Yesterday, 04:15 PM
Swamiji watched me quietly for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice gentle.
“Come here, child,” he said. “Sit on my lap.”
I hesitated only a second. Something in the way he said it felt safe. I rose and lowered myself onto his lap, my pink chiffon saree spreading over his saffron dhoti. His arm rested lightly around my back, steady and warm, not holding me tightly. The rudraksha mala pressed softly against my shoulder. A fatherly comfort settled over me almost at once. The fear that had lived in my chest for weeks loosened further.
“This something you feel in the house,” he said, his voice close and caring, “when did it begin?”
I looked down at my hands, then answered. “From the day we moved in, Swamiji. The very next morning my husband came home upset. Orders were cancelled. After that the boys started waking at night, crying, saying someone was near the window.”
He nodded, his hand resting calmly on my arm. “Have you seen it yourself?”
“Not clearly,” I said. My voice was softer now. “It comes like wind. There is a smell… warm, familiar. When that smell enters, the house feels heavy. My husband becomes angry. The boys cannot sleep. I feel cold even when the fan is off.”
“And the broker never told you about the accident?”
“Never,” I answered. “He only said they shifted to Coimbatore. Prema told me later about Santosh, Lydia, Chellappan, and Kasiamma. How they died in the Maruti Baleno.”
He listened without rushing me. Each time I paused he waited, his presence steady beneath me. The more I spoke, the more I felt I could open my heart. Sitting on his lap, I told him about the doors closing by themselves, about the boys walking into our room at night, about my husband sitting in the dark. By the time I finished, my voice was quiet, but the weight I had carried alone felt lighter. He remained still, the diyas burning between us, holding everything I had given him with a calm, fatherly care.
Swamiji watched me quietly, the rudraksha mala resting against his chest, the diyas casting a soft, steady light across the stone floor. After a moment he spoke, his voice low and gentle.
“Come here, child,” he said. “Sit on my lap.”
A small flutter of hesitation moved through my stomach. My fingers tightened once on the edge of my pink chiffon saree. Then the calm in his eyes eased it. I rose slowly, my legs feeling a little unsteady beneath me, and lowered myself onto his lap. My pink chiffon saree spread across his saffron dhoti. His arm came around my back, light and steady, the warmth of it settling against my side without pulling me closer. Almost at once a quiet, fatherly comfort moved through my chest. The tight knot of fear that had lived there for weeks loosened. My shoulders dropped. A soft breath left me before I even realized I had been holding it.
“This something you feel in the house,” he said, his voice close and caring, “when did it begin?”
I looked down at my hands resting in my lap. My fingers slowly relaxed against the pink chiffon saree. “From the day we moved in, Swamiji,” I answered, my voice softer than before. “The very next morning my husband came home with his face tight. Two big orders had been cancelled. After that the boys started waking in the middle of the night, crying, saying someone was standing near the window. I would go to them and find all three tangled together, breathing fast.”
He nodded slowly. His hand rested lightly on my arm, the touch calm. “Have you seen it yourself, child?”
A small tightness returned beneath my breasts. I shook my head, the movement small. “Not clearly,” I said. “It comes like wind. There is a smell with it… warm, close, familiar. The moment that smell enters the room, the air feels heavier. My husband becomes angry over small things. The boys cannot stay asleep. I feel cold across my shoulders even when the fan is off and the windows are shut.”
My voice had grown quieter. I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath me. “Does it speak to you?” he asked.
I was quiet for a second. My fingers pressed lightly together. “No,” I said. “It never speaks. It only moves through the house. Doors close when no one is near them. The fan turns even when the switch is off. At night the boys call out and I have to sit with them until they sleep again.”
He listened without rushing me. Each time I paused he waited, his arm remaining light and steady around my back. The more I spoke, the more the words seemed to leave my chest on their own. Sitting there on his lap, I told him about the youngest boy walking into our room and standing silently beside the bed, about my husband sitting in the hall with the lights off, staring at nothing, about the heaviness that settled over me the moment I stepped inside after being out. With every sentence the weight I had carried alone felt a little lighter. By the time I stopped, my voice was soft, almost a whisper, but the tightness under my breasts had eased. He remained still, the diyas burning steadily between us, holding everything I had given him with a calm, fatherly care that made me feel, for the first time in many days, that I was no longer facing it by myself.
Swamiji’s arm remained light and steady around my back, the warmth of it resting against my side while the diyas burned with a soft, unchanging flame between us. For a little while neither of us spoke. Then he asked, his voice still gentle and close to my ear.
“How is it torturing you, child? Tell me what it actually does when it comes to you.”
I looked down at my hands resting on the pink chiffon saree spread across my lap. A slow heat rose in my cheeks and settled there. My fingers pressed together. It took me several seconds to find the words, and when they came my voice was low. “It keeps me horny all the time, Swamiji. It hugs me from behind and kisses my neck until I cannot think straight. The smell makes my knees weak and my body open. Then it takes me to the bed. A cock enters my pussy and fucks me, slowly at first, then harder. I enjoy it. I moan. My body wants more even while it is happening. I cum every time, and it cums inside me. The pleasure is so strong that I forget everything else until it is over.”
