Fantasy Cross Marriages within Family Season 2

[Mardanamaratha]

Hi everyone, after a bit of hiatus, I’m back ! Season 2 is underway with some ideas bubbling up.. completely new story with some old characters ( Aadesh, Suresh , Surekha ) and more new ones!( Suruchi , Survati , Surudh ) .. before I start working on it .. I wanted to check in howz the Josh ??! Are you guys excited?

In case if you haven’t read the original story , do check out: Cross Marriages within Family .

Will be back soon ! 

[PELURI]

good news you are coming back....eagerly waiting...hope it'll be equally erotic....

[Mardanamaratha]

Chapter 1: Perfectly Imperfect Family
My name is Aadesh, and I’m about to tell you a story that still feels half like a fever dream—until I walk into the living room or sit at the dining table and see their faces. Then reality hits like cold water. It happened. It’s still happening. It’s messy, it’s wrong in ways I can’t even fully name, and yet it’s our life now.
Let me start with the people who made this house what it is.
My mother is Survati. She hates that name with a passion that never faded in thirty-five years of marriage; she still blames my father for “allowing” it to stick after the wedding. She’s fifty-five, 5’5”, short silver-grey bob that she gets touched up religiously every four weeks in South Mumbai’s most expensive salon. She’s plus-size, busty, carries herself with the kind of confidence that makes rooms fall quiet when she enters. Vice President of Global Operations at one of India’s largest financial conglomerates. Always in tailored Western outfits—blazers, pencil skirts, silk blouses, Louboutins that click like judgments on marble floors. Even at home she refuses sarees; she says they feel like shackles. She’s modern, sharp, unapologetic, and she has ruled our house like a small, efficient empire since the day I was born.
My father, Suresh, is fifty-eight. Quiet, mild-mannered, perpetually second in every conversation. He has a decent government job—stable, respectable—but it never stood a chance next to Survati’s salary, her titles, her aura. She has dominated him in every way that matters: money, decisions, even the tone of voice used at dinner. I have never once seen them speak to each other with warmth. It’s always Survati raising her voice, Suresh lowering his eyes and murmuring agreement. You’ll wonder how these two ever ended up married. I’ll get to that later; it’s part of the story.
Then there are my grandparents. Dada (Surendra) is eighty and still runs five kilometers every morning—rain or shine. He looks fitter than most men half his age, including my father and sometimes even me. Dadi is seventy-seven, equally active, always in the kitchen or the garden, moving with purpose. They live with us, mostly quiet observers of the daily power plays.
My younger sister is twenty-four (four years behind me), Sujani , petite, 5’2”, average in every visible way. She dresses conservatively even now—full-sleeved kurtas, long single plait down her back, dupatta always in place. She’s married and lives just a few blocks away with her husband. She never rocked the boat growing up; she still doesn’t.
My wife is Suritee. Thirty-two years old, hourglass figure that turns heads without trying—buxom but perfectly proportioned, shoulder-length hair she usually leaves loose and slightly tousled. She knows exactly how to use her presence; it’s helped her climb fast in her own career. She idolizes my mother—openly, almost religiously. Survati is her north star: the successful, commanding, modern woman she wants to become (or surpass). Suritee moved into our house after marriage and slotted herself seamlessly into the Survati orbit. They talk shop, share ambitions, critique the men around them. It’s almost like watching two versions of the same woman at different ages.
Suritee’s side of the family is a different universe.
Her mother, Surekha (fifty-three), is plus-size with a generous bust, always dbangd in conservative sarees—pallu pinned tightly, midriff never exposed, not even a glimpse of navel. She speaks softly, moves carefully, never raises her voice.
Her father, Jagdish, is a big man—broad shoulders, thick mustache, the kind of presence that fills a room before he opens his mouth. Controlling in that old-college, South-Indian-villain-movie way: loud laugh, louder opinions, expects obedience from everyone under his roof.
Then there’s Suritee’s younger brother, Suvrat. Thirty years old, barely finished high college, built like a wrestler—gigantic frame, bulging muscles, thick mustache that makes him look older than he is. He works in his father’s very successful transport business and has been married two years. Where Suritee is educated, polished, and ambitious, Suvrat is raw, unlettered, and aggressively masculine. He struts, he commands, he expects women to lower their eyes when he speaks.
The fault lines between the two families were always visible:
• Survati looks down on Suvrat’s lack of education and what she calls his “goonish” behavior—loud, crude, unrefined.
• Jagdish and Suvrat resent Survati’s dominance, her Western clothes, her sharp tongue, the way she treats men (including her own husband) like subordinates. To them she’s the ultimate symbol of everything wrong with “modern” women.
Our house runs on Survati’s rules. Their house runs on Jagdish’s—and increasingly Suvrat’s—word.
Two matriarchs and two patriarchs orbiting the same extended family, pulling in opposite directions.
And then something happened that snapped every rope holding those tensions in place.
I still wake up some mornings thinking it was all a nightmare.
Then I hear my mother’s voice from the kitchen, or see Suritee adjusting her dupatta the way Survati taught her, or catch Suvrat’s heavy footsteps in the corridor—and I remember.
It wasn’t a dream.
It was real.
And it changed everything.

