[shailu4ever]

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The Swamiji
 
They call him a saint.
They fear him as a god.
They obey him as a king.
 
In his ashrams, purity breaks, desire is reborn,
and sins hide beneath sandalwood and roses.
 
No minister, no devotee, no lover truly knows him.
This is the story of The Swamiji
the man whose silence can shatter empires.

.

[shailu4ever]

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The Swamiji
 
They call him a saint.
They fear him as a god.
They obey him as a king.
 
In his ashrams, purity breaks, desire is reborn,
and sins hide beneath sandalwood and roses.
 
No minister, no devotee, no lover truly knows him.
This is the story of The Swamiji
the man whose silence can shatter empires.

.

[shailu4ever]

My dear

No need to open multiple threads , once it is approved you can see it in the section.

Hello sarit11 sir

I didn't mean to open multiple threads. I might have done it by mistake. Please delete the other one.


Thank you for your support.

Warm wishes

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

Nice concept..

Hi opendoor

Thank you so much for your feedback! I'm really glad you liked the concept. 

I hope you like the story as well.

Your input is always valuable!

Best regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

Good start, plz continue

Hi Paty@123

Thank you so much! I’m really glad you liked the start. 

Your encouragement means a lot, I’ll definitely continue the story!

Warm regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

Congratuls for new story ....

Hi Raja shri

Thank you so much! Your wishes mean a lot and truly motivate me to keep writing. Hope you enjoy the new story as it unfolds!

Warm regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

Always a fan of your story shailu ji
Excited for this one

Hi Projectmp

Thank you very much for your compliments.

I hope this story will keep your expectations.

Really appreciate your support.

With warm regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

Great plz continue would surely rock

Awaiting for the sme

Hi Pvzro

Thank you for your compliments.  I will do my best to give you the best updates.


Thank you for your support

With warm regards


-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

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Preface
 
“The Swamiji” is a big title… perhaps even a daunting one. To call it a “mega title” would not be an exaggeration.
 
The Swamiji is a title of immense weight and responsibility. To attempt such a work, especially with only a short span of writing experience, may seem ambitious..., perhaps even audacious. I confess that there are moments when I wonder whether I am reaching beyond my depth. Yet, I also believe that every journey worth taking begins with a single uncertain step.
 
The Swamiji.
Even to write the title feels immense, too vast for me, perhaps too dangerous. It is not a name that rests lightly on the page. It carries with it shadows of power, devotion, and silence; whispers too heavy for words. To attempt to tell his story is to walk into fire with nothing but paper in my hands.
 
I am new to this craft, still a wanderer at the very beginning of the path. With only a couple of months of writing behind me, it would be easier to step aside, to leave this tale untold. Yet, as my mentor once said: “We cannot know if we are capable until we dare.” I hold that mantra close as I take the first step of what may be a million-mile journey.
 
This story is not history, nor confession. It is imagination, woven with echoes of faith and fear, of grace and danger. The Swamiji you will meet in these pages is not drawn from the world outside, but from the world within: the place where reverence and doubt wrestle in silence.
 
To those who have been with me from the very first word, I owe my courage. Your faith steadies my hand as I attempt to give shape to what is almost unspeakable. For that, I am deeply grateful, and I humbly request for your continued support as I strive to bring this work to completion. I ask again for your strength, your encouragement, and your patience, for this is not a light story, it is one that weighs upon the heart.
 

 
Disclaimer
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events, conversations, or institutions is purely coincidental. All characters, settings, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination.


And so it begins…
the story no one dares speak aloud.

[shailu4ever]

All the best writer

Eagerly awaiting

Hi Pyzro

Thank you so much for the lovely wishes!

Your encouragement means a lot to me. I’ll be sharing updates soon, stay tuned!

With warm regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

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The Prologue



The Swamiji
 
 
They call him Swamiji.
Graceful as a saint. Feared as a god. Obeyed as a king.
 
His blessings crown ministers.
His silence erases dynasties.
His ashrams hold secrets no one dares name.
 
