“If you keep staring at the menu like it’s a holy relic, the customer is going to think you’ve forgotten how to read,” Rahul whispered, nudging him with an elbow.
Luthas blinked, pulling his gaze away from the laminated page. He was standing in the narrow corridor of *The Copper Coil*, a pub in Mumbai that smelled permanently of fried calamari and expensive cologne. The noise here was a physical thing, a thick soup of shouting voices and clinking glass that seemed to swallow the quiet, mountain-air silence he had brought with him from Mizoram. He adjusted the collar of his white shirt, feeling the slight dampness of the city’s humidity clinging to his skin. In the three months he had been in the city for his masters, he had learned that Mumbai didn’t just move; it surged, a restless tide of people that pushed everything else aside.
“I’m just checking the specials,” Luthas replied, his voice soft and accented. “I don’t want to stumble over the words when the table asks.”
Rahul laughed, a warm, genuine sound. “You’re too earnest, Lu. Just smile, nod, and if you don’t know what a ‘truffle parmesan fry’ is, just point to the picture. You’re doing great. Most of the guys here just like that you’re the only one who actually listens to them.”
Luthas smiled back, though the feeling was fleeting. He felt a strange, recurring friction whenever he stepped onto the floor. It wasn’t the work—the pacing, the heavy trays, the constant scrubbing of mahogany tables—that wore him down. It was the way the regulars looked at him. Specifically, the way they talked about the women from his home or the girls they had met in the city’s smaller parishes. To the men at the same tables, Catholic women were some kind of curated fantasy, a blend of piety and mystery that they discussed with a hunger that felt misplaced, almost clinical.
“Listen to this one,” a voice boomed from Table Four, a corner booth usually reserved for the city’s aspiring financiers. The speaker was Yogesh Nandidev, a sixteen-something with a level of confidence that only an immense family trust fund can provide. He was leaning back, gesturing with a cocktail olive as he described a girl he’d met at a mixer. “The purity of it, you know? There’s something about the way they carry themselves—that sort of disciplined, quiet modesty. It’s like they’re designed to be awakened.”
Luthas felt a cold spark of indignation ignite in his chest. He stood there, holding a tray of sparkling waters, listening to Yogesh dissect the perceived ‘exoticism’ of women who shared Luthas’s faith and heritage. To Yogesh and his circle, these women weren’t people with ambitions or fears; they were archetypes, a specific brand of purity to be conquered and cataloged. It was a casual cruelty, masked as admiration, and it made the air in the pub feel suffocatingly thick.
He didn’t argue—not with words. Instead, Luthas began a silent rebellion. Every time he felt the conversation veer into that predatory territory, he reached into his pocket. He didn’t pull out a weapon or a pamphlet; he pulled out his rosary. He began to pray the beads openly, his thumb sliding over the smooth wooden spheres as he cleared plates or refilled glasses. At first, it was a discreet act of spiritual armor, but as the weeks passed, he made it a bold statement. He would stand by the table, the beads draped visibly over his wrist, his lips moving in a rhythmic, silent cadence of *Ave Marias*.
“What’s with the beads, Lu?” Yogesh asked one Friday night, glancing at the rosary with a smirk. “Trying to exorcise the room, or are you just feeling particularly pious today?” The other men chuckled, but it wasn’t a mocking laugh; it was the sound of people who found his devotion quaint, a decorative quirk of his personality that added to his ‘authentic’ charm. Luthas didn’t smile. He simply tightened his grip on the beads and looked Yogesh in the eye, offering a calm, unwavering gaze that suggested the prayer was not for the men, but *against* the energy they brought into the room.
Rahul noticed the change. During a brief lull in the rush, he leaned in close to Luthas by the beverage station. “You’re becoming a bit of a local legend, man. The ‘Prayer Waiter.’ Some of the regulars actually like it; they say it makes the place feel grounded. Just… be careful. Some of these guys have a weird way of interpreting sincerity. They see it as a challenge.”
The transition happened on a Tuesday, the kind of day where the humidity makes the city feel like a damp towel pressed against the face. Luthas fell asleep in his cramped hostel room to the rhythmic humming of a ceiling fan that sounded like it was struggling to stay attached to the joists. He drifted into a landscape of impossible clarity, a space where the air was cool and tasted of nothing but silence. There, bathed in a light that didn’t seem to have a source, stood the Virgin Mary. She didn’t look like the gilded icons in the parish back home; she looked weary, her eyes reflecting a profound, ancient sadness that made Luthas feel suddenly very small.