Chapter 2: Guru Maa

If you want to understand how everything that happened actually became possible, you have to understand Guru Maa.
She is the one person neither family can say no to.
Guru Maa is probably in her mid-sixties, though nobody knows for sure and she never corrects guesses. Tall—easily 5’9” or more—plump in a way that makes her presence feel like it occupies twice the space. All I’ve ever seen her wear are loose saffron saadhvi robes, several layers of them, always a little too big so the fabric billows and pools around her when she moves. The cloth is sun-faded, threadbare at the hems, yet somehow that only makes her look more ancient, more untouchable.
Her ashram is an hour’s drive from our house, but the last stretch feels like crossing into another country. You leave the expressway, turn onto a narrow two-lane road flanked by dense Aravalli forest—teak, banyan, neem trees so thick the daylight turns green and dim. The ashram sits in a wide clearing: whitewashed walls, red-tiled roofs, a central courtyard shaded by an enormous neem tree where a havan fire burns day and night, sending thin blue smoke into the sky like a constant prayer.
Both families have been bound to her for years—actually, longer than that.
Every single marriage in both families has been directed by her… or by the woman who came before her.
My grandfather Surendra’s wedding, back in the late 1960s, was arranged entirely by Guru Maa’s own mother—an equally formidable saadhvi who ran the ashram before her daughter took over. Dada still tells the story with a mix of pride and quiet awe: his parents took him to the old ashram when he was twenty-three, showed his chart to Guru Maa’s mother, and she pointed to a girl’s horoscope from a nearby village and said, “This one. No discussion.” They were married three months later. Dada says he never questioned it; the marriage lasted fifty-eight years until Dadi passed. He still lights a small diya for Guru Maa’s mother every morning.
Since then, the pattern has never broken.
My parents’ marriage—Survati and Suresh—was Guru Maa’s first major intervention after she inherited the ashram. Survati’s family was traditional; Suresh’s was more modest. The charts were brought to her. She matched them, fixed the date, and told both sides there would be no dowry disputes. Survati still bristles when she remembers how little say she had in her own wedding, but she never dared cancel the date Guru Maa set.
Jagdish and Surekha’s marriage? Same story—Guru Maa herself, thirty years ago.
Suritee and I? Guru Maa again. She looked at our charts, nodded once, and said the muhurat would be in early spring. We didn’t argue.
My sister’s wedding two years ago? Guru Maa chose the boy, the date, even the venue—insisting the ceremony happen on a specific Tuesday in March under a particular nakshatra. My sister, who had quietly hoped for a love match someday, accepted without protest; the groom’s family was vetted by Guru Maa first, and everything aligned perfectly.
Suvrat’s marriage two years back? Guru Maa again—though he grumbled privately that the girl was “too quiet,” he still went through with it on the exact day and time she named, with the venue and even the menu dictated from the ashram.
Every union, every alliance, every knot tied between the two families traces back to that neem-shaded courtyard. Guru Maa (and before her, her mother) has been the silent matchmaker for three generations now. No one books a pandit without first sending the horoscopes to the ashram. No one finalizes a wedding card without her muhurat. It’s not tradition—it’s law.
My mother Survati—who trusts almost nothing except her own spreadsheets—started going during the darkest months of her career. A boardroom coup nearly cost her everything. She went once to shut up a colleague who kept insisting. She came back a different woman. Guru Maa looked at her birth chart for less than two minutes and spoke three sentences that still make Survati’s voice catch when she repeats them:
“You will face a great test of surrender. Only through it will your next cycle of success begin.”
Three months later the rival CEO had a heart attack and resigned. The leaked emails were traced to a scapegoat who disappeared quietly. Survati’s promotion arrived on the exact date named. From then on she sent money—first small amounts, then serious transfers. She wore the red thread. She returned twice a year for private darshan.
Suritee’s family has been devotees even longer. Jagdish’s transport empire was collapsing fifteen years ago—strikes, seized trucks, banks circling. He went to Guru Maa in panic. She told him to fast nine days, donate half his profit to the ashram kitchen for a year, and never raise his hand to wife or children again. He obeyed. The business didn’t just recover—it grew. Jagdish now believes she literally saved his bloodline. Surekha follows in silence, cooking special prasad for every full-moon visit. Suvrat goes because his father goes, but he performs the loudest devotion—touching feet with exaggerated reverence, carrying firewood, repairing walls, always positioning himself where Guru Maa can see him.
The ashram is the only place the two families meet without open knives drawn.
Survati and Jagdish sit on opposite sides during aarti, never speaking, both folding hands when her name is chanted. Suvrat stands at the back, arms crossed, staring at Survati with resentment he doesn’t bother hiding. Survati pretends not to notice.
Guru Maa never takes sides in their small hatreds.
She simply speaks.
And when she speaks, the world rearranges itself to match her words.

[Sambit07]

Wait ling for the next update....

[Mardanamaratha]

Chapter 3: Unfortunate Tragic Events

The six months that followed Guru Maa’s pronouncement were the quiet before the storm nobody saw coming.

At first everything felt suspended—tense, watchful, but still ordinary. Survati went to work every day in her blazers and heels, came home, shouted at Suresh about something trivial, and pretended the ashram visit had never happened. Suvrat kept his distance, showing up only for family functions where he stood at the edges, arms crossed, staring. Suritee and I tried to keep the house running normally, talking about work, avoiding the subject like it was a live wire. Even Jagdish and Surekha stayed away more than usual.

Then the deaths started.

First was Dadi—my grandmother. Seventy-seven, still walking to the market every morning with her cane, still insisting on making the morning chai herself. One evening in early August she cooked dinner—simple dal, rice, bhindi sabzi, the way she always did. We all ate together at the dining table; nothing tasted strange. She went to bed early, saying she felt a little tired. By morning she was gone. No struggle, no warning. The doctor who came said it was a massive heart attack in her sleep—peaceful, instantaneous. But Dadi had never had heart trouble. Not once. Dada sat on the floor beside her body for hours, whispering apologies to the photograph of Guru Maa’s mother that hung on the wall. Survati didn’t cry in front of anyone; she just stared at the wall until her eyes were red. The cremation was quiet. Nobody mentioned the dinner, but we all remembered it.

Less than two months later, my sister’s husband died.

He was thirty, healthy, worked in IT, jogged every evening. One Sunday night they came over for dinner—my sister had made paneer butter masala and everyone ate with the usual chatter. He laughed at something Suresh said, helped clear the plates, went home with my sister. The next morning she found him cold in bed. Again, heart failure. Sudden. No history of illness. The autopsy report said cardiac arrest, cause unknown. My sister sat on the floor of their flat for two days, refusing to eat, refusing to speak. When she finally looked up, her eyes were empty. “He ate the same food I did,” she kept whispering. “Why him? Why not me?” Survati drove to her house every day, sat silently beside her, but even she had no answers. The family started avoiding leftovers. Nobody said it out loud, but the question hung in every room: was something in the food?

Then, in January—barely six months after Dadi—the third death.

Suvrat’s wife.

She was twenty-eight, quiet, always in pastel sarees, never raised her voice. One Friday evening the whole extended family gathered at Jagdish’s house for a small get-together—nothing festive, just dinner to “normalize things” after the previous losses. Surekha had cooked mutton curry, rice, raita. Everyone ate. Suvrat’s wife smiled softly, served seconds to Jagdish, helped clear the table. She went to lie down early, complaining of a mild headache. By midnight she was gone. Same story: sudden cardiac arrest in sleep. No poison found, no infection, no blockage—nothing the doctors could explain. Suvrat didn’t cry at the funeral. He just stood there, fists clenched, staring at the pyre until the flames died down. When people offered condolences he only said one thing, over and over: “She ate what we all ate.”

Three deaths. Three dinners. Three perfectly healthy people gone in their sleep within six months.

No poison. No pattern the security officer could trace. No enemies anyone could name. Just… silence after the plates were cleared.

The family shattered in slow motion.

Dada stopped running. He sat in the courtyard every morning staring at Dadi’s empty chair, whispering to himself. My sister barely left her flat; she lost weight, stopped answering calls. Suritee started waking up crying in the night, convinced something was watching us. Survati—my mother, the woman who never bent—began chain-smoking on the balcony at 2 a.m., staring at the city lights like they might give her an answer. Suresh withdrew even further, if that was possible. Jagdish roared at everyone and no one, smashing a glass against the wall one evening because “someone must know something.” Suvrat grew quieter, darker—his usual swagger replaced by a simmering, dangerous stillness.

Nobody talked about coincidence anymore.

After the third death, the families did the only thing they still knew how to do.

They went to Guru Maa.

All of us—Survati driving with white knuckles again, Jagdish’s Innova packed with people, Dada insisting on coming despite barely being able to walk the path. We arrived at the ashram at dusk. The havan fire was already burning, blue smoke thick in the cold air. Guru Maa sat under the neem tree as always, eyes half-closed, waiting.

We sat in a ragged semicircle on the mats—old, young, broken, angry.

Nobody spoke first.

Guru Maa opened her eyes, looked at each face slowly, then folded her hands in her lap.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t offer comfort.

She simply said, in that soft, ash-falling voice:

“The planets are speaking. Loudly.”

And then she was silent again.

We waited.

We are still waiting.

Nobody has left the ashram yet.

Nobody knows what comes next.

But for the first time in three generations, the family that always obeyed her words is terrified of what those words might be.