Ministers bow with trembling hands.
Industrialists, with guarded hearts.
Gangsters, with bloodied palms, lower their gaze before him.
 
His ashrams rise like temples of mystery,
white walls kissed by saffron flags.
Gates that welcome kings and strangers—
who emerge reborn:
glowing, hushed, untouchable.
 
What happens within, no tongue will confess.
Prayer or sin. Heaven or hunger.
Only shadows know.
 
How many jasmines crushed?
How many roses torn?
How many vows burned to smoke?
 
Purity broken.
Desire reborn.
Sins wrapped in the scent of roses and sandalwood.
 
He is grace.
He is danger.
Saint and ruler.
Sinner and god.
 
Some call him saint.
Some call him sovereign.
Some, a god in mortal skin.
But none truly know him.
Not the devotees who kiss his feet.
Not the ministers who kneel for his counsel.
Not even those who share his bed.
 
He rose,
crushing petals beneath his feet—
jasmines of innocence,
roses of devotion,
lives too fragile to resist his shadow.
 
The world saw a god.
Only the earth remembers
how many flowers he destroyed
to become The Swamiji.
 
This is the story whispered
by crushed jasmines and torn roses,
by vows turned to ash in the shadows.
 
This is the story of The Swamiji
A story no one dares speak aloud.
 
 
The Swamiji

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[shailu4ever]

The Swamiji’s Hidden Empire
 
Across the vast expanse of India, there was a name that echoed like a shadow over the land, whispered in reverence, fear, and awe. A figure who had no official title, yet whose presence had become a force of nature, suffusing the very air the nation breathed.
 
The Swamiji.
 
He was not merely a man; he was myth incarnate, worshipped by millions, feared by the powerful. His influence stretched across India like an invisible thread, weaving through every city, every village, every heart, his touch unseen yet felt in every moment of life.
 
In his wake, the world shifted imperceptibly. The Swamiji moved in the dark, unseen, shaping the rhythm of society with an effortless grace that no one dared question. His words were law; his gaze, an unspoken command. To follow him was salvation, to oppose him, an impossibility. Even those who did not bow to him spoke his name in hushed tones, for no one could escape his shadow.
 
No one truly knew where Swamiji was at any given moment, or what he might be doing. His ashrams, vast, self-sustained sanctuaries, were scattered across India, hidden in the peaceful outskirts of major cities, nestled in the quiet corners of remote hills. These ashrams were more than spiritual havens; they were kingdoms unto themselves. An empire of purity and opulence, untouched by time or worldly distractions.
 
Each was a fortress, built with the finest materials, a testament to both wealth and divinity. Here, opulence blended seamlessly with spirituality. Magnificent marble halls, manicured gardens where incense curled upward like prayer, gold-dusted temples that seemed to hum with sacred energy. Statues and paintings, gifted by the elite, lined the walls, treasures that spoke of influence, but also of the Swamiji’s undeniable hold over the rich and powerful.
 
Even the air inside felt different, like stepping into another world. Silence, heavy with purpose, hung between the pillars. And in the farthest corners of these retreats, the Swamiji’s touch was felt most of all. His ashrams were alive with an energy that pulsed just beneath the surface, suffusing everything with a presence so strong, it could not be ignored.
 
The ashrams had everything: food, water, energy, all self-sustained. Everything ran like clockwork, attended to by a loyal army of devotees. These were not mere servants; they were worshippers in every sense of the word, bound to him in their bodies and souls. Their lives were woven into the fabric of his teachings, and they lived only to serve.
 
At the heart of these sanctuaries were the Guruji, spiritual guides who served as intermediaries between the Swamiji and his followers. But it wasn’t just their teachings that held sway. The Guruji were conduits of an unseen power. When they spoke, it was as though the very earth tilted, and the air itself held its breath.
 
And then, there was the security. For the Swamiji’s presence demanded protection on a scale that only heads of state could command. Helicopters hovered over the ashrams; drones traced the skies like silent sentinels. On the ground, an elite force of bodyguards kept watch at every corner. The underworld had learned long ago: the Swamiji’s word was absolute. If he said "no," even the most dangerous criminals would recoil in reverence.
 