My heart beat harder under my pink blouse. Sitting on his lap, the fatherly comfort was still present, yet speaking the truth left me feeling bare and exposed. I kept my eyes on my hands. He stayed quiet for a little while, his breathing steady beneath me. Then he spoke.
“If you are enjoying it so much,” he said calmly, “then why not continue to enjoy it? The pleasure is real. Your body is receiving it willingly.”
The words settled in the quiet room. I did not know how to answer at once. My pink panties felt warm against my pussy beneath the saree. I remained still on his lap, the weight of what I had just admitted resting between us, waiting to hear what he would say next.
I stayed on Swamiji’s lap, his arm still light around my back, the warmth of it steady against my side. The words he had just spoken sat heavily in the quiet room. My pink chiffon saree rested across my thighs. For a moment I could not answer. Then the truth rose in my chest, stronger than the pleasure I had described.
“More than my pleasure, my family is important to me, Swamiji,” I said, my voice already unsteady. “My husband is more important to me. My sons are more important to me. Nothing matters to me more than them. I cannot watch my husband suffer like this every day. I cannot watch my sons wake up scared and fail in their studies. I cannot see the happiness leave our house while I am the only one receiving pleasure.”
My throat tightened. Tears gathered in my eyes before I could stop them. One slipped down my cheek, then another. I lowered my head, my shoulders beginning to shake. “I love them,” I whispered. “I cannot bear to see them like this. Please… I do not want the pleasure if it means they keep suffering.”
The tears came freely now. I cried softly on his lap, my hands covering my face, the pink chiffon saree damp where the tears fell. Swamiji’s arm remained around me, steady and gentle. He did not speak at once. His other hand rose and rested lightly on my head, the touch calm and fatherly.
“It is all right, child,” he said quietly. “You have spoken the truth of your heart. Cry if you need to. I am here.”
I stayed there, weeping, feeling the weight of the weeks finally leave my chest while his hand remained on my head and the diyas burned steadily around us.
I remained on Swamiji’s lap, tears still slipping down my cheeks, my hands lowered now to rest trembling on the pink chiffon saree. His hand stayed gently on my head. The fatherly warmth of his presence made it possible to speak again, though my voice came out broken.
“Please save me, Swamiji,” I said, almost begging. “It has been taking too much pleasure from me. Every time it comes, it takes everything… my body, my moans, my cumming. I feel so sorry for my husband. That pleasure should have been his. He should have been the one enjoying me, not something else. I cannot let it keep taking what belongs to him while he suffers. Please save my husband and my sons. Please drive it out of our house. I am asking you with everything I have.”
My shoulders shook again. I looked up at him through wet eyes, my heart open and raw. He nodded slowly, the movement calm and certain. His hand moved from my head to rest lightly on my shoulder, steadying me.
“I hear you, child,” he said, his voice soft and sure. “You have asked with a true heart. I will help you. We will free your house. Your husband and your sons will be safe. You do not have to carry this alone anymore.”
A shaky breath left me. Fresh tears came, but they felt lighter. I leaned a little into the comfort of his arm, the diyas burning steadily around us, and for the first time in many days I allowed myself to believe that help had finally come.
Swamiji’s hand remained lightly on my shoulder as the last of my tears slowed. The diyas burned steadily. After a quiet moment he spoke, his voice still calm.
“There is a ritual that must be performed, child,” he said. “It will cost one lakh. The money is only to buy the materials needed for the pooja. Nothing more.”
I looked up at him, my eyes still wet. “Money is not the matter, Swamiji,” I answered. “If it will free my house, I will arrange it.”
He nodded. “It must be done on the next Amavasai night. That falls on Friday. Only you should be in the house with me. Your husband and sons must not be there.”
I nodded slowly, my hands resting on the pink chiffon saree in my lap. “I understand,” I said. “I will make sure they are away.”
“Ganesan will give you the full list of ritual items,” he continued. “Prepare them before Friday.”
I was still nodding when his next words came. “At midnight I will have to make love to you. The thing must watch. Only when it sees another man taking the pleasure it has been taking will its power weaken. Then I can capture it, seal it inside the pot, and remove it from your house forever.”
The moment he said it I stood up. My legs felt unsteady beneath the pink chiffon saree. “No,” I said at once, my voice sharp with shock. “I cannot do that.”
Swamiji rose as well, his saffron dhoti shifting, the rudraksha mala resting against his chest. He did not raise his voice. “Listen, child,” he said gently. “The ritual requires it. When the thing sees me enter you and take what it believes belongs only to it, anger will break its hold. That is the moment its strength fails. I will bind it then, place it in the pot, carry it outside, and throw it away. After that you and your family will be free. There is no other way.”