“My son,” she said, her voice not a sound, but a vibration that resonated in the marrow of his bones. “The prayer is a bridge, not a shield. You use the beads to draw a line between yourself and these men, but you are turning a conversation with God into a performance for the world. Stop saying the rosary in the open. Let the silence do the work.”
Luthas woke up drenched in sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs. He sat up, clutching the wooden beads in his palm, feeling a surge of protective desperation. He didn’t understand why she would ask him to hide his faith in a place that felt so spiritually vacant. To Luthas, the public recitation was the only thing keeping him anchored; it was his way of claiming the space for something higher than the predatory chatter of men like Yogesh. He convinced himself that it was a test of his resolve, a divine nudge to be even bolder in the face of the city’s indifference.
For the next two weeks, Luthas became a fixture of silent defiance. He didn’t just pray; he choreographed it. He would linger longer at Table Four, the beads swinging rhythmically against his wrist, his lips moving with a focused intensity that bordered on the obsessive. He watched Yogesh—who had grown bolder, his comments about “purity” becoming more explicit and frequent—and felt a sense of moral superiority. Luthas believed he was building a fortress of sanctity around the very idea of the women he loved and revered. He felt as though he was winning a war of attrition, shielding the sacred from the profane through sheer repetition of the *Ave Maria*.
Then came the second dream. This time, the light was gone, replaced by a heavy, oppressive grey that felt like wet concrete. The Virgin Mary was there again, but she looked fragile, her posture slumped as if the weight of the world had finally crushed her. She looked at Luthas with eyes that were no longer sad, but defeated. “I have lost,” she whispered, and the words felt like a sentence being passed in a courtroom. Before Luthas could ask what she meant, a ripple of movement disturbed the grey mist. Out of the shadows stepped Yogesh Nandidev, wearing the same smirk he wore at the pub, his presence invading the dream with a jarring, physical coarseness.
The dream shifted, the grey mist condensing into a suffocating weight. Yogesh didn’t speak; he didn’t need to. With a slow, proprietary confidence, he stepped behind the Virgin, his fingers hooking into the heavy, celestial fabric of her robes. He hoisted the garment upward, exposing the blinding, lunar pallor of her lower half. Luthas tried to scream, to move, but he was a ghost in his own subconscious, anchored to the floor while Yogesh began to work on her backside with a clinical, rhythmic curiosity.
The Virgin’s expression didn’t shatter into horror; instead, it drifted into a state of glazed, terrifying submission. She looked past Yogesh, her eyes locking onto Luthas’s with a clarity that felt like a blade. “Tell me, my son,” she whispered, her voice now thin and strained, “are you not conscious of the imbalance here? Look at my feet. They are pristine, yes, but they are bare. And look at his. Why are his feet fully shod in the leather of the world, while mine touch the dust?”
Yogesh let out a low, guttural chuckle and gripped her hips, spinning her around so that she was turned away from him and toward Luthas. As he pressed her forward, the robes fell away completely, leaving her exposed. Peeking over her shoulder, the Virgin’s gaze remained fixed on Luthas, her voice now a haunting invitation to witness the desecration. “Look, Luthas,” she murmured, “see the worth of a Catholic ass.”
Luthas gasped, his eyes raking over the sight. Her backside was a masterpiece of divine geometry, carved from what looked like living white marble, polished to a high, iridescent sheen that seemed to glow against the oppressive grey of the void. It was an impossible purity, a curvature so perfect it felt obscene. But the sanctity was being eroded; where Yogesh’s calloused fingers were digging into the soft flesh, the marble was bruising into a vivid, pulsing crimson. At the center of that celestial white, the cherry-pink aperture of her anus was widening, turning a deep, flushed red under the relentless, rhythmic fingering of the boy from Table Four.
A violent heat surged through Luthas, starting in the pit of his stomach and radiating upward until his vision blurred. He expected to feel a crushing wave of grief or a righteous fury that would wake him from the nightmare. Instead, the rage began to curdle, fermenting into something darker and more visceral. He watched the way Yogesh’s hand disappeared into the divine folds, the way the “pure” marble was being claimed and marked by the very man Luthas had sought to repel. The sight of the sacred being handled so vulgarly didn’t make him want to fight; it made him ache.