Each visit to the ashram, even for the common devotee, was an experience unto itself. Devotees traveled for hours, sometimes days, on buses provided by the ashram, plush and air-conditioned, their journey a pilgrimage toward something greater.
 
The streets outside, buzzing with the chaos of life, would give way to the serene, sacred silence of the ashram gates. And inside, incense wafted through the air, mingling with the soft sound of temple bells, drawing them into the divine presence that awaited them.
 
But for the elite, the experience was even more exclusive, and far more intimate.

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[shailu4ever]

The Savakis
 
For those who dwelled in the world of power, ministers, business tycoons, celebrities, the experience of visiting Swamiji’s ashram was a rarefied affair. Their arrival was met not with the throngs of ordinary pilgrims, but with a subtle, almost intimate reverence. Their cars, sleek and polished, were ushered past the grand entrance and directed to a special area where they were greeted not by just any devotee, but by The Savakis, women chosen for their ethereal grace and devotion to a life dedicated wholly to The Swamiji’s divine mission.
 
These women were the sanctuaries within the sanctuary. Their beauty, serene and quiet, exuded an authority that could not be ignored, yet there was no ostentation in their presence. They were not loud or showy, but still, everything about them seemed to radiate with an unspoken power, a connection to something far greater than any of the visitors could comprehend.
 
The moment these women approached, there was a shift in the air. Time itself seemed to slow, and the outside world, with its noise and distractions, faded into nothingness. In their presence, the mundane became distant, the ordinary transformed into something sacred. They moved with such quiet grace that the air seemed to bend toward them, as though everything, from the earth beneath their feet to the very atmosphere around them, recognized their divine purpose.
 
These were not mere guides; they were Devotees in the truest sense. They had surrendered their very essence to the Swamiji, each step they took, each word they spoke, a silent prayer. When they led the VIPs into the sanctuary, there was no rush. The world slowed to a sacred rhythm, where every gesture, no matter how small, was an act of devotion.
 
The Savakis were more than beautiful; they embodied the sanctity of the Swamiji’s divine aura. Their gaze, soft yet piercing, invited those who looked into it to enter a world far beyond the one they had left behind. Every movement was an invitation into a realm where time held no sway, where the only thing that existed was the divine presence that enveloped them.
 
The visitors, accustomed to the finest luxuries of the world, found themselves disarmed in a way they had never been before. The Savakis did not speak of their power. They did not need to. It was felt in the stillness they carried, in the way they moved as if guided by some unseen force, a pull that drew the most powerful men into a realm of reverence and humility.
 
The women did not need to compete for attention; they simply were, and that was enough to pull the visitor into an almost meditative state, where they could not help but feel the presence of something sacred, something far beyond their understanding.
 
 
The Ek Vastra
 
The Savakis were cloaked in Ek Vastra, a singular garment of saffron silk (Saree) that clung to their bodies like a second skin, both modest and profoundly sensual in its simplicity. The fabric shimmered faintly in the light, almost alive, a dance of golden threads that moved with their every step. The Savakis only ware Saree, nothing else underneath. It revealed just enough of their figures to suggest a quiet sensuality, while concealing everything that might distract from the sacred nature of their role.
 
The Ek Vastra was no ordinary cloth. It was an extension of their devotion, a physical manifestation of their surrender to the Swamiji’s divine will. The fabric’s gentle caress against their skin as they moved was not just an external sensation, it was as though the cloth absorbed their very being, becoming one with them. Each fold, each ripple of the fabric, was an offering of purity, a symbol of their spiritual and physical surrender.
 
And yet, there was something more beneath the surface of that simple garment. The saffron silk seemed to possess an almost hypnotic quality, its flow weaving an aura of sacred sensuality. It did not reveal; it invited. It did not expose; it hinted. The garment moved with them, outlining the subtle grace of their bodies without ever fully revealing. In the stillness of their movements, there was something profoundly intimate about the way the fabric clung to their forms, an intimacy that spoke not just of the physical, but of a deeper, spiritual connection to the divine.
 