I stood facing him, heart beating hard under my pink blouse, the weight of his words settling over me in the quiet room.
Swamiji remained standing before me, the rudraksha mala resting against his chest, his voice still calm and steady in the quiet room lit by the diyas. “It already knows you are here, child,” he said. “When you return it will press harder on your husband and your sons.”
A cold weight settled low in my stomach. I stood with my hands resting at my sides, the pink chiffon saree heavy against my hips and thighs, my fingers curling once into the edge of the pallu. He already knows I left the house. It will be worse when I go back.
“Go home and think,” he continued, his tone gentle. “After the ritual everything will disappear. Your husband’s business will prosper again. Your sons will pass their subjects with high marks. As for making love, it is only a step in the pooja, no different from offering flowers. I have even made love to Prema in this way, and her problems ended after that night.”
The mention of Prema sent a slow confusion through my chest. If Prema allowed him to enter her for her family, then maybe I can too. Yet even as that thought formed, another rose against it. How will I let this ugly old man fuck me? His face is lined, the saffron dhoti loose at his waist. The thought of his cock inside my pussy feels wrong. A tight unease gathered between my thighs.
He looked at me steadily, his eyes calm. “I know what you are thinking, child,” he said. “You are wondering how you will let this old man fuck you.”
My breath caught in my throat. Heat rose quickly in my cheeks. He knows. He actually knows what I was just thinking. I shook my head, the movement small. “No, Swamiji,” I said. “I was not thinking that.”
“You were,” he answered, his voice remaining calm and certain. “I know.”
For a moment something shifted inside me. He is not ordinary. He can see what moves through my mind. He is divine. The knowledge settled over me like both a weight and a strange relief.
“It does not matter if you like it or not,” he said. “Only I can save you and your family. The only way is to let me fuck you. If you do not wish to see my face while it happens, close your eyes and lie down. I will do what must be done. You need only receive it.”
The words closed around me. Close my eyes and lie down. Just receive it. Is that all? I looked at him, my heart beating hard under my pink blouse, the two minds still pulling at each other. My hands remained at my sides, the pink chiffon saree still heavy against my body.
“I will think about it, Swamiji,” I said, my voice softer. “I will let you know.”
I turned toward the door. My hand touched the latch. As I began to open it he spoke again. “Decide before next week. If you wait longer I cannot remove it. It will stay in your house forever.”
Forever. If I wait, it stays forever. A fresh chill moved through my chest and down my arms. I opened the door fully and stepped out, my heart still beating hard, the weight of his knowing gaze and his words resting on me as the door closed behind me.
I had only taken a few steps away from the door when Swamiji’s voice called me back. “Sudha, child. Come here once more.”
I turned. My heart was still beating hard under my pink blouse. I walked back into the room. He was seated again on the mat. He closed his eyes. His lips began to move in a low whisper, words I could not catch. The diyas flickered once. I stood still, the pink chiffon saree heavy against my body, watching him. What is he doing now?
After a minute he opened his eyes. He reached beside him and lifted a thin black thread. He held it out to me. “Tie this around your waist,” he said, his voice calm. “Wear it until the ritual is finished. As long as this thread stays on you, the Wind will not touch you. It will not enter your body. It will not make you horny. You will be left in peace until Friday.”
I took the thread. It felt ordinary between my fingers, yet a small relief moved through my chest. If this can keep the Wind away even for a few days, I will wear it. I nodded. “Thank you, Swamiji,” I said softly.
He nodded once. I turned and left the room. Prema was waiting outside in her brown saree. She looked at my face, then at the black thread in my hand, but she did not ask. We walked together back through the narrow passage, the trees closing around us, the black thread resting in my palm as we made our way toward the car.
Prema was already waiting near the car when I came out of the narrow passage. She looked tired, her brown saree slightly loose at the shoulder, her eyes heavy as if she had been lying down. There was a softness in the way she moved, a quiet satisfaction around her mouth, and for a moment I felt certain that Ganesan had fucked her while I was inside with Swamiji. She did not speak of it. She only smiled faintly when she saw me and climbed into the passenger seat.
I let her sleep. Her head rested against the window as I drove, the brown saree rising and falling with her slow breaths. When we reached her house I woke her gently. She got down, adjusted her saree, and went inside without many words. I turned the car toward home.
By the time I unlocked the gate and stepped into the house the familiar smell touched me at once. The Wind was there. It moved against my neck, warm and knowing. Fear rose sharply. I turned and ran back to the car, my pink chiffon saree catching at my ankles. Inside the car I lifted my blouse and tied the black thread tightly around my waist, just above the white petticoat. My hands shook. When I walked back inside the smell was gone. The air was still. Nothing touched me. No heat gathered between my thighs. For the first time in many days the Wind was silent.
My husband was in the hall. He looked up when I entered. “How was the wedding?” he asked.
“It was good,” I said. My voice was calm. “Prema’s sister looked happy.”