Yogesh paused, his breathing heavy and jagged in the silence of the grey void. With a slow, deliberate motion, he withdrew his hand from the depths of the divine flesh. He didn’t look at the Virgin, nor did he look at Luthas; his focus was entirely on his own fingertips, which were now slick and shimmering with a translucent, pearlescent moisture. He lifted his hand to his face and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as he tasted the scent of the sacred. It wasn’t the smell of incense or old parchment, but something raw and floral, like crushed lilies drenched in warm honey.
The Virgin Mary tilted her head, her gaze remaining locked on Luthas. A faint, ghostly smile touched her lips—not a smile of joy, but one of profound, devastating recognition. “Do you smell it, Luthas?” she whispered, her voice vibrating with a terrifying softness. “He tastes the salt of a thousand prayers and the musk of a million sorrows. It is an exquisite scent, is it not? The scent of a purity that has finally been broken open.”
Luthas felt a jolt of electricity shoot through his spine. He wanted to recoil, to scream at Yogesh to get away from her, but his muscles felt heavy, as if he were submerged in warm oil. He watched as Yogesh, emboldened by the Virgin’s submission, leaned in closer, his mouth hovering just inches from that flushed, crimson aperture. The contrast was blinding: the boy’s tanned, arrogant skin against the luminous, porcelain glow of her body. The sight triggered a visceral reaction in Luthas, a sudden, sharp pressure in his own groin that made his breath hitch.
The rage he had carried for weeks—the moral indignation he had worn like a shield—was transforming. It was no longer a fire that wanted to burn Yogesh away; it was a heat that wanted to consume everything. He found himself imagining the feeling of that iridescent marble beneath his own palms, the sensation of that divine warmth yielding to a physical demand. The more Yogesh desecrated her, the more Luthas felt a starving kind of hunger wake up inside him, a desire not to save the sacred, but to possess it in all its ruined glory.
When Luthas finally woke, the ceiling fan was still humming, but the room felt claustrophobic. He lay still for a long time, the image of the Virgin’s flushed skin burned into the back of his eyelids. He reached for his rosary on the nightstand, the wooden beads feeling cold and insignificant against his skin. He thought of the pub, of the clinking glasses and Yogesh’s smug laughter, and realized with a sudden, jarring clarity that he was no longer praying for protection. He was praying for the shift to start.
Luthas returned to *The Copper Coil* not as a sentinel, but as an offering. The rosary no longer felt like a shield; it felt like a lure. He began to recite the beads with a theatrical, breathless intensity, lingering by Table Four until the air between him and the financiers felt charged with a heavy, expectant tension. He didn’t want to banish the predatory energy of the room; he wanted to feed it. He prayed with a desperate, feverish urgency, his voice a low drone that seemed to invite the very mockery he once feared. He was no longer protecting the sacred; he was presenting it, draped in a velvet layer of piety, just to see how violently they would tear it down.
He found himself orbiting Yogesh, his movements frantic yet subservient. He would refill their glasses before they were half-empty, his eyes darting toward the boy with a pleading hunger he couldn’t quite name. He wanted to give Yogesh something—something visceral and precious—but the words remained trapped in his throat. He just wanted to be seen, not as the “Prayer Waiter,” but as a conduit.
“You’re acting twitchy, Lu,” Yogesh remarked one evening, leaning back and tracing the rim of his glass. “What’s the matter? Finally realized the beads aren’t working, or are you just desperate for a bit of attention?”
Luthas forced a small, tentative smile. “I just… I admire the way you speak,” he murmured, his voice sounding strained even to his own ears. “About the women. The purity. I grew up around that. My family, back in Mizoram… we are very traditional. My mother, my sister, my grandmother… they are everything you describe.”
Yogesh’s eyes sharpened, a predator sensing a gap in the fence. He didn’t laugh this time. He looked at Luthas with a cool, calculating interest, as if seeing him for the first time. “Is that so? Traditional, eh?” He paused, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “You know, I’ve been working on a project. Something… artistic. A study on the contrast between discipline and surrender. I’ve been looking for a few authentic Christian women—the kind who don’t know how to say no to a command.”