Chapter 4: Shocking Solutions

We sat in that neem-shaded courtyard for what felt like hours—maybe it was. The havan fire crackled softly, but the air was heavy, thick with the scent of sandalwood and unspoken fear. Guru Maa didn’t rush. She never did. She closed her eyes, hands resting on her knees, face grim as stone. Her plump cheeks, usually soft and maternal, were drawn tight; her brow furrowed like she was wrestling with shadows only she could see. We waited—Survati rigid beside me, her Louboutin heels digging into the dirt mat like anchors; Suresh staring at his folded hands; Jagdish shifting impatiently, his thick mustache twitching; Surekha clutching her pallu; Suvrat leaning against a pillar, arms crossed but eyes darting; Suritee next to me, her hand cold in mine; my sister Sujani, hollow-eyed and silent since her husband’s death; even Dada (Surendra), frail and leaning on his cane, watching with the quiet resignation of someone who had lost too much already.

Finally, Guru Maa opened her eyes. They were darker than usual, polished onyx reflecting the dying firelight.

“The stars are in chaos,” she said, voice low and grave, like falling ash. “The marriages that have held this family together for generations… they will hold no longer. Planetary alignments have shifted. Rahu and Ketu devour the bonds. Saturn demands repayment. What worked before brings only poison now.”

A murmur rippled through us—soft, disbelieving gasps. Survati’s breath hitched; she leaned forward, silver bob swinging like a pendulum. “What do you mean, Guru Maa? The marriages… won’t work?”

Guru Maa nodded slowly, her expression unchanging, grim as a funeral rite. “They must be broken. Dissolved. The unions are cursed. To save the family—to stop the deaths—you must remarry. New bonds, new alignments, or the shadows will claim more.”

The courtyard spun. Broken? Dissolved? Jagdish’s face turned red; he slammed a fist into his palm, mustache quivering. “Broken? My marriage? Thirty years with Surekha—gone? Just like that? Guru Maa, this can’t be—” His voice cracked, the big man suddenly small, eyes wide with shock.

Surekha let out a small sob, hand flying to her mouth, pallu slipping to reveal a sliver of her conservative saree. “No… please… what have we done to deserve this?”

Sujani—my sister, already widowed, her single plait hanging limp down her back—stared blankly, as if the words were rain on glass. But her hands trembled in her lap, knuckles white. Dada gripped his cane tighter, whispering something under his breath—a prayer, maybe, or a curse.

Suritee squeezed my hand so hard it hurt, her hourglass figure tense beside me, shoulder-length hair falling across her face like a veil. “Guru Maa… all of us? Even… even Aadesh and me?” Her voice was small, disbelieving, the ambitious woman who idolized Survati suddenly reduced to a whisper.

Guru Maa raised a hand, silencing the rising chaos. “All. The curse touches every bond. But the planets bind these two families together. The remarriages must stay within—crossing bloodlines, mending the rift. No outsiders. The stars demand it.”

Dumbfounded doesn’t begin to cover it. Survati’s face drained of color, her confident VP mask cracking for the first time I’d ever seen—eyes wide, mouth parted in silent horror. Suresh just sat there, blinking slowly, as if the words were in a language he didn’t speak. Suvrat’s arms uncrossed; he stepped forward, muscles bulging under his shirt, face twisting into something between rage and disbelief. “Remarry? Within families? Guru Maa, this is madness—”

But Guru Maa was already moving. She reached into the folds of her saffron robes and pulled out a worn deck of tarot cards—edges frayed, colors faded from years of use. She shuffled them slowly, deliberately, the sound like dry leaves scbanging stone. Her grim expression deepened, lips pressed thin. “The cards will show what the planets want. No arguments. Each of you—pick one. Face down. The symbols will pair you.”

We obeyed—because what else could we do? The air felt electric, charged with turmoil. One by one, we leaned forward, hands shaking, and drew a card from the fanned deck in her plump hands. Survati’s fingers trembled as she picked hers, her red-thread bracelet catching the firelight. Suresh fumbled his, nearly dropping it. Jagdish snatched his like it burned. Surekha’s hand hovered before selecting, tears streaming silently. Sujani moved like a ghost, her petite frame hunched. Suritee glanced at me, eyes wide with fear, before drawing. Suvrat took his last, mustache twitching, a savage glint in his eye. Even Dada, with his cane propped, reached out with gnarled fingers.

Guru Maa collected the cards, laid them out in a row on the white sheet before her. She flipped them one by one—slow, ritualistic, her voice intoning the symbols as they appeared.

“The Wheel of Fortune… The Tower… The Lovers… Death… The Star… The Moon… The Sun… The Chariot… The Empress…”

Then she paused, grim face unchanging, and grouped them by matching symbols—pairs the stars supposedly demanded.

“Suresh,” she said, pointing to a card with a swirling wheel. “And Surekha. The Wheel of Fortune binds you.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Suresh’s head jerked up. His mild, perpetually defeated eyes widened in pure, childlike terror. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, face turning ashen. “Me… with Surekha ji?” The words came out as a hoarse whisper, barely audible. He looked at Jagdish—his lifelong rival, the man who had always looked down on him—then at Surekha, whose conservative saree suddenly seemed too thin a shield. Surekha’s hand flew to her chest; her pallu slipped further, exposing the soft curve of her collarbone she always hid. A strangled sob escaped her. “No… Suresh ji… I… I can’t…” Her voice broke into heaving, silent tears, shoulders shaking violently. The age gap, the decades of quiet hostility between the two households, the sheer wrongness of it—it landed like a physical blow. Jagdish stared at them both, face purple, veins bulging at his temples, unable to speak.

Guru Maa continued, unflinching. “Jagdish. And Sujani. The Tower unites you in destruction and rebirth.”

Jagdish exploded.

He surged to his feet, broad shoulders heaving, mustache quivering with rage. “The girl?! My daughter-in-law’s little sister?! She’s barely out of her twenties—I’m old enough to be her father!” His roar echoed off the ashram walls; spit flew from his lips. “This is blasphemy! This is—” He turned to Sujani, eyes wild with disbelief and something darker—shame, maybe, or forbidden hunger he refused to acknowledge. Sujani recoiled as if slapped. Her petite body curled inward, single plait swinging like a pendulum of grief. Fresh tears streamed down her face; she shook her head violently, voice cracking into a whisper-scream: “No… please… not him… not Uncle Jagdish… I can’t… I won’t survive this…” Her hands clawed at her dupatta, knuckles white, body trembling so hard she nearly collapsed. The age difference, the family ties, the power imbalance—it was obscene, unthinkable, a violation of every boundary she had left after losing her husband. Survati reached for her daughter instinctively, but her own face was a mask of frozen horror.

Guru Maa’s voice cut through again, calm and merciless.

“Surendra. And Suritee. The Empress binds you.”

Dada’s cane slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. The old man—eighty, frail, still carrying the quiet dignity of a lifetime—looked at Suritee with eyes that suddenly filled with tears. “Beta… my own granddaughter-in-law…” His voice cracked, thin and broken. Suritee’s hand flew to her mouth; her hourglass figure froze beside me, loose hair trembling across her shoulders. She stared at Dada—my grandfather, the man who had always been gentle, who used to carry her on his shoulders when she was small—and her face crumpled. “Dada ji… no… this can’t…” she whispered, voice shaking so badly the words barely formed. The generational taboo, the tenderness turned grotesque, the betrayal of every family boundary—it hit her like a physical wave. She turned to me, eyes pleading, but I had no words.