The Savakis wore the Ek Vastra not as a mere uniform, but as a living symbol of their devotion, an expression of their total surrender. It was the perfect union of beauty and reverence, modesty and sensuality, where every movement they made seemed to carry the weight of prayer and the lightness of a sacred dance. As they moved through the ashram, they seemed to embody the very presence of the divine, a presence so palpable it could be felt by every visitor, even before they ever saw the Swamiji.
 
Every glance from them, every delicate gesture, was infused with an unspoken power. The visitors, though accustomed to the world’s finest beauty, found themselves drawn to these women in a way that was inexplicable. It was as if their very being was a magnetic force, pulling them into a space where the divine touched the human, where the sacred and the sensual coexisted without contradiction.

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[shailu4ever]

The Devotional Dance
 
The Savakis were trained in a silent language that spoke through their movements, their touch, and their very presence. Their role was not only to guide the VIPs through the ashram but to prepare them for something greater, the Darshan, the sacred meeting with the Swamiji. This meeting was not a mere physical encounter; it was an intimate, transformative experience that reached deep into the soul.
 
Their training began early, when they were young girls, chosen for their purity, both of body and spirit. They were taught not only the rituals of the ashram but how to weave an atmosphere of sacred sensuality into every action. Their gestures, the soft caress of a visitor’s clothing, the delicate spray of rosewater upon their skin, the gentle whisper of their voice as they led them into meditative stillness, were part of an intricate dance. A dance that blurred the line between the spiritual and the sensual, where every movement felt both sacred and deeply personal.
 
The Savakis did not speak of their power. They did not have to. It was felt in the air around them, in the way the very space seemed to vibrate with their presence. Their beauty was not only in their physical form, but in the way they carried themselves, the way their devotion shaped every gesture, every step.
 
For the visitors, entering the ashram was like stepping into another realm, one where time, the outside world, and even the self seemed to melt away. As the Savakis led them deeper into the heart of this sacred space, they became vessels for something far greater than themselves. Their every action, from adjusting a visitor’s robe to guiding them to their prayer, was suffused with a sacred intimacy that made the very air seem to hum with the divine presence.
 
Even as they guided the visitors, their own emotions, carefully cultivated and trained, became part of the experience. Every look, every touch, was a sacred offering that connected the visitor to something far beyond the physical. It was as if they themselves were the gateway to a space where the divine was palpable, where the very soul of the Swamiji radiated outward through them.
 
Their presence stirred something within the visitors, an awe, a reverence, and a deep yearning to remain within this sacred space. They were not just conduits to the divine. They were the divine, walking.
 
 
The Darshan
 
As the visitors reached the most sacred point, the threshold before the Darshan itself, the Savakis guided them with an intimate delicacy. Their voices, soft as silk, murmured prayers and mantras, coaxing the visitors into stillness, preparing them for the moment of divine connection. Every word was like a thread woven into the fabric of the experience, each one pulling the visitor deeper into a sacred union.
 
When the Swamiji finally appeared, the visitors were no longer just men and women of power and influence. They were something else, transformed, exalted, touched by something beyond their comprehension. And it was the Savakis, in their quiet grace and mystical beauty, who had led them there, their presence not just a guide but a gateway to something eternal.
 
 
Wrapping it up
 
The Swamiji’s world, as seen through the eyes of his devotees and their sacred service, was one of total devotion, where every act, even the smallest gesture, was a prayer, an offering, a manifestation of divine energy. The Savakis, cloaked in their saffron silk, were not just women; they were living temples, embodying the essence of devotion, guiding those who entered the Swamiji’s sanctuary toward an experience of divine intimacy that left them forever changed.

-- oOo --

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[shailu4ever]

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Dedication
 
To my mentor,
who taught me that even a single step can echo through darkness,
that courage is both fragile and unstoppable.
 
To my friends and readers,
whose unwavering faith steadies me when the world tilts,
whose laughter, encouragement, and quiet belief
are the very foundation that allows this story to come alive.
 
And to all who dare to enter the shadows,
who seek the light that waits beyond,
know this:
the path is treacherous,
but it is also where legends are born.