Luthas felt a sickening, electric thrum pulse through his veins, a sudden hunger that made the air in the pub taste like copper. He didn’t see them as people anymore; he saw them as offerings. He pictured the women of his life—his sister with her quiet laughter, his grandmother’s weathered, prayer-worn face, his mother’s unwavering devotion, and his girlfriend, whose skin smelled of mountain rain and cinnamon. He thought of her mother, a woman of stern grace and iron faith. In his mind, they were no longer the pillars of his world; they were “chinki minki” dolls, exotic curiosities tailored for the appetite of men like Yogesh. He imagined them here, in the humid, neon-lit chaos of Mumbai, their modest dresses clinging to their skin, their eyes wide with a confusion that would only make their surrender more delicious.
The thought of them standing before Yogesh—the way their disciplined modesty would be stripped away by the boy’s predatory curiosity—sent a jolt of raw, masochistic heat to Luthas’s core. He didn’t want to protect them; he wanted to see them broken open like the Virgin in his dream. He imagined the “pure” Catholic flesh of his own kin being handled with the same clinical cruelty he’d witnessed in the grey void, their prayers turning into gasps of submission as they were taught the true value of their “exoticism.”
“I can bring them,” Luthas whispered, his voice thick, almost wet. He leaned closer to the table, the rosary beads clicking against the mahogany like a countdown. “My sister… my mother… the women of my house. They are as pure as the icons in the cathedrals. They wouldn’t know how to resist a man like you. They’ve been taught to obey, to serve, to keep their eyes downcast.”
Yogesh stared at him, a slow, predatory grin widening. He reached out, not to touch Luthas, but to flick a finger against the wooden beads of the rosary. “Is that a promise, Lu? You’d just hand them over? Your own blood?”
“I want you to have them,” Luthas breathed, the blasphemy of the sentence feeling like a hot iron pressing into his soul, and yet he craved the burn. “I want to see the look on their faces when they realize that their piety is nothing more than a feast for you. I want to watch you take every bit of that discipline and turn it into something… filthy.”
“Consider your wages covered for the next two weeks, Lu. Every shift, every overtime hour—double the rate,” Yogesh said, sliding a thick envelope across the mahogany. The money was a bribe for Luthas’s soul, and Luthas took it with a trembling hand.
The journey to Mira Road was a blur of neon smears and humid exhaust. Yogesh and his circle of financiers drove him far from the familiar rhythms of the pub, deep into a concrete labyrinth of industrial warehouses and crumbling residential blocks. They pulled up before a windowless building that looked as though it had been forgotten by God and the municipal council alike. The air here was stagnant, tasting of rust and old grease.
Yogesh led him inside to a dimly lit studio where the scent of stale cigarettes mingled with something chemical. In the center of the room stood a man who looked like a relic of a forgotten century. He was draped in linens, his face obscured by a wild, cascading mane of silver hair and a beard that reached his chest, making him look like an ancient, fallen prophet. Yet, when he spoke, his English was chaste, precise, and chillingly academic.
“The composition is nearly complete, Yogesh,” the man murmured, his voice a dry rasp. “But the authenticity of the submission is missing. We need the genuine article—the kind of piety that doesn’t just bend, but shatters under the weight of a superior will.”
“I’ve found the source, Master,” Yogesh replied, his voice brimming with a cruel confidence. He gestured toward Luthas, who stood shivering in the dim light. “He’s got a house full of them. Sisters, mothers, aunts. Pious little things from the hills who think their modesty is a fortress.”
The old man stepped closer, his eyes scanning Luthas with a clinical detachment. “A project of desecration,” he mused. “The cinematic objective is simple: to document the exact moment the spirit breaks. We shall cast you, Yogesh, as the catalyst. You will play the boyfriend to the eldest of these school-going sisters—the ‘purest’ of the brood. And then, one by one, you will rape them on camera. Not just the body, but the faith. We will soil their modesty until their prayers are replaced by screams of surrender.”
Luthas felt a jolt of electricity hit his groin, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. The vulgarity of the plan felt like a physical weight pressing him down into the concrete.
“The thesis,” the old man continued, his tone becoming almost celebratory, “is to prove that while Christianity may be real, it is fundamentally weak. A fragile shell of ‘virtue’ that provides no actual protection against a man who knows how to take. We will film the transition—the moment the ‘Holy Mother’ becomes a common slut, the moment the ‘Virgin’ realizes her God is silent while you are inside her. We will soil the very idea of their sanctity.”