And then—the final pair.

“Suvrat. And Survati. Death claims you both—for transformation.”

The courtyard detonated.

Survati shot upright like she’d been electrocuted. Her silver bob whipped across her face; her eyes—usually sharp, commanding—were huge, glassy with pure, animal panic. “Me? With… with him?” The word came out as a strangled choke. She pointed at Suvrat, finger trembling. “That… that goon? The uneducated thug who reeks of bidis and cheap daru? The one I’ve spent years pretending doesn’t exist?” Her voice rose to a raw, cracking pitch—decades of disdain, contempt, and class superiority shattering in one breath. “Guru Maa—no—no—this is impossible. I’d rather die. I’d rather—” She choked on the words, tears spilling over, chest heaving with hyperventilated breaths.

Suvrat’s gigantic frame went rigid. For a heartbeat he looked stunned—then something dark and savage lit in his eyes. His thick mustache twitched into a twisted, predatory grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Her? The high-and-mighty bitch who’s looked at me like dog shit on her designer shoes for twenty years?” He barked a harsh, disbelieving laugh, stepping forward until he towered over Survati. “Marry Survati Sharma? The woman who called me filth behind my back at every family wedding? The one who had security throw me out of Suritee’s reception like I was trash?” His voice dropped to a low, venomous growl. “You think I want that? You think I want her sharp tongue and her fancy degrees in my bed?” But his eyes—dark, burning—betrayed something else: hunger, revenge, the sick thrill of finally having power over the woman who had always dismissed him.

Survati recoiled as if struck, face draining to gray. “You… you disgust me…” she whispered, but the words cracked, weak, her body trembling with revulsion and something she refused to name.

Suritee let out a broken sob, clutching my arm so hard her nails drew blood. “This can’t be happening… Mummy… no…” Dada muttered frantic prayers, head bowed. Jagdish roared again, fists clenched. Surekha wept openly, rocking back and forth. Sujani curled into a ball, silent sobs shaking her frame.

And then—quietly, almost imperceptibly—Suritee looked at me.

Our eyes met. For a split second, the chaos around us faded. Her lips curved—just the tiniest fraction—into a silent, bitter smile. No words. No sound. Just that small, private, devastating smile that said everything: We’re next. And we both know it.

Jagdish—still standing, still furious—suddenly went still. His eyes flicked to Sujani, then away. His fists unclenched slightly. A strange, almost guilty flush crept up his neck. He didn’t protest again. He didn’t roar. He just… looked almost relieved beneath the anger, like a man who had secretly wanted something forbidden for years and now had permission he could never admit to wanting. He sat down heavily, avoiding everyone’s gaze.

Suvrat did the same. The savage grin lingered a moment longer—then softened into something quieter, darker, more private. He didn’t shout anymore. He simply stared at Survati with a hunger he no longer bothered hiding, shoulders relaxing as though a weight had finally lifted. He didn’t need to say it out loud. His body language screamed it: Finally.

Everyone was shattered—expressions of raw shock, disbelief, horror, and fractured grief frozen in the firelight.

But we had followed regardless.

Guru Maa rang her brass bell once—sharp, final.

“It is written.”

The nightmare deepened.

And none of us could look away.

[aravindkkumar08]

Can you change the font size and re-upload pl6

[ash.enigma]

What about Aadesh?

[Mardanamaratha]

