A body can be temple.A body can be tomb.But when a woman moans in front of riot police—A body becomes a battlefield.
Mandiram Rahasya. 10:22 AM.
Nandita stood barefoot on the temple stone, trembling.Her tongue still bore the healing scar from when she bit it during the possession ritual.Her eyes were bloodshot, lips dry, but her spine was straight.
Women gathered around her in silence.
Men stood at a distance — some guilty, some humbled.
She raised her arms.
Her voice cracked but didn't falter.
"I didn't moan for attention.I moaned because pain got tired of being quiet.
That voice that came through me? It wasn't madness.
It was memory."
Veera stood beside her.
Hand on her back.
And whispered, just loud enough:
"Rekha woke in you. That's not possession. That's resurrection."
One hour later…
The police came.
At first, in plain clothes.Then vans.Then boots.
Khaki filled the gates like floodwater.
One officer — tall, mustached, self-righteous — barked into a megaphone:
"This is an illegal congregation under IPC 144.
Disperse immediately.
No loud noises. No public obscenity.
You are violating decency laws."
Veera snorted.
Archa stepped forward.
Wearing nothing but a saffron cloth tied tight across her chest.
She stood before the line of officers.No fear.No shame.
"Tell me, sir," she said, eyes locked with the megaphone-wielding man.
"Is this obscenity?"
And she slowly untied the cloth.
Her breasts were bare.
Scars on the sides.Nipples hardened in defiance.
The air stilled.
The younger constables looked away.The older ones froze.
She took a step forward.
"This is not your porn.
This is not your wife's silence.
This is history.
This is the chest that carried Rekha's moan.
You want to arrest a revolution?
Start here."
And then she moaned.
Loud.Raw.Cracking like thunder across shame.
"ఊహించవచ్చు కానీ ఆపలేరు."("You can imagine us, but you cannot stop us.")
The crowd behind her joined.
Dozens of women moaned.
Some crying.Some laughing.Some cursing under their breath.
The air turned thick with wet breath and trembling tongues.
One officer fainted.
The others backed away — like dogs from flame.
No one was arrested.
The media came the next morning.
And found only silence.
But on the walls of Mandiram, someone had painted:
"IF THE BODY IS A WEAPON,THE MOAN IS THE TRIGGER."
Later that evening. 302A.
Witness sat across from Archa, holding a folded note in his trembling hands.
It smelled of sandalwood and regret.
"I wasn't supposed to read this," he said.
"But I did. And I can't hold it alone."
Archa took the paper.
Unfolded it.
And began to read.
**"If you're reading this, I'm ash by now.
Or maybe blood. Or breath.
Either way, I'm not yours to touch anymore.
But I was never yours to begin with.
You weren't my lover.You were my witness.
So now, watch me again.
Not my body. My echo.
Make them moan louder than I ever could.
Make their orgasms into origin stories.
Burn them into myths.
If I ever meant anything to you…
Then don't remember me.
Multiply me."**
— Rekha.
Archa cried.
Not softly.
She sobbed like a woman unmoored.
And then she whispered:
"She never wanted to be famous.
She wanted to be felt."
Final ritual of the day.
A woman was wheeled into Mandiram.
Bald.Fragile.Stage-4 ovarian cancer.
Her name: Sarayu. 51.Former schoolteacher.Mother of two.Left home after chemo because her husband called her "unfuckable."
She looked at Archa.
Eyes heavy.
Voice calm.
"I have four days left, maybe five.
I haven't moaned in a decade.
I want to come once…
without fear."
Archa smiled through tears.
"Lie down, akka."
Veera, Archa, and Nandita surrounded her.
Soft chants in the background.
Sarayu's breath slow, shallow.
Then…A sigh.A tremble.A wet gasp.
"అమ్మో…దేవుడా…"("Oh… God…")
And then…
She moaned.
Low.Like thunder under earth.
She came.Eyes wide.Fingers gripping air.
Then smiled.
"Now I'm ready."
And closed her eyes.
Alive.Finally.