We sat together. The boys came out of their room and showed me a maths paper they had finished. I listened. I smiled. The house felt ordinary. That night I lay beside my husband in my nighty and panties and nothing entered the room. The next day was the same. The black thread stayed hidden at my waist. The Wind did not come. My husband spoke more easily. The boys studied without being told and later went outside to play basketball, their voices carrying across the lane. For two full days the house held a quiet happiness I had almost forgotten, and I moved through it freely, the thread warm against my skin, the silence of the Wind feeling like a gift.
For two days I had begun to relax. The black thread stayed warm and unnoticed at my waist beneath my clothes. The Wind had not touched me. I moved through the house with a lightness I had almost forgotten, smiling when my husband spoke, sitting with the boys while they finished their homework. I thought it was gone.
On the third morning the horror returned. My husband woke already shouting. An order that had been confirmed the night before was cancelled without reason. He slammed the phone down and sat with his head in his hands, his face tight with a anger that had no clear cause. The boys came to breakfast silent. The eldest said he had dreamed of someone standing at the foot of his bed again. The younger two pushed their food around and could not remember what the teacher had taught the previous day. None of them knew what was happening. They only felt the sudden heaviness, the fear that returned without warning, the small failures that kept arriving.
I knew. I stood in the kitchen with my hand resting over the black thread hidden under my saree and understood at once. The Wind had not left. It had only been kept from my body. Now it was more angry. It had turned fully toward my husband and my sons, pressing harder on them because it could no longer reach me. The happiness of the last two days cracked. I watched them suffer and felt the cold certainty settle in my chest: the thread had protected only me, and the thing in the house was punishing the rest of my family for it.
Four days remained until Amavasai. Friday still sat ahead of us, yet the house had already grown heavier with each passing hour. The black thread stayed tied at my waist beneath my saree, keeping the Wind from my body, but it had turned its full strength toward my husband. On the first morning a long-standing client cancelled a bulk order without explanation, the money that had been promised simply disappearing from the accounts. By afternoon a raw-material supplier who had worked with him for years refused to release the next shipment, claiming an old invoice that had already been settled. In the evening the bank called about a temporary hold on the company account, a technical error no one could trace. He spent the night moving between phone calls, his voice rising then dropping into exhausted silence, his shoulders bent over the dining table while the papers spread unread before him.
The next day brought more. A competitor undercut a tender he had been certain to win. Two workers did not report, and the ones who came moved slowly, as if something weighed on them. He came home later than usual, the lines around his eyes deeper, and sat without speaking while the boys picked at their food. I watched from the kitchen doorway, my hand resting over the thread hidden under my blouse. The boys moved quietly through the house, their books open but unread, one of them rubbing his eyes as if sleep had been stolen again. None of them understood why everything had begun to fail so completely. Only I knew. The Wind was punishing them because it could no longer reach me. Every cancelled order, every missing payment, every frightened, unfinished night sat in my hands. I was the only one who could stop it. The ritual waited on Friday. Until then I had to carry the knowledge alone, feeling the weight of my husband’s growing despair and my sons’ quiet fear press harder against my chest while the thread kept me untouched and the days moved slowly toward the night when I would have to decide.
That night my husband sat on the edge of the bed long after the boys had gone to their room. The lamp was low. His shoulders were bent. I stood in front of him, reached under my nighty, and slowly removed my panties, letting them fall to the floor. Then I lifted the nighty above my waist and held it there, showing him my pussy and my asshole. Both were cleanly shaved, smooth the way he had always liked.
“I shaved for you,” I said softly. “The way you like it. Let me help you feel better. Fuck me. It will ease your mind for a little while.”
He looked. His eyes moved over my bare pussy and then lower to my asshole. He reached out and touched me lightly, his fingers parting my pussy just enough to see, then brushing once over my asshole. The examination was brief. After a moment he pulled the nighty back down, covering me again.
“I am not in the mood,” he said, his voice rough. Tears were already gathering in his eyes. “How can I be, in this situation? Everything is falling apart. I cannot even think of that now.”
I nodded. I did not press him. I sat beside him on the bed, the nighty covering me once more, the discarded panties lying near my feet. After a moment his voice broke.
“I do not understand what is happening,” he said. “Everything I touch is failing. Clients I have known for years are walking away. Money is stuck. Even the workers look at me as if something is wrong with me. I have never seen it like this.”
The tears came. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes. I kept my hand on his arm, the black thread warm and hidden at my waist. Slowly I spoke.
“It started after we moved into this house,” I said. “There is something here. A ghost. It is doing this to you and to the boys.”
He shook his head at once, wiping his face. “There is no ghost,” he answered. “These are business problems. Bad luck. Do not start with these stories now.”
Because he would not believe, I kept the rest inside me. I did not tell him about Swamiji or the ritual waiting on Friday. I only sat beside him while he cried, my hand still on his arm, the weight of what I alone knew pressing harder against my chest.