Chapter 5: Aadesh Left Alone
The drive back from the ashram clawed at my soul like thorns in the dark, the narrow Aravalli road twisting mercilessly under our tires, each bump jolting fresh waves of agony through my chest. Suritee sat beside me in the passenger seat, her once-alluring hourglass figure now a rigid statue of fury, her shoulder-length hair whipping wildly in the wind from the cracked window like strands of unraveling sanity. The silence between us wasn’t just heavy—it was suffocating, a void pregnant with the ashram’s curses, Guru Maa’s unyielding voice echoing in my skull: “It is written.” Behind us, the family’s convoy trailed like a funeral procession—Survati’s car ahead, her white-knuckled grip on the wheel visible even from afar; Jagdish’s Innova lumbering with Surekha’s choked sobs piercing the night; Dada and Sujani huddled in another vehicle, his unyielding posture a stark reminder of his enduring strength despite the grief. Suvrat’s motorcycle had vanished into the shadows earlier, its guttural roar a harbinger of the rage boiling in us all.
My hands trembled on the steering wheel, veins bulging as I fought to keep the car steady, but inside, I was fracturing—splintering under the weight of those damned cards, the pairs that tore our world asunder. Suritee’s presence, once my anchor, now felt like a blade pressed to my throat. The forest thinned into the expressway’s harsh glow, and that’s when the dam shattered.
“This is all your family’s doing!” Suritee erupted, her voice a venomous whipcrack that sliced through the air, her eyes blazing with a hatred I’d never seen—raw, unfiltered, aimed straight at my heart. “Your so-called ‘modern’ mother, Survati, with her power suits and her endless belittling of everyone who doesn’t bow to her ego! She’s the poison! She’s the one who invited this curse—trampling traditions, emasculating men like they’re disposable. If not for her arrogance, Guru Maa wouldn’t have ripped us apart like this!”
Her words ignited a firestorm in me, a torrent of suppressed fury exploding outward. “My family? You’re delusional if you think yours is innocent!” I roared back, my voice cracking with betrayal, the car swerving slightly as my grip faltered. “Your father—Jagdish, that tyrannical bully with his mustache and his bellowing commands, treating women like property! And Suvrat? That brute, that uneducated savage who struts around like a king in his filthy world of trucks and threats! They’ve dragged us into the mud with their backward ways, their violent tempers, their refusal to evolve. If anyone’s cursed this bloodline, it’s your side—the oppressors, the relics who suffocate everything they touch!”
The accusations escalated into a brutal war, our voices overlapping in a cacophony of pain and blame, each word a dagger plunged deeper. I hurled insults at her family’s stifling patriarchy, how it bred resentment like a disease, how Jagdish’s control had warped Suvrat into a monster waiting to unleash. She countered with vicious precision, tearing into Survati’s dominance, how it had castrated Suresh and left me spineless, a shadow of a man too weak to stand against the matriarch’s reign. Tears streamed down her face, mascara streaking like black rivers of grief, but her eyes held no mercy—only scorching contempt. By the time we screeched into the South Mumbai driveway, my throat was raw, my soul battered, the air between us poisoned beyond repair.
We burst into the house like survivors of a shipwreck, the door slamming with a finality that echoed through my bones. The living room loomed dim and oppressive, shadows clinging to the walls where family photos mocked us—smiling faces from a life now obliterated. Survati and Suresh had vanished upstairs, their door closed like a tomb; Dada sat upright in his armchair, his fit frame unbowed by age or sorrow, eyes vacant as he whispered prayers that sounded like pleas for death, his morning runs still a testament to his unbreakable vitality. Suritee stormed toward our bedroom, her heels stabbing the floor like accusations, and I followed, desperation clawing at me, begging for some shred of connection amid the ruins.
She whirled at the bed’s edge, her dress unzipped in frantic jerks, the fabric crumpling to the floor to reveal her underdressed form—clad only in sheer black lace lingerie that clung to her hourglass curves like a second skin, the delicate fabric straining against her full bust, the high-cut bottoms accentuating the swell of her hips and the smooth expanse of her thighs, her skin glowing faintly in the dim lamplight. What had once been an intimate sight for my eyes alone now felt like a deliberate taunt, her body a weapon honed to inflict maximum pain. Her bust rose and fell with heaving breaths, her skin flushed with rage. “Suritee, please,” I begged, my voice fracturing into shards, tears burning my eyes as I reached for her. “We can’t let this destroy us. We’re still—”
“Still what, Aadesh?” she snarled, advancing like a predator, her gaze dissecting me with cruel accuracy. “Husband and wife? Guru Maa ended that. And you know what?” Her lips twisted into a savage, heartbreaking sneer, her words dripping with acid that seared my core. “Maybe I’d be happier with Surendra ji than with you. At least he has fire left in him.”
The blow struck deeper than any physical wound—my heart didn’t just break; it pulverized, fragments embedding in my lungs, stealing my breath in a gasp of pure devastation. Surendra. Dada. My grandfather, the pillar of my childhood, now the thief of my marriage. Her words hung in the air, a betrayal so profound it hollowed me out, leaving only echoing pain. “You… you can’t mean that,” I whispered, collapsing against the wall, my legs buckling as sobs wracked my body, hot tears cascading unchecked.
But she wasn’t done. Her eyes raked over me—my sagging belly, the flab from years of neglect, the exhaustion etched in every line of my face—and she humiliated me further, her voice a whip of scorn. “Look at yourself, Aadesh. You’re a mess—physically broken, out of shape, gasping for air after a simple walk. Surendra ji? At eighty, he’s stronger, fitter, running miles while you wheeze on the couch. Maybe he can give me the pleasure you never could—the endurance, the passion, the raw vitality you’ve let slip away. You’ve been inadequate for so long, too soft, too tired, leaving me starving in our bed. With him… it might finally feel alive.”
Each syllable was a fresh laceration, stripping away my dignity, exposing the insecurities I’d buried under denial. Inadequate. Soft. Starving her. Compared to my own grandfather—the taboo twisted like a knife in my gut, amplifying the horror until I could barely breathe. But then, as if to drive the blade deeper, she curled up on the bed right in front of me, still underdressed in that tantalizing lace, her body arching languidly as she pulled her knees to her chest, the movement causing the fabric to ride up slightly, revealing more of her toned thighs and the soft curve of her backside. She propped herself on one elbow, her loose hair cascading over her shoulder, framing her heaving bust that strained against the thin material, nipples faintly visible through the sheer black mesh. Her skin, smooth and inviting, flushed with a mix of anger and something darker—perhaps anticipation—gleamed under the low light, every inch a reminder of what I’d lost.
“You can’t have this anymore, Aadesh,” she mocked, her voice a sultry purr laced with venom, running a hand slowly down her side, tracing the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, lingering on the swell of her bust as if appraising a prize. “This body—my full, firm breasts that you used to worship but could never satisfy long enough; my narrow waist that leads to these wide, childbearing hips you barely touched in months; these long, smooth legs that wrap around a man so perfectly… all of it wasted on you. But with Surendra ji? Oh, he’ll serve it better. His strong hands—callused from years of real work, not your soft office palms—will grip these curves with the vigor you lack. He’ll appreciate the bounce of my bust, the way my thighs quiver under real stamina, the heat of my core that you’ve left cold for too long. At eighty, he’s got more life in him than you ever did—running those miles every dawn, his body lean and powerful, ready to claim what’s his now. He’ll make this body sing, Aadesh, in ways you never could. And you’ll hear it, every night, knowing it’s his touch making me arch and moan, not yours.”
The shame burned through me like acid, but she pressed on, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction as she shifted on the bed, letting one strap of her lingerie slip down her shoulder, exposing more of her creamy skin. “Do you remember how you’d fumble, Aadesh? Panting after just a few minutes, your weak thrusts barely registering? Pathetic. Surendra ji won’t falter like that. He’ll take his time, exploring every inch—squeezing these breasts until I gasp, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave marks you were too timid to make. He’ll bury his face in my cleavage, tasting what you’ve neglected, making my nipples harden under a real man’s mouth. And when he enters me? God, it’ll be deep, relentless, filling me completely—stretching me in ways your sorry excuse for manhood never did. You’ll be in the next room, listening to the bed creak under his weight, my cries echoing because finally, someone knows how to handle a woman like me.”
I whimpered, curling tighter on the floor, my face buried in my hands as waves of humiliation crashed over me, each word eroding what little pride I had left. “Please… stop…” I begged, voice muffled and broken, but she only laughed—a low, mocking sound that twisted the knife further.
“Stop? Why? You need to hear this, Aadesh. You’ve been a disappointment in bed for years—too quick, too selfish, too damn lazy to even try anymore. Surendra ji? He’ll worship this body properly. His endurance will have me writhing, my legs locked around his waist as he drives into me again and again, hitting spots you couldn’t reach if you tried. Imagine it—my back arching off the bed, my full breasts bouncing with every powerful thrust, sweat glistening on my skin as I scream his name. Dada ji. Your grandfather, outlasting you, outpleasing you, making me come harder than you ever have. And you? You’ll be alone, touching yourself to the sounds, knowing you’re not man enough for this anymore.”
Her words left me utterly ashamed, reduced to a sobbing wreck, every ounce of self-worth shattered beyond repair. The taboo, the betrayal, the vivid details—it was too much, branding my soul with indelible humiliation. But amid the haze of pain, a question clawed its way out, my voice trembling as I lifted my head just enough to meet her eyes. “Why… why are you calling him Surendra ji now? He’s Dada ji to you—he’s always been Dada ji. Our marriage… is it done yet? Just like that?”
Suritee paused, her mocking smile fading into something colder, more resolute, as she adjusted the fallen strap with deliberate slowness, her gaze never leaving mine. “Dada ji? That’s what I called him when I was your wife, Aadesh—part of your family, bound by your rules. But Guru Maa’s words changed everything. He’s Surendra ji now—my future husband, my equal in this new alignment. Not some grandfather figure anymore. The stars demand respect for the bond that’s coming. And our marriage? It’s as good as dissolved. The moment those cards were flipped, we were over. Guru Maa’s decree is final—no papers, no ceremonies needed to end what the planets have cursed. We’re free… or rather, I’m free. Free from you.”
Her response crushed whatever fragile hope remained, the finality in her tone sealing my isolation.
She turned away finally, slipping into her nightgown with cold finality, climbing under the covers as if I were already a ghost. “I was your wife—your pathetic, unfulfilled wife,” she hissed over her shoulder, her voice laced with venomous finality, each word a sharpened dagger aimed at my crumbling spirit. “But now? I’m his. And thank the stars for that, because anything is better than being chained to a weak, worthless failure like you.” Her back to me became an unbreachable fortress, the silence that followed heavier than any curse.
I remained there on the floor, shattered and alone, the house’s silence mocking my isolation. Dada’s steady breathing from the next room, a reminder of his unyielding fitness, only deepened the wound—his vitality a mirror to my failures. The curse had claimed us all, but in that moment, I was the one left utterly forsaken, drowning in a sea of betrayal and self-loathing.