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[shailu4ever]

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The world is quiet for a heartbeat, holding its breath. Shadows lengthen, whispers stir, and power gathers like a storm on the horizon. No one knows what will emerge, yet all will feel its force. Without warning, without mercy, the story begins—and nothing, not a life, a secret, or a city, will ever be the same again.
 
And now, without further ado, let the tale unfold. Step into the shadows, feel the pulse of power and desire, and witness the world as it bends to those who dare. 



Here begins the story.


The story no one dares speak aloud.

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[shailu4ever]

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The Swamiji

Chapter 1 – The Red Carpet Vanishing

Scene 1 – Present Day, The Awards Night



Part 1 – The Opening

The Grand Imperial Hotel dominated Marine Drive like a palace carved from the dreams of Mumbai itself, a monument to ambition, opulence, and cinema. Its towering marble facade shimmered under the glow of thousands of golden lights, each perfectly angled to cast a soft halo across the carved arches and gilded reliefs.
 
From the street, it seemed less like a hotel and more like a living testament to the city’s love affair with film, a sacred temple where glamour and ambition collided in exquisite harmony. The terraces, lined with flowering gardens, overlooked the dark waters of the Arabian Sea, their blooms swaying gently in the humid breeze, as if bowing to the stories and secrets held within the walls below.
 
The city around it pulsed with anticipation. Marine Drive, slick from the monsoon, glimmered like a black mirror reflecting the skyscbangrs above, their lights twinkling in response to the excitement that radiated from the hotel. 

The air was thick with moisture and the intoxicating scent of night jasmine, carrying hints of wet earth and the subtle ozone of distant lightning, a residual mark of the day’s storm.
 
Streetlights flickered off puddles, casting fragments of gold and silver across the streets, and the hum of the city below rose in a measured crescendo, echoing the heartbeat of a city on the verge of spectacle.
 
Outside the Grand Imperial, the barricades held a living, writhing mass of anticipation. Fans pressed against the barriers, their faces alight with expectation. Some clutched dog-eared magazines, tattered photographs, and posters of stars long worshipped; others brandished smartphones and cameras, trying desperately to capture fleeting glimpses of fame.
 
Tourists, unfamiliar with the magnitude of the night, whispered to each other, eyes wide, their voices tinged with awe and curiosity. Every flash of the cameras created brief bursts of brilliance, illuminating faces, gowns, and tuxedos in a symphony of light and shadow, each image a fragment of a story yet to be told.
 
Security moved like a silent, invisible tide, black-suited figures flowing among the crowd with unseen precision, their earpieces buzzing softly, eyes scanning, recalculating. Each shift of a body, every glance, every whispered instruction seemed perfectly choreographed, holding back the tide of chaos with a subtle authority only those in power could wield.
 
The red carpet itself stretched ahead like a ribbon of molten velvet, glowing beneath the carefully placed spotlights. Each beam traced the path of anticipation, as though the air itself had been sculpted to guide the world’s gaze toward the Grand Imperial’s ornate doors.
 
Paparazzi crouched in calculated positions, their cameras aimed not just at faces but at moments that might never repeat, capturing sparks of glamour, tension, and beauty that hung in the humid night air.
 
Inside, the ballroom was a universe unto itself. Its ceilings soared into the shadows, festooned with chandeliers so vast and intricate that they seemed to carry the weight of history in their crystal droplets. 

The light fractured across marble floors, gilded arches, and silk gowns, creating a kaleidoscope of gold, amber, and rose tones, turning the ballroom into a living jewel.
 
Waiters glided through clusters of guests like shadows, their white-gloved hands balancing trays of champagne and exquisite canapés sculpted with the precision of a master craftsman. The aroma of saffron, rosewater, and freshly baked pastries mingled with the heady tang of imported cigars, producing a fragrance that was at once intoxicating and intoxicatingly expensive.

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[shailu4ever]

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The elite moved with the poise of royalty, their gestures measured, their expressions refined. 