“Come here, child,” he said. “Sit on my lap.”
I hesitated only a second. Something in the way he said it felt safe. I rose and lowered myself onto his lap, my pink chiffon saree spreading over his saffron dhoti. His arm rested lightly around my back, steady and warm, not holding me tightly. The rudraksha mala pressed softly against my shoulder. A fatherly comfort settled over me almost at once. The fear that had lived in my chest for weeks loosened further.
“This something you feel in the house,” he said, his voice close and caring, “when did it begin?”
I looked down at my hands, then answered. “From the day we moved in, Swamiji. The very next morning my husband came home upset. Orders were cancelled. After that the boys started waking at night, crying, saying someone was near the window.”
He nodded, his hand resting calmly on my arm. “Have you seen it yourself?”
“Not clearly,” I said. My voice was softer now. “It comes like wind. There is a smell… warm, familiar. When that smell enters, the house feels heavy. My husband becomes angry. The boys cannot sleep. I feel cold even when the fan is off.”
“And the broker never told you about the accident?”
“Never,” I answered. “He only said they shifted to Coimbatore. Prema told me later about Santosh, Lydia, Chellappan, and Kasiamma. How they died in the Maruti Baleno.”
He listened without rushing me. Each time I paused he waited, his presence steady beneath me. The more I spoke, the more I felt I could open my heart. Sitting on his lap, I told him about the doors closing by themselves, about the boys walking into our room at night, about my husband sitting in the dark. By the time I finished, my voice was quiet, but the weight I had carried alone felt lighter. He remained still, the diyas burning between us, holding everything I had given him with a calm, fatherly care.
Swamiji watched me quietly, the rudraksha mala resting against his chest, the diyas casting a soft, steady light across the stone floor. After a moment he spoke, his voice low and gentle.
“Come here, child,” he said. “Sit on my lap.”
A small flutter of hesitation moved through my stomach. My fingers tightened once on the edge of my pink chiffon saree. Then the calm in his eyes eased it. I rose slowly, my legs feeling a little unsteady beneath me, and lowered myself onto his lap. My pink chiffon saree spread across his saffron dhoti. His arm came around my back, light and steady, the warmth of it settling against my side without pulling me closer. Almost at once a quiet, fatherly comfort moved through my chest. The tight knot of fear that had lived there for weeks loosened. My shoulders dropped. A soft breath left me before I even realized I had been holding it.
“This something you feel in the house,” he said, his voice close and caring, “when did it begin?”
I looked down at my hands resting in my lap. My fingers slowly relaxed against the pink chiffon saree. “From the day we moved in, Swamiji,” I answered, my voice softer than before. “The very next morning my husband came home with his face tight. Two big orders had been cancelled. After that the boys started waking in the middle of the night, crying, saying someone was standing near the window. I would go to them and find all three tangled together, breathing fast.”
He nodded slowly. His hand rested lightly on my arm, the touch calm. “Have you seen it yourself, child?”
A small tightness returned beneath my breasts. I shook my head, the movement small. “Not clearly,” I said. “It comes like wind. There is a smell with it… warm, close, familiar. The moment that smell enters the room, the air feels heavier. My husband becomes angry over small things. The boys cannot stay asleep. I feel cold across my shoulders even when the fan is off and the windows are shut.”
My voice had grown quieter. I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath me. “Does it speak to you?” he asked.
I was quiet for a second. My fingers pressed lightly together. “No,” I said. “It never speaks. It only moves through the house. Doors close when no one is near them. The fan turns even when the switch is off. At night the boys call out and I have to sit with them until they sleep again.”
He listened without rushing me. Each time I paused he waited, his arm remaining light and steady around my back. The more I spoke, the more the words seemed to leave my chest on their own. Sitting there on his lap, I told him about the youngest boy walking into our room and standing silently beside the bed, about my husband sitting in the hall with the lights off, staring at nothing, about the heaviness that settled over me the moment I stepped inside after being out. With every sentence the weight I had carried alone felt a little lighter. By the time I stopped, my voice was soft, almost a whisper, but the tightness under my breasts had eased. He remained still, the diyas burning steadily between us, holding everything I had given him with a calm, fatherly care that made me feel, for the first time in many days, that I was no longer facing it by myself.
Swamiji’s arm remained light and steady around my back, the warmth of it resting against my side while the diyas burned with a soft, unchanging flame between us. For a little while neither of us spoke. Then he asked, his voice still gentle and close to my ear.
“How is it torturing you, child? Tell me what it actually does when it comes to you.”
I looked down at my hands resting on the pink chiffon saree spread across my lap. A slow heat rose in my cheeks and settled there. My fingers pressed together. It took me several seconds to find the words, and when they came my voice was low. “It keeps me horny all the time, Swamiji. It hugs me from behind and kisses my neck until I cannot think straight. The smell makes my knees weak and my body open. Then it takes me to the bed. A cock enters my pussy and fucks me, slowly at first, then harder. I enjoy it. I moan. My body wants more even while it is happening. I cum every time, and it cums inside me. The pleasure is so strong that I forget everything else until it is over.”