Chapter 6: Weddings Under the Neem Tree
The ashram courtyard had transformed into a sacred theater under the full moon of February 20, 2026. The ancient neem tree spread its branches like a vast, protective canopy, leaves rustling softly in the night breeze, releasing their faint bitter-green scent that mingled with the thick smoke of the havan fire. Ghee hissed and popped in the flames, sending bursts of white smoke skyward, carrying prayers no one dared voice aloud. Marigold garlands swayed from every pillar; brass diyas flickered along the ground, their tiny flames dancing in pools of melted wax. The air tasted of camphor, roasted sesame, and the metallic tang of anticipation.
Four mandaps stood in a loose square around the central fire, each simple yet adorned with fresh flowers and vermilion-painted symbols. No music played—only the low chant of mantras from Guru Maa and two assisting pandits, their voices weaving through the crackle of wood. Tonight was not celebration; it was surrender. Four couples waited, bound by the same decree that had shattered them two weeks earlier.
Surendra and Suritee
Suritee stood beneath the first mandap like a flame given form. Her heavy red bridal lehenga gleamed under the firelight, the silk so richly embroidered with gold zari that it caught every flicker. The deep-necked choli plunged daringly low, cradling the full swell of her bust, the fabric stretched taut across her curves with each shallow breath. A sheer red dupatta dbangd loosely from her shoulders, slipping deliberately to reveal the smooth golden expanse of her midriff and the gentle dip of her navel. Her long black hair flowed unbound, jasmine strands woven through, brushing the small of her back. Kohl rimmed her eyes, making them smolder; her lips were painted deep crimson, parted slightly as if tasting the inevitability. Green glass bangles climbed her wrists in stacks, clinking softly whenever she moved. A heavy gold choker pressed against her throat, its pendant resting just above the deep cleavage—a mark of possession already claimed.
Beside her, Surendra—eighty, yet unbowed—stood bare-chested in a simple red dhoti tied low on his lean hips. His skin, bronzed and oiled, shone in the firelight; silver chest hair curled against defined pectorals still sculpted from decades of dawn runs. His arms hung relaxed but powerful, veins tracing like rivers over corded forearms. Gray hair neatly combed, mustache sharp, a fresh red tilak gleamed on his forehead. A thin gold chain lay against his sternum, catching sparks. His eyes—dark, steady—rested on Suritee with quiet intensity, no shame, only acceptance laced with something deeper, almost reverent hunger.
Suritee’s fingers trembled faintly as she adjusted her dupatta, but her chin lifted high. She felt the heat of the fire on her exposed skin, the weight of gazes she no longer cared to avoid. Relief warred with guilt in her chest; the old life had suffocated her, and this—wrong as it was—promised release.
Sujani and Jagdish
Under the second mandap, Sujani appeared almost fragile in her bridal red saree. The silk clung to her petite frame, the low blouse revealing the gentle curve of her breasts and the narrow dip of her waist. Her single long plait hung down her back like a dark rope, fresh marigolds tucked into it. A small red bindi sat between her brows; her eyes—once soft and downcast—now held a glassy, distant sheen, as though she had retreated somewhere deep inside herself. She clutched the edge of her pallu so tightly her knuckles whitened, the fabric bunching over her midriff.
Jagdish towered beside her, broad and imposing in a cream dhoti and angavastram slung across his massive chest. The cloth dbangd low, exposing the thick mat of gray-black hair on his barrel torso, his prominent belly rising and falling with heavy breaths. His mustache—thick, oiled—twitched as he shifted his weight; his eyes, usually thunderous, now burned with a strange mix of triumph and unease. A thick gold chain rested on his chest hair, catching the light. His large hand hovered near Sujani’s elbow, not quite touching—yet the air between them crackled with unspoken power.
Sujani’s mind spun in tight, panicked circles. The man who had once been “Uncle Jagdish,” the roaring patriarch, now stood as her groom. Shame burned her cheeks, but beneath it lay a numb resignation—she had lost everything already; what was one more fracture?
Suresh and Surekha
The third mandap held the quietest pair. Surekha wore a deep maroon saree, conservative yet bridal—pallu pinned tightly across her generous bust, the blouse modest but unable to hide the soft fullness beneath. Her hair was parted in the center, bound in a low bun adorned with jasmine; a simple gold chain circled her neck, resting against the deep cleavage she always tried to conceal. Her hands—soft, trembling—clasped together at her waist, fingers twisting the edge of her saree. Her eyes stayed fixed on the ground, tears gathering but never falling.
Suresh stood beside her in a plain white dhoti and kurta, sleeves rolled up to reveal thin arms. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath the thin cotton; his face—usually mild and averted—now carried a look of stunned bewilderment, as though he still expected someone to declare this all a mistake. A small red tilak marked his forehead; his hands hung limp at his sides, fingers twitching occasionally.
Surekha felt the pallu slip slightly with each breath, exposing a sliver of midriff she quickly adjusted. Decades of quiet obedience had prepared her for many things, but not this—not standing beside the man she had silently pitied for years, now bound to him by divine command. Fear coiled in her gut, yet a tiny, traitorous part of her wondered if this gentleness might be kinder than the life she had known.
Suvrat and Survati
The final mandap crackled with different energy. Survati stood rigid in a bold scarlet saree, the blouse low and fitted, accentuating her ample bust and the confident curve of her hips. Silver streaks gleamed in her short bob; no dupatta covered her—her shoulders bare, skin glowing under the firelight. Heavy gold jewelry weighed her neck and wrists; her Louboutins had been replaced by simple mojari, but she carried herself as though still in heels, chin high, eyes blazing defiance even as her lips pressed into a thin line.
Suvrat loomed next to her, bare-chested in a blood-red dhoti, his wrestler’s frame oiled and massive. Thick muscles bunched under dark skin; a dense mat of chest hair trailed down to the low knot of his dhoti. His mustache twitched with barely contained satisfaction; his eyes—dark, predatory—raked over Survati openly, lingering on every exposed inch. A thick vermilion tilak slashed across his forehead like war paint.
Survati’s pulse hammered in her throat. Revulsion warred with something darker—fascination, perhaps, or the sick thrill of finally facing the man she had despised for so long on equal, terrifying terms. Her body felt exposed, vulnerable, yet alive in a way boardrooms never allowed.
Suvrat flexed his fingers once, twice. Victory tasted like smoke and sweat on his tongue. The high-and-mighty Survati Sharma—reduced, remade, his.
Guru Maa raised her hand. The chants swelled. One by one, the couples stepped closer to the fire.
Surendra lifted the garland first, his strong hands steady as he placed it around Suritee’s neck—fingers brushing her collarbone, lingering a heartbeat too long. She inhaled sharply, jasmine and ghee filling her lungs.
Jagdish’s large hands shook slightly as he garlanded Sujani; she flinched at the weight settling on her shoulders, the rough petals scratching her skin.
Suresh fumbled the garland, nearly dropping it; Surekha reached up herself, guiding it gently, their fingers touching for the first time—soft, hesitant, electric.
Suvrat snatched the garland from the pandit and dbangd it over Survati with deliberate force, his callused fingertips grazing the tops of her breasts. She stiffened, nostrils flaring, but did not step back.
The fire roared higher. Mantras rose. Four new bonds sealed under the neem tree—each one a wound, each one a strange, unwilling rebirth.
From the shadows, I watched, the heat of the havan fire licking at my skin like invisible tongues, searing through my clothes and into my flesh, as if the flames themselves mocked my isolation. The bitter neem scent clawed at my nostrils, mixing with the acrid smoke that stung my eyes, blurring the scene into a nightmarish haze. My heart pounded erratically, a thunderous drum in my ears that drowned out the mantras, each beat a fresh stab of betrayal—Suritee, my wife, garlanded by my grandfather’s steady hands, her body arching ever so slightly toward him, the jasmine in her hair wafting betrayal on the breeze. Tears burned tracks down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting, tasting of salt and despair as I choked on the lump in my throat, my breaths coming in ragged gasps that scbangd like sandpaper. How could this be real? My sister Sujani, fragile and withdrawn, flinching under Jagdish’s looming touch—her plait swinging like a noose, the marigolds crushing under the garland’s weight. My father Suresh, fumbling like the defeated man he always was, now claiming Surekha, her pallu slipping to reveal skin that should have remained hidden, their hesitant fingers brushing in a mockery of intimacy. And my mother Survati—the unbreakable queen—stiffening as Suvrat’s rough hands claimed her, his predatory gaze devouring her exposed shoulders, the gold jewelry clinking like chains. Every clink of bangles, every hiss of ghee in the fire, every rustle of silk amplified the agony twisting in my gut, a vortex of rage, grief, and helpless revulsion that left me trembling, knees weak against the cold stone pillar. My family—remade without me, their new bonds forged in flames that consumed my world—left me utterly alone, the shadows closing in like a shroud, the moon above indifferent to the ruins of my soul. The heat reached me even there, burning everything that remained, until all I could feel was the hollow echo of loss, raw and unending.