Producers leaned toward each other, whispering words pregnant with millions of rupees, while industrialists and politicians nodded with the precision of chess masters, every glance and smile a strategic move. Fashion editors adjusted the hems of gowns, photographers repositioned lenses, and assistants flitted between tables like choreographed shadows, yet beneath all the elegance, the room thrummed with one single expectation: her arrival.
 
Conversations faltered in her absence. Eyes drifted toward the door, the tension growing thicker with every passing second. It wasn’t the nominees, the films, or even the awards that mattered tonight. Everything, the whispers, the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the subtle jostling of guests, was measured against a single, invisible standard.

Rhea Malhotra.
 
“She’s in Dubai. I saw her on a flight yesterday,” murmured a producer, scrolling through his phone, voice low but tinged with doubt.
 
“No, I heard from her makeup artist this afternoon,” another replied, excitement barely contained in the edge of his words. “She’s in the car. Five minutes.”
 
The words floated in the air, settling like fine gold dust over the crowd. Every camera lens, every watchful eye, every whispered speculation amplified the tension, the gravity, the sense of impending arrival. Time seemed elastic, stretching and compressing with each heartbeat, each shallow breath, each click of a photographer’s shutter.
 
“Do you think she’ll wear something traditional?” a fashion editor whispered to her photographer.
 
“Rhea Malhotra?” The man scoffed. “She is tradition and scandal in the same breath. Whatever she wears, it’ll break the internet.”
 
Even the hotel itself seemed to respond. The chandeliers above flickered softly as if acknowledging the approaching moment. The walls, polished marble and gilded paneling alike, seemed to lean inward, focusing attention on the heavy double doors at the far end of the red carpet. 

The scent of jasmine and sandalwood thickened, wrapping the room in a cocoon of anticipation and elegance.
 
Somewhere near the service entrance, a makeup artist’s whispered announcement cut through the ambient hum: “Yes… she’s on her way. Five minutes.”
 
The crowd stirred as one, a subtle wave moving through them, anticipation radiating like invisible electricity. Hands rose instinctively to cameras, lenses adjusted, breaths were held. Every element—the hotel, the city, the guests—aligned as though the world itself were preparing for her singular presence.
 
 
And yet, she remained unseen. Her absence, paradoxically, dominated the room. In that void, her power, her magnetism, her legend, was palpable. She was the axis around which this glittering universe rotated, the silent conductor of the orchestra of whispers, flashes, and hearts pounding in measured, eager synchrony.
 
 
“Rhea…”
 
And just like that, the name hung in the air, a shiver of electricity in its wake. It wasn’t just the crowd that reacted, it was the city itself.
 
The host of CineGlam Tonight, his throat dry, adjusted his tie as if to ground himself, though the world seemed to tilt on its axis. His eyes flickered toward the door, waiting, praying. This moment was his too, in a way. Her presence, her image, would set the stage for the evening—everything hinged on her arrival.
 
 
In every corner, in every glint of a chandelier, in every ripple across the red carpet, the question echoed: When will she arrive?
 
And the Grand Imperial waited. The city waited. Mumbai waited.
 
For now, all that existed was the promise of her arrival, the anticipation that had wrapped the night in silk and light, and the knowledge that the world would never look the same once she stepped into this space.

-- oOo --

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[shailu4ever]

Nice build-up, promising.. waiting for further update.

Hi ghost0011

Thank you so much! I’m really glad you’re enjoying the opening scene. 

Your encouragement means a lot, it’s the fuel that keeps me going. 

I can’t wait to share the next update with you soon, and I hope you’ll find the journey even more gripping as the story unfolds!

With warm regards

-- Shailu

[shailu4ever]

goosebumps  ..

Hi opendoor

Thank you for your complimentary word. That means the world to me!

Coming from you, this feedback is truly an honor.  I have seen your stories long back, even before I joined as member here. You are one of the writers inspired to start writing.

You are an amazing writer yourself. I take it an honor to receive your compliments

Thank you for feeling the story the way I hoped it would be felt, it gives me even more strength to keep writing.

Your support is really required for me to actually complete this story.

With warm regards

-- Shailu