My heart beat harder under my pink blouse. Sitting on his lap, the fatherly comfort was still present, yet speaking the truth left me feeling bare and exposed. I kept my eyes on my hands. He stayed quiet for a little while, his breathing steady beneath me. Then he spoke.
“If you are enjoying it so much,” he said calmly, “then why not continue to enjoy it? The pleasure is real. Your body is receiving it willingly.”
The words settled in the quiet room. I did not know how to answer at once. My pink panties felt warm against my pussy beneath the saree. I remained still on his lap, the weight of what I had just admitted resting between us, waiting to hear what he would say next.
I stayed on Swamiji’s lap, his arm still light around my back, the warmth of it steady against my side. The words he had just spoken sat heavily in the quiet room. My pink chiffon saree rested across my thighs. For a moment I could not answer. Then the truth rose in my chest, stronger than the pleasure I had described.
“More than my pleasure, my family is important to me, Swamiji,” I said, my voice already unsteady. “My husband is more important to me. My sons are more important to me. Nothing matters to me more than them. I cannot watch my husband suffer like this every day. I cannot watch my sons wake up scared and fail in their studies. I cannot see the happiness leave our house while I am the only one receiving pleasure.”
My throat tightened. Tears gathered in my eyes before I could stop them. One slipped down my cheek, then another. I lowered my head, my shoulders beginning to shake. “I love them,” I whispered. “I cannot bear to see them like this. Please… I do not want the pleasure if it means they keep suffering.”
The tears came freely now. I cried softly on his lap, my hands covering my face, the pink chiffon saree damp where the tears fell. Swamiji’s arm remained around me, steady and gentle. He did not speak at once. His other hand rose and rested lightly on my head, the touch calm and fatherly.
“It is all right, child,” he said quietly. “You have spoken the truth of your heart. Cry if you need to. I am here.”
I stayed there, weeping, feeling the weight of the weeks finally leave my chest while his hand remained on my head and the diyas burned steadily around us.
I remained on Swamiji’s lap, tears still slipping down my cheeks, my hands lowered now to rest trembling on the pink chiffon saree. His hand stayed gently on my head. The fatherly warmth of his presence made it possible to speak again, though my voice came out broken.
“Please save me, Swamiji,” I said, almost begging. “It has been taking too much pleasure from me. Every time it comes, it takes everything… my body, my moans, my cumming. I feel so sorry for my husband. That pleasure should have been his. He should have been the one enjoying me, not something else. I cannot let it keep taking what belongs to him while he suffers. Please save my husband and my sons. Please drive it out of our house. I am asking you with everything I have.”
My shoulders shook again. I looked up at him through wet eyes, my heart open and raw. He nodded slowly, the movement calm and certain. His hand moved from my head to rest lightly on my shoulder, steadying me.
“I hear you, child,” he said, his voice soft and sure. “You have asked with a true heart. I will help you. We will free your house. Your husband and your sons will be safe. You do not have to carry this alone anymore.”
A shaky breath left me. Fresh tears came, but they felt lighter. I leaned a little into the comfort of his arm, the diyas burning steadily around us, and for the first time in many days I allowed myself to believe that help had finally come.
Swamiji’s hand remained lightly on my shoulder as the last of my tears slowed. The diyas burned steadily. After a quiet moment he spoke, his voice still calm.
“There is a ritual that must be performed, child,” he said. “It will cost one lakh. The money is only to buy the materials needed for the pooja. Nothing more.”
I looked up at him, my eyes still wet. “Money is not the matter, Swamiji,” I answered. “If it will free my house, I will arrange it.”
He nodded. “It must be done on the next Amavasai night. That falls on Friday. Only you should be in the house with me. Your husband and sons must not be there.”
I nodded slowly, my hands resting on the pink chiffon saree in my lap. “I understand,” I said. “I will make sure they are away.”
“Ganesan will give you the full list of ritual items,” he continued. “Prepare them before Friday.”
I was still nodding when his next words came. “At midnight I will have to make love to you. The thing must watch. Only when it sees another man taking the pleasure it has been taking will its power weaken. Then I can capture it, seal it inside the pot, and remove it from your house forever.”
The moment he said it I stood up. My legs felt unsteady beneath the pink chiffon saree. “No,” I said at once, my voice sharp with shock. “I cannot do that.”
Swamiji rose as well, his saffron dhoti shifting, the rudraksha mala resting against his chest. He did not raise his voice. “Listen, child,” he said gently. “The ritual requires it. When the thing sees me enter you and take what it believes belongs only to it, anger will break its hold. That is the moment its strength fails. I will bind it then, place it in the pot, carry it outside, and throw it away. After that you and your family will be free. There is no other way.”
