The city didn't know what was coming.But Rekha did.Because she had already tasted it inside her.
302A was no longer a home.
It had become an altar with walls, a dripping mouth of hunger that wanted not just whispers and touches —but witnesses.
She stood in front of the mirror that morning.The one with the two words now etched in red:
"Look.""Speak."
And for the first time in her life, she whispered back:
"I am ready."
She dressed in nothing but a transparent white saree —no blouse, no petticoat.The cloth kissed her nipples, her navel, her cunt.It hid nothing.It declared everything.
Her body wasn't just hers anymore.
It was scripture.
Seema met her at the entrance.
"There's a line outside," she whispered, eyes wide. "Over twenty people. Men. Women. Students. Someone said a journalist from a magazine is here."
Rekha's lips curved into a smirk.
"Let them all in."
302A opened its door at 7:07 PM.
By 7:15, the living room pulsed with bodies.
Some came with lust thick in their eyes.Others — with reverence.One came with a camera.
A young man. Sharp. Quiet. Watchful.
Rekha saw him.
And he saw her.
But he didn't speak.Just observed —as if watching a ritual on the edge of fire.
She climbed onto the center mattress.
Naked now.
The saree had fallen away like a lie.
She sat cross-legged, back straight, breasts exposed, cunt shaved bare and glistening.
Then she spoke:
"You have entered a place without permission, without prayer.Now you will leave with nothing... unless you stay and become everything."
Silence.
Then footsteps.
Padma stepped forward first.
She knelt between Rekha's legs.
Didn't ask.
Didn't blink.
Just pressed her lips against the center of Rekha's soaked heat.
The room exhaled as one.
Two women moaned in unison.One man began weeping.A stranger fainted.
Rekha tilted her head back.
And began to chant —but not in any known language.
It was the sound of ecstasy layered in pain,love torn open,devotion without translation.
The journalist raised his camera —then lowered it.
He couldn't film this.
Not because it was illegal.
Because it was too true.
Another woman stepped forward.
Removed her clothes.One piece at a time.
Her body was scarred.
Rekha opened her arms.
The woman collapsed into them, sobbing, clutching Rekha's bare skin.
And then it began.
The mass ritual.
Naked bodies filled the room like flames.Women kissed women.Men dropped to their knees and kissed the floor.Someone began chanting Rekha's name over and over, as if it were a mantra.
"Rekha… Rekha… Rekha…"
Her legs spread wider.
Someone kissed her toes.
Another licked her spine.
And in the middle of it all, the journalist stood frozen.
Until Rekha looked at him.
Straight. Through. Him.
And said:
"You. Come forward."
He obeyed.
She opened her legs.
Pointed.
"Kiss my thigh. Slowly."
He dropped to his knees.
Pressed his lips against her flesh.
Her skin was damp, electric.
She hissed.
Not in pain.
In arrival.
She gripped his hair.
Pulled his mouth higher.
Not between her legs.
To her belly. Her breast. Her throat.
And then she whispered:
"Now tell them what you see."
The room quieted.
Everyone turned to him.
He stood.
Shaking.
Eyes red.
And said:
"I see God.I see madness.I see a woman who became worship by letting herself be ruined."
Rekha smiled.
Came on the spot — hard, violent, unstoppable.
The floor grew wet.
The air thick.
The people moaned.
The night screamed.
And somewhere deep inside her...
Beloved laughed.
Not in mockery.
In completion.
When it was over, bodies lay like fallen petals.
Some still weeping.
Some kissing the walls.
One woman had passed out with her fingers still inside her.
Rekha stood.
Her body raw.Red.Shining.
She walked to the window.Opened it.
And shouted to the city:
"Come.Come naked.Come broken.I will not save you.I will destroy what hurts you until only hunger remains."
From below, voices answered:
"Devi!""Rekha!""Let us in!"
She turned back.
Faced the journalist.
"Write what you want," she said.
"But don't lie."
He whispered:
"I can't write this."
She walked to him.Licked his lips.Then kissed his eyelids.
"Then become it."