[Ayush01111]

Bhai last time baap ne bete ki maar li thi aisa koi scene to nahi hai

[Mardanamaratha]

Bhai last time baap ne bete ki maar li thi aisa koi scene to nahi hai

Keep guessing 

[Mardanamaratha]

Chapter 7: Tangled Relations
Before all this nightmare:
I was Survati’s son and Suresh’s son.
Dada—Surendra—was my grandfather, the one who used to ruffle my hair and call me “beta” like it was the only word that mattered.
Sujani was my little sister, the quiet one I protected.
Suritee was my wife—my everything, the woman whose body I knew better than my own reflection.
Surekha was my mother-in-law, soft-spoken and distant.
Jagdish was my father-in-law, the roaring bull I kept at arm’s length.
Suvrat was my brother-in-law, the crude thug I tolerated for Suritee’s sake.
Simple. Clear. Normal.
After the neem tree swallowed our old lives and spat out this abomination:
Survati is still my mother, but now she’s married to Suvrat—so that muscle-bound bastard who used to leer at her like she was trash on his shoe is my stepfather.
Suresh is still my father, but he’s married to Surekha—so the woman who used to be my mother-in-law, the one whose saree pallu I never saw slip even once, is now my stepmother.
Dada—Surendra—is still my grandfather, but he’s married to Suritee—so Suritee, the woman whose skin I used to trace in the dark, whose moans I used to swallow with my mouth, is now my step-grandmother.
Sujani is still my sister, but she’s married to Jagdish—so the man who used to bellow at family gatherings like a village don, the one whose daughter I married, is now my brother-in-law.
Suritee is my ex-wife, but because she’s Dada’s wife, she’s also my step-grandmother. She’s my grandfather’s woman now. My grandfather’s.
Surekha is my ex-mother-in-law and now my stepmother because of Suresh.
Jagdish is my ex-father-in-law and now my brother-in-law because of Sujani.
Suvrat is my ex-brother-in-law and now my stepfather because of Survati.
And it gets worse when you zoom out.
Survati—my mother—is now Suresh’s daughter-in-law because Suresh married Surekha.
Suresh—my father—is now Suritee’s stepson because Suritee married Dada.
Suritee—my ex-wife—is now Suresh’s stepmother. The woman I used to fuck is now my father’s stepmother.
Survati—my mother—is now Jagdish’s mother-in-law because Jagdish married Sujani.
Surekha—my stepmother—is now Survati’s mother-in-law because Survati married Suvrat.
Suvrat—my stepfather—is now Survati’s husband and therefore Suresh’s stepson-in-law.