I stood facing him, heart beating hard under my pink blouse, the weight of his words settling over me in the quiet room.
Swamiji remained standing before me, the rudraksha mala resting against his chest, his voice still calm and steady in the quiet room lit by the diyas. “It already knows you are here, child,” he said. “When you return it will press harder on your husband and your sons.”
A cold weight settled low in my stomach. I stood with my hands resting at my sides, the pink chiffon saree heavy against my hips and thighs, my fingers curling once into the edge of the pallu. He already knows I left the house. It will be worse when I go back.
“Go home and think,” he continued, his tone gentle. “After the ritual everything will disappear. Your husband’s business will prosper again. Your sons will pass their subjects with high marks. As for making love, it is only a step in the pooja, no different from offering flowers. I have even made love to Prema in this way, and her problems ended after that night.”
The mention of Prema sent a slow confusion through my chest. If Prema allowed him to enter her for her family, then maybe I can too. Yet even as that thought formed, another rose against it. How will I let this ugly old man fuck me? His face is lined, the saffron dhoti loose at his waist. The thought of his cock inside my pussy feels wrong. A tight unease gathered between my thighs.
He looked at me steadily, his eyes calm. “I know what you are thinking, child,” he said. “You are wondering how you will let this old man fuck you.”
My breath caught in my throat. Heat rose quickly in my cheeks. He knows. He actually knows what I was just thinking. I shook my head, the movement small. “No, Swamiji,” I said. “I was not thinking that.”
“You were,” he answered, his voice remaining calm and certain. “I know.”
For a moment something shifted inside me. He is not ordinary. He can see what moves through my mind. He is divine. The knowledge settled over me like both a weight and a strange relief.
“It does not matter if you like it or not,” he said. “Only I can save you and your family. The only way is to let me fuck you. If you do not wish to see my face while it happens, close your eyes and lie down. I will do what must be done. You need only receive it.”
The words closed around me. Close my eyes and lie down. Just receive it. Is that all? I looked at him, my heart beating hard under my pink blouse, the two minds still pulling at each other. My hands remained at my sides, the pink chiffon saree still heavy against my body.
“I will think about it, Swamiji,” I said, my voice softer. “I will let you know.”
I turned toward the door. My hand touched the latch. As I began to open it he spoke again. “Decide before next week. If you wait longer I cannot remove it. It will stay in your house forever.”
Forever. If I wait, it stays forever. A fresh chill moved through my chest and down my arms. I opened the door fully and stepped out, my heart still beating hard, the weight of his knowing gaze and his words resting on me as the door closed behind me.
I had only taken a few steps away from the door when Swamiji’s voice called me back. “Sudha, child. Come here once more.”
I turned. My heart was still beating hard under my pink blouse. I walked back into the room. He was seated again on the mat. He closed his eyes. His lips began to move in a low whisper, words I could not catch. The diyas flickered once. I stood still, the pink chiffon saree heavy against my body, watching him. What is he doing now?
After a minute he opened his eyes. He reached beside him and lifted a thin black thread. He held it out to me. “Tie this around your waist,” he said, his voice calm. “Wear it until the ritual is finished. As long as this thread stays on you, the Wind will not touch you. It will not enter your body. It will not make you horny. You will be left in peace until Friday.”
I took the thread. It felt ordinary between my fingers, yet a small relief moved through my chest. If this can keep the Wind away even for a few days, I will wear it. I nodded. “Thank you, Swamiji,” I said softly.
He nodded once. I turned and left the room. Prema was waiting outside in her brown saree. She looked at my face, then at the black thread in my hand, but she did not ask. We walked together back through the narrow passage, the trees closing around us, the black thread resting in my palm as we made our way toward the car.
Prema was already waiting near the car when I came out of the narrow passage. She looked tired, her brown saree slightly loose at the shoulder, her eyes heavy as if she had been lying down. There was a softness in the way she moved, a quiet satisfaction around her mouth, and for a moment I felt certain that Ganesan had fucked her while I was inside with Swamiji. She did not speak of it. She only smiled faintly when she saw me and climbed into the passenger seat.
I let her sleep. Her head rested against the window as I drove, the brown saree rising and falling with her slow breaths. When we reached her house I woke her gently. She got down, adjusted her saree, and went inside without many words. I turned the car toward home.
By the time I unlocked the gate and stepped into the house the familiar smell touched me at once. The Wind was there. It moved against my neck, warm and knowing. Fear rose sharply. I turned and ran back to the car, my pink chiffon saree catching at my ankles. Inside the car I lifted my blouse and tied the black thread tightly around my waist, just above the white petticoat. My hands shook. When I walked back inside the smell was gone. The air was still. Nothing touched me. No heat gathered between my thighs. For the first time in many days the Wind was silent.
My husband was in the hall. He looked up when I entered. “How was the wedding?” he asked.
“It was good,” I said. My voice was calm. “Prema’s sister looked happy.”