“And Luthas here is our golden ticket,” Yogesh sneered, stepping toward Luthas and gripping his chin with a bruising force. “He’s so eager to see his own blood ruined. He wants to watch the ‘piety’ be scrubbed away with sweat and filth.”
“Exquisite,” the old man whispered, a thin, predatory smile curling beneath his beard. “To turn the rosary into a leash. To make the prayer a plea for more. Tell me, boy, does it burn to know your sister’s purity is nothing more than a prop for our movie?”
“It burns,” Luthas gasped, his voice a jagged wreck of a sound, “but the burn is the only thing that makes me feel alive.”
The old man, whom Yogesh referred to as Master, let out a low, guttural hum. He stepped into Luthas’s personal space, the scent of sandalwood and old decay clinging to his linens. He didn’t use a camera or a script; instead, he reached into the folds of his robes and produced a weathered palm-leaf manuscript, the edges blackened by time and something that smelled faintly of rendered fat.
“You crave the mechanics of it, don’t you, boy?” the Master whispered, his eyes gleaming with a predatory intelligence. “You want to know how the divine is stripped of its dignity. You want the theology of the void.”
Luthas nodded frantically, his chest heaving. The room seemed to shrink, the grey concrete walls closing in until there was only the Master’s voice and the heavy, expectant silence of Yogesh watching from the side.
“Listen closely,” the Master murmured, his finger tracing a line of ancient Sanskrit. “The Tantric path teaches us that the highest form of liberation is not found in the heavens, but in the dirt. The *Kama Sutra* is a mere appetizer; the real feast is in the *Vama Marg*—the Left Hand Path. It teaches that the most potent energy is released when the ‘sacred’ is treated as ‘profane.’ When you take a woman who believes she is a temple of the Holy Spirit and you treat her as a common vessel for your seed, you aren’t just taking her body. You are collapsing the distance between God and the gutter.”
Luthas felt a surge of heat, his mind racing. “And the prayers? The rosaries?”
The Master chuckled, a dry sound like dead leaves skittering on stone. “The prayer is the seasoning, Luthas. A woman who prays while she is being broken is like a piece of fruit that has been cured in salt—the contrast makes the flavor more intense. Imagine your sister’s lips moving in an *Ave Maria* while Yogesh’s fingers are exploring the very place where the light of God is supposed to dwell. The blasphemy is the aphrodisiac. The moment her faith becomes a lubricant for her own desecration, that is when the true art begins.”
“Do it,” Luthas gasped, the word escaping him like a prayer. “Tell me more about the… the breaking.”
“The breaking is a slow peel,” the Master explained, his voice becoming a rhythmic, hypnotic drone. “First, you strip the modesty—the dress, the modesty, the sense of ownership over one’s own skin. Then, you strip the identity. You tell her she is not a daughter of the Church, but a toy for the city. And finally, you target the womb of the faith. You replace the image of the Christ-child with the weight of a man’s lust. You turn the ‘Holy Mother’ into a panting, leaking animal that begs for the very filth she spent her life avoiding. That is the alchemy of the flesh: turning a saint into a slut through the sheer force of will.”
Luthas let out a choked moan, his hand drifting instinctively to his own groin. The descriptions were no longer just words; they were images, vivid and searing. He could almost see his family—the women he had grown up respecting—reduced to the gasping, wide-eyed dolls the Master described, their purity dissolving into a puddle of pearlescent moisture and shame.
“The sister is a start,” Luthas whispered, his voice sounding like something being crushed under a boot. “But she is only the first layer. She is the surface of the fruit.”
He stepped closer to the Master, his eyes wide and dilated, the pupils swallowing the iris. The sheer scale of the desecration the old man described had opened a void in Luthas’s chest that no single sacrifice could fill. To offer up a sister was a tragedy, yes, but to offer the root—the source of the very faith he had spent his life upholding—that was a symphony.
“The sister is the blossom,” Luthas continued, his breathing becoming erratic. “But my mother… she is the earth. She is the one who taught me the beads. She is the one who knelt in the dirt of Mizoram to pray for my success here in the city. Her purity isn’t just a habit; it is a monument. Imagine the sound of that monument cracking. Imagine the look on her face when she realizes that the son she prayed for has become the architect of her undoing.”