Chapter 8: Nuptial Nights
We stood in a ragged semicircle under the neem tree, the full moon hanging like a judgment above us on February 6, 2026, its silver light filtering through the leaves and casting long, twisted shadows on the ground. The havan fire had died down to glowing embers, but the air was thick, humid—clinging to exposed skin like a lover who refused to let go, heavy with the scent of damp earth, smoldering sandalwood, and the faint, musky undercurrent of anticipation-sweat from all of us. The Aravalli forest pressed in around the ashram clearing, alive with the low hum of crickets and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath for what came next. My shirt stuck to my back, the cotton damp and heavy, beads of moisture trickling down my temples and between my shoulder blades. It wasn’t just the heat; it was the suffocating weight of the moment, the humid night wrapping around us like a second skin soaked in forbidden desire.
All the husbands stood bare-chested in simple red dhotis tied low on their hips—thin cotton fabric clinging to thighs and groins from the humidity, the red dye vivid against oiled skin under the moonlight. The wives wore matching cholis and ghagras: Survati’s choli was deep scarlet, low-cut and fitted, cradling her full bust so tightly that every shallow breath made the silk strain and shift, the bare midriff glistening with sweat, her ghagra flowing in heavy folds but riding up slightly with each movement to reveal the curve of her calves. Suritee’s red choli plunged daringly, the fabric stretched taut across her hourglass curves, nipples faintly outlined through the damp silk, her ghagra hugging her wide hips and flaring out, the hem brushing her ankles but clinging to her thighs in the sticky air. Surekha’s maroon choli was more modest in cut but still low enough to reveal the deep valley of her generous bust, the fabric translucent with sweat against her skin, her ghagra dbangd conservatively yet clinging to the soft swell of her belly and hips. Sujani’s red choli was simple but fitted, accentuating her petite frame, the low neckline exposing the gentle rise of her breasts, her ghagra flowing but sticking to her legs in the humidity, making every small shift feel exposed.
Guru Maa sat on her raised cushion, her plump form swathed in saffron robes that seemed to absorb the moonlight, her face grim and unreadable as ever. We were all there—Survati’s bare shoulders gleaming, Suvrat’s massive chest rising and falling with eager breaths, his dhoti low and taut; Suritee radiant, skin flushed and dewy, her choli barely containing her; Dada tall and fit, red dhoti tied firmly, his bronzed torso steady; Sujani withdrawn, choli damp against her, ghagra clinging; Jagdish broad and imposing, dhoti straining over his belly, sweat tracing paths down his chest hair; Surekha trembling, choli translucent with humidity; Suresh mild and bewildered, thin arms bare above his dhoti. And me—Aadesh—off to the side, feeling like a ghost, heart pounding in my ears, mesmerized by the sheer, obscene wrongness of it all, the humid night amplifying every rustle of fabric, every hitch of breath.
Guru Maa’s voice cut through the stillness, low and ash-falling as always. “The bonds are sealed by fire and mantra. Now they must be consummated under the stars’ watch, to bind the planets fully and end the curse.” She paused, her dark eyes sweeping over us, and I felt a chill despite the suffocating humidity, the forest’s whispers seeming to hush in deference. “Suvrat and Survati—you will begin your nuptial night soon, when the moon reaches its peak. Surendra and Suritee—your turn comes in one hour. Suresh and Surekha—in two hours. Jagdish and Sujani—you must wait three hours to consummate your union.”
A soft collective inhale rippled through the group, breaths audible in the sticky air. Survati’s chin lifted higher, her choli rising with a defiant breath, eyes flashing with a mix of revulsion and reluctant fire—she looked ready to conquer or shatter, mind racing toward the inevitable clash with Suvrat’s raw, muscled dominance, expecting his hands to grip her bare midriff hard enough to bruise. Suvrat grinned openly, his thick chest heaving, dhoti shifting with his arousal, eyes devouring her glistening skin already; he was expectant, triumphant, like a predator finally cornering his prey after years of simmering hatred, anticipating burying himself in her after so long imagining it.
Suritee glanced at Surendra with a small, secretive smile, her choli damp and clinging, bust rising with quick breaths—she seemed eager, almost liberated, skin flushed in the humid air, anticipating the older man’s steady, enduring strength against her curves, expecting to be taken slowly, thoroughly, in ways she had never been before. Surendra stood resolute, his fit frame unyielding in the red dhoti, mind calm but hungry, expecting to claim what the stars had gifted him with the stamina he’d honed over decades, his hands already itching to trace her sweat-slick waist.
Suresh fidgeted, his thin face pale, dhoti loose around his narrow hips, eyes darting to Surekha—he looked lost, overwhelmed, mind swirling with bewilderment at the soft, generous woman beside him, expecting gentleness but fearing his own inadequacy in the sticky night, his breaths shallow and rapid. Surekha clutched her pallu tighter over her choli, full figure trembling slightly, face averted; she was terrified yet resigned, thoughts a whirl of duty and forbidden curiosity about Suresh’s mild touch after years of Jagdish’s control, expecting quiet awkwardness but perhaps something kinder in the humid darkness.
Sujani curled inward, her petite body rigid, choli damp against her skin, ghagra clinging to her legs; her mind was a storm of panic and numbness, dreading Jagdish’s overpowering presence, expecting roughness, his large hands on her small frame, the wait feeling like slow torture. Jagdish shifted his weight, mustache twitching, broad belly rising with deep breaths over his dhoti; he was impatient, smug, thoughts fixed on dominating the young woman beside him, anticipating her submission with a dark thrill, the three-hour delay only sharpening his hunger.
Guru Maa continued, her voice unwavering. “Each tent is assigned—spread apart in the forest for privacy, yet connected by the stars. You have your maps; proceed now. Wait outside on the chairs provided. There are cameras in each tent—the consummation must be witnessed to ensure the ritual’s purity. The monitor is here, in my tent.” She gestured to a small screen setup behind her, flickering faintly. “After the first blow of the traditional horn, Suvrat and Survati may enter and proceed. Each subsequent horn will signal the next couple. No delays. The planets demand completion.”
With that, all the couples turned away one by one, maps clutched in trembling hands, red dhotis and sweat-damp cholis catching the dying moonlight as they disappeared down the forest paths toward their assigned tents. No one spoke. The only sounds were the soft crunch of leaves under bare feet, the rustle of ghagras against thighs, the low creak of dhotis shifting with each step. They vanished into the dark trees, swallowed by the forest, each pair carrying their own storm of fate—lust, terror, resignation, hunger—toward the beds that waited.
Guru Maa rose slowly from her cushion and walked toward her own tent without a backward glance.
I stood rooted to the spot, alone under the neem tree, the embers of the havan glowing faintly at my feet. The air pressed heavier now, sticky and intimate, the crickets louder, the distant rustle of leaves sounding like whispers of what was about to unfold in those scattered tents. My shirt clung to me like guilt. My heart hammered against my ribs. Everyone I loved—or once loved—was walking away to consummate unions that should never have existed, and I was left here, stranded, useless, the only one denied even the mercy of participation.
A few minutes passed—maybe five, maybe ten; time felt liquid in the humidity—when her voice drifted from the direction of her tent.
“Aadesh.”
It was calm, almost gentle. I turned. The tent flap was open, a soft oil-lamp glow spilling out. I took one step, then stopped. I could see the faint flicker of screens inside—four of them, arranged in a semicircle. The thought hit me like cold water: those were the feeds from the other tents. I couldn’t move closer. My feet felt nailed to the earth.
“What are you waiting for outside?” Guru Maa called again, voice steady. “Come inside.”
I swallowed, throat dry. “But… there are screens.”
A pause. Then, softer: “You have the most difficult job,. I cannot be the only one who watches. You must watch too.”
Dumbfounded, legs moving on their own, I stepped forward. The tent was larger inside than it looked—simple, almost austere: a wide bed dbangd in white cotton, four large screens mounted on low stands, each showing the empty interior of a tent: a single bed in the center, white sheets, a single oil lamp burning low. Nothing else. That was all it needed, wasn’t it? Just a bed. Just bodies. Just consummation.
I stood frozen near the entrance, eyes darting from screen to screen, stomach churning.
Guru Maa stepped in front of me, blocking my view for a moment. I looked up—and froze again.
She had changed.
The saffron robes were gone. In their place was the same bridal attire as the others: a deep red choli, low-cut and fitted, straining against the heavy, generous swell of her bust—the fabric thin, damp with humidity, barely containing her. Her midriff was bare, plump and soft, a deep navel drawing the eye downward like a secret invitation. Her ghagra hung low on her wide hips, the silk clinging to the full curve of her thighs and belly. She was definitely past sixty, silver hair unbound now, falling in thick waves past her shoulders, but her body… her body was lush, curved, powerful in its maturity. And in her hand she held a simple red dhoti, folded neatly.
“You have made many sacrifices,” she said quietly. “You cannot be left alone. The planets have appointed me to be your wife.”
I stared, speechless. My mouth opened, closed. “But… you are Guru Maa.”
“For the world, yes.” Her voice was calm, almost tender. “But once you place this garland around my neck, and I place one around yours, we become husband and wife. For someone of my stature, this ritual is enough. No more is needed.”
I noticed her then—really noticed. The way the choli lifted with each breath, the deep shadow between her breasts, the soft give of her midriff, the way the ghagra clung to her hips. Shame burned through me, hot and immediate, because beneath the horror, beneath the disbelief, I felt it: arousal. Sharp. Undeniable. My body betraying me in the humid dark.
She held out a garland of marigolds. I took it with shaking hands. She lifted another from a small table beside the bed. We exchanged them in silence—mine settling heavy around her neck, resting against the deep valley of her cleavage; hers settling around mine, petals brushing my collarbone. She smiled, small and pleased.
“We too will consummate our marriage,” she said. “But first we have a duty—to officiate the consummation of the others.”
With that she stepped outside, lifted a wooden horn carved with ancient symbols, and blew it once—long, deep, resonant. The sound rolled through the forest like thunder, vibrating in my chest.
I turned back to the screens.
Within thirty seconds, Screen 1 flickered to life.
Suvrat held Survati’s hand—his massive fingers engulfing hers—and led her inside the tent. The camera angle was high, merciless, capturing every detail: her choli already slipping slightly from one shoulder, exposing the upper curve of her breast; his dhoti tenting obviously as he pulled her toward the bed. The tent flap closed behind them.
The other screens remained dark.
But they wouldn’t stay that way for long.
Guru Maa stepped back inside, her choli shifting with the movement, and sat beside me on the bed. Her thigh brushed mine—warm, soft, deliberate.
“Now we watch,” she said softly. “Together.”
And the humid night closed in around us, thick with the sound of distant breathing, waiting for the first moans to begin.