We sat together. The boys came out of their room and showed me a maths paper they had finished. I listened. I smiled. The house felt ordinary. That night I lay beside my husband in my nighty and panties and nothing entered the room. The next day was the same. The black thread stayed hidden at my waist. The Wind did not come. My husband spoke more easily. The boys studied without being told and later went outside to play basketball, their voices carrying across the lane. For two full days the house held a quiet happiness I had almost forgotten, and I moved through it freely, the thread warm against my skin, the silence of the Wind feeling like a gift.
For two days I had begun to relax. The black thread stayed warm and unnoticed at my waist beneath my clothes. The Wind had not touched me. I moved through the house with a lightness I had almost forgotten, smiling when my husband spoke, sitting with the boys while they finished their homework. I thought it was gone.
On the third morning the horror returned. My husband woke already shouting. An order that had been confirmed the night before was cancelled without reason. He slammed the phone down and sat with his head in his hands, his face tight with a anger that had no clear cause. The boys came to breakfast silent. The eldest said he had dreamed of someone standing at the foot of his bed again. The younger two pushed their food around and could not remember what the teacher had taught the previous day. None of them knew what was happening. They only felt the sudden heaviness, the fear that returned without warning, the small failures that kept arriving.
I knew. I stood in the kitchen with my hand resting over the black thread hidden under my saree and understood at once. The Wind had not left. It had only been kept from my body. Now it was more angry. It had turned fully toward my husband and my sons, pressing harder on them because it could no longer reach me. The happiness of the last two days cracked. I watched them suffer and felt the cold certainty settle in my chest: the thread had protected only me, and the thing in the house was punishing the rest of my family for it.
Four days remained until Amavasai. Friday still sat ahead of us, yet the house had already grown heavier with each passing hour. The black thread stayed tied at my waist beneath my saree, keeping the Wind from my body, but it had turned its full strength toward my husband. On the first morning a long-standing client cancelled a bulk order without explanation, the money that had been promised simply disappearing from the accounts. By afternoon a raw-material supplier who had worked with him for years refused to release the next shipment, claiming an old invoice that had already been settled. In the evening the bank called about a temporary hold on the company account, a technical error no one could trace. He spent the night moving between phone calls, his voice rising then dropping into exhausted silence, his shoulders bent over the dining table while the papers spread unread before him.
The next day brought more. A competitor undercut a tender he had been certain to win. Two workers did not report, and the ones who came moved slowly, as if something weighed on them. He came home later than usual, the lines around his eyes deeper, and sat without speaking while the boys picked at their food. I watched from the kitchen doorway, my hand resting over the thread hidden under my blouse. The boys moved quietly through the house, their books open but unread, one of them rubbing his eyes as if sleep had been stolen again. None of them understood why everything had begun to fail so completely. Only I knew. The Wind was punishing them because it could no longer reach me. Every cancelled order, every missing payment, every frightened, unfinished night sat in my hands. I was the only one who could stop it. The ritual waited on Friday. Until then I had to carry the knowledge alone, feeling the weight of my husband’s growing despair and my sons’ quiet fear press harder against my chest while the thread kept me untouched and the days moved slowly toward the night when I would have to decide.
That night my husband sat on the edge of the bed long after the boys had gone to their room. The lamp was low. His shoulders were bent. I stood in front of him, reached under my nighty, and slowly removed my panties, letting them fall to the floor. Then I lifted the nighty above my waist and held it there, showing him my pussy and my asshole. Both were cleanly shaved, smooth the way he had always liked.
“I shaved for you,” I said softly. “The way you like it. Let me help you feel better. Fuck me. It will ease your mind for a little while.”
He looked. His eyes moved over my bare pussy and then lower to my asshole. He reached out and touched me lightly, his fingers parting my pussy just enough to see, then brushing once over my asshole. The examination was brief. After a moment he pulled the nighty back down, covering me again.
“I am not in the mood,” he said, his voice rough. Tears were already gathering in his eyes. “How can I be, in this situation? Everything is falling apart. I cannot even think of that now.”
I nodded. I did not press him. I sat beside him on the bed, the nighty covering me once more, the discarded panties lying near my feet. After a moment his voice broke.
“I do not understand what is happening,” he said. “Everything I touch is failing. Clients I have known for years are walking away. Money is stuck. Even the workers look at me as if something is wrong with me. I have never seen it like this.”
The tears came. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes. I kept my hand on his arm, the black thread warm and hidden at my waist. Slowly I spoke.
“It started after we moved into this house,” I said. “There is something here. A ghost. It is doing this to you and to the boys.”
He shook his head at once, wiping his face. “There is no ghost,” he answered. “These are business problems. Bad luck. Do not start with these stories now.”
Because he would not believe, I kept the rest inside me. I did not tell him about Swamiji or the ritual waiting on Friday. I only sat beside him while he cried, my hand still on his arm, the weight of what I alone knew pressing harder against my chest.
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