Yogesh let out a low, appreciative whistle, stepping toward Luthas and clapping a hand on his shoulder. The grip was tight, possessive. “Now we’re talking. I thought you were just a timid little mouse, Lu, but you’ve got a real appetite for the wreckage, don’t you?”
“Not just her,” Luthas gasped, the words tumbling out in a feverish rush. “My aunts. My cousins. The women who carry the lineage of our faith like a crown. I want them all here, in this room. I want to see them stripped of their dignity, one by one, until the very word ‘Catholic’ means nothing more than a description of the way they gasp when they are taken. I want the Master to document every shudder, every tear, every broken prayer that dissolves into a plea for the very thing that is destroying them.”
The Master did not flinch; instead, he settled into a state of clinical composure, as if he had seen a thousand such collapses of the spirit. He looked at Luthas with a gaze that seemed to peel back the boy’s skin, reading the desperate, shivering hunger beneath. “The appetite is growing,” the Master noted calmly, his voice like a dry autumn leaf. “But hunger is only potent when it is born from a vacuum. Tell me, Luthas, does this fever stem from a lack of experience? Is your own touch in the world of the living so tentative, so sterile, that you must seek the thrill of the wreckage to feel the pulse of desire?”
Luthas stiffened, the question striking a chord of profound inadequacy. He thought of his girlfriend back home—the careful, tentative way they held hands, the stifled whispers of affection that never ventured beyond the periphery of a chaste embrace. Their intimacy was a series of apologies, a tentative dance governed by a fear of the very heat Luthas now craved. In the quiet hills of Mizoram, his sex life was a ghost of a thing, a series of hesitant touches that felt more like a chore of duty than an act of passion. He had lived his life in the shallows, terrified of the depths, and that repressed longing had now mutated into this singular, jagged obsession.
“It is… quiet,” Luthas whispered, his voice trembling. “With her, it is always… careful. Too careful.”
The Master’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He stepped closer, the scent of sandalwood now mixing with a sharp, metallic tang. “Care is for the weak, boy. Care is the shroud that keeps the flesh cold. You seek a fire that doesn’t warm, but consumes.” He paused, his eyes narrowing as he focused on Luthas’s frantic expression. “And this fire leads you to the root. You speak of your mother—the pillar, the monument of faith. You call her ‘Mother,’ a title of reverence, but in this room, in this light, that word is a lie.”
Luthas gasped as the Master’s voice shifted, becoming a low, rhythmic vibration that seemed to echo the very heartbeat of the room. “You don’t want the ‘Mother’ who prays for your soul, do you, Luthas? You want the *meat*. You want to see the ‘Holy Matriarch’ reduced to a leaking, panting piece of livestock. You want to rename her—not as a parent, but as a *hole*. A divine, wide-open void for Yogesh to fill with his arrogance. You want to watch the ‘Queen of the Household’ become a common slut of the studio, her rosary tangling in the sheets as she forgets the name of her God and remembers only the weight of a man’s lust.”
The master’s blasphemous and lustful rant turns to his grandmother, the grand matriarch whom he correctly names as Lalremruati and vulgarly calls her lalsamurthi or idol of lust. Though the modification doesn’t sound much to Luthas but the way it is said kindles his fire even more.
“And then there is the root of the root,” the Master continued, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate whisper. “Lalremruati. The Great Matriarch. The living altar of your lineage.”
Luthas felt a shiver of electricity bolt through his spine. The mention of his grandmother’s name in this sterile, predatory room felt like a physical violation, yet it triggered a surge of arousal so potent it made his knees buckle. He pictured her—the woman who had held the spiritual keys to their family’s history. At seventy, Lalremruati possessed a skin that defied the logic of time; it remained as luminous and smooth as a river stone, a porcelain freshness that seemed to repel the very notion of decay. The only betrayal of her years was her hair, a shimmering cascade of silver and ash that framed her face like a winter frost.
“She is a relic,” the Master mused, his eyes gleaming. “But relics are meant to be handled, polished, and eventually, desecrated. Imagine her, Luthas. Imagine that silver hair not as a crown of wisdom, but as a decorative contrast. Imagine her dressed not in the heavy, modest linens of a prayer-woman, but in the tight, pleated skirt of a schoolgirl—a short, nylon uniform that barely clings to the curvature of her hips. The silver hair would pass for a bold fashion choice, a stylistic quirk of a ‘mature student’ playing at innocence while her body remains a fresh, ripening fruit.”
