The closeness felt heavier than a simple ritual required. Yet because he still spoke in the same soft prayer-voice, most women stood still and allowed it, believing it was part of the blessing.