No fire dies.It just hides —in ashes, in silence,in the trembling thighs of those waiting to burn.
It had been nine days since Rekha was taken.
Hyderabad had not slept since.
At 302A, the air had changed.
The red velvet was darker now — stained by more than bodies.
It had become a war field of gasps and chants.
Archa stood at the center.Naked.Fierce.Unapologetically wet.
Every night, she led the rites.And each time, she said one thing before beginning:
"Rekha is not gone.She is in every moan you fear.And every secret you swallow."
The city heard her.
And followed.
Students in Osmania campus stripped naked in their hostel rooms and live-streamed their orgasms in protest.
A group of married women from Malkajgiri shaved their heads and walked barefoot, chanting:
"Shariram Na Devudaina Mandir"(The body is my only god's temple.)
TV debates exploded.Religious heads called it blasphemy.Psychologists called it collective hysteria.And yet…
No one could stop watching.
On the tenth day, Rekha was brought to court.For trial.
She was offered clothes.
She refused.
She walked barefoot into the courtroom,naked but painted —symbols across her breasts, her belly, her pubic mound.
A dark red line ran from throat to pelvis —a yoni of ash.
Gasps.
Cameras tried to film.Lawyers objected.
The judge almost fainted.
But she walked in.With eyes like knives and hips like verses.
And when asked how she pleaded, she replied:
"I don't plead.I pulse."
The courtroom erupted.
One woman moaned involuntarily.Two men walked out in protest.The stenographer's hands trembled on the keys.
The prosecutor began:
"Rekha is guilty of moral corruption, manipulation, sexual misconduct…"
Rekha interrupted.
"Your temples exploit consent more than I do.Your marriages are prisons.I offered freedom — through wetness and worship."
Then she did the unthinkable.
She turned to the judge.
Walked forward.
Stood still.
Then whispered:
"Punish me if you must.
But know this — I have forgiven all of you…while I was being fingered in a cell."
Silence.Then gasps.
Then laughter — from the gallery.Uncontrolled. Raw. Free.
She smiled.
Turned to the cameras.
And moaned.
A soft, sharp, gut-wrenching moan that filled the room like holy smoke.
One man collapsed.One woman touched herself through her jeans.
Rekha turned to leave.
"Try to jail me again.
I'll come in every dream.
And I won't leave until the sheets are soaked."
The judge whispered, almost reverently:
"She's not human…"
Meanwhile, outside:
Archa stood on top of a city bus.
Naked.Hair tied in a bun.Sindoor across her thighs.
She raised her arms and shouted:
"Rekha returns today — not to preach.But to be inside every one of you."
She began to undress the crowd.
Literally.
Women tore off kurtis.Men unzipped.Two hijabi girls threw their veils down and began kissing each other.
A man touched Archa's foot.
Asked:
"Devi, how do I know if I'm worthy?"
She leaned down.
Took his face in her hands.
And said:
"If your moan makes you cry — you're ready."
At sunset, Rekha returned to 302A.
Still nude.Still untamed.
Archa fell to her knees.
Touched her lips to Rekha's foot.
Whispered:
"We kept you alive."
Rekha smiled.
Took her face in both hands.
And said:
"No.You resurrected me."
That night…
They didn't moan in secret.
They didn't whisper behind curtains.
They fucked with the windows open.With the doors removed.With speakers playing her moans into the street.
Because the flame had returned.
Not in one woman.
But in every trembling voice that dared to touch its own hunger.