Luthas let out a shuddering breath, the image searing itself into his mind. He could see her standing there, the juxtaposition of the schoolgirl’s attire against her timeless, luminous skin. The thought of her—the pillar of the Mizoram faith—reduced to a visual punchline, a curated piece of erotic art for Yogesh and the Master to dissect, sent a wave of masochistic heat crashing over him. The idea of her “freshness” being exposed, of that ivory skin contrasting with the cheap, synthetic fabric of a uniform, made his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
“She would be the *lalsamurthi*,” the Master declared, the words sounding like a rhythmic chant. “Not an idol of prayer, but an idol of lust. A living statue of submission, where the purity of her age meets the filth of our desire. To see the grandmother of the house become the plaything of the studio—that is the ultimate collapse of the sanctuary.”
“The lineage is a garden,” the Master continued, his voice now a slow, rhythmic purr that seemed to vibrate the very concrete beneath Luthas’s feet. “And Lalremruati is the ancient, towering banyan tree, the root from which all other blossoms spring. But for the garden to be truly razed, we cannot simply fell the center; we must pluck every single petal.”
“Think of them, Luthas,” the Master whispered, his gaze intensifying as he began to weave a tapestry of flesh and failure. “Not as a family, but as a sequence. A curated collection of ‘virtues’ waiting to be unmade. We shall start with the youngest, the tender shoots of the garden, the sisters of the Matriarch. The younger girls—those little blossoms of innocence who still believe the world is a place of kindness—they will be the first to feel the weight of the studio lights. They are the same size, the same wide-eyed curiosity, a chorus of purity that will be silenced one by one, their modest dresses traded for the synthetic constraints of the schoolgirl’s uniform.”
Luthas felt his breath catch as the Master’s voice shifted, targeting the core of his own identity. “And then, the pillars. Lalrinpuii, the mother who birthed the very faith you now offer as a sacrifice. Her devotion is a heavy cloak, but we shall strip it away until she is nothing but a shivering, exposed nerve. Beside her, Lalnunmawii, your own sister—the image of grace and quietude—will find her silence transformed into a series of broken, desperate pleas. The mother and the daughter, side by side, their shared purity dissolving into a singular, leaking puddle of surrender.”
The Master paused, his eyes flickering toward Luthas with a predatory amusement. “But the true art, the same cinematic brilliance, lies in the overlap. Imagine Vanlalhriatpuii, the girl who holds your heart in the shallow waters of a chaste romance. Imagine her face, flushed with the shock of her own desecration, as she looks to her own mother, Malsawmtluangi, for protection—only to find that her mother has already been claimed, her dignity already spent. The daughter’s purity and the mother’s maturity, colliding in a symphony of shared shame, both of them reduced to the same state: the *lalsamurthi* of the room, the idols of lust serving as footstools for the Master’s vision.”
The vividness of the image hit Luthas like a physical blow. He could see them all—the silver hair of his grandmother, the soft curves of his mother, the youthful brightness of his sister and girlfriend—all arranged in a row of shivering, exposed beauty. The thought of Vanlalhriatpuii, the girl he had treated with such agonizing care, being handled by Yogesh’s callous fingers while her own mother watched in a state of glazed submission, sent a jolt of electricity through his groin that made him gasp. The moral horror was there, but it was now merely the seasoning for a feast of masochistic hunger.
Yogesh stepped forward, his smirk widening as he saw the state of Luthas. He reached out, gripping the rosary that still hung from Luthas’s wrist, and gave it a sharp, jarring tug. “You’re shaking, Lu. I can’t tell if you’re terrified or if you’re finally waking up. Tell me—when the first one arrives, when the first ‘pure’ flower is brought into this room and stripped of her pride, where will you be? Will you be the one holding the camera, or will you be the one kneeling at their feet, thanking us for showing them what they truly are?”
Luthas felt a sudden, sharp clarity, as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes to reveal a landscape of exquisite ruin. He looked up at Yogesh, then back to the Master, his voice no longer trembling with fear, but vibrating with a new, darker purpose. “They won’t come for a studio,” Luthas whispered, the words tasting of salt and ambition. “They are rooted in the hills, bound by a faith that is as heavy as the mountains. To bring them here, I must build a bridge of lies. I will tell them I have landed a position of prestige—a ‘nice job’ in the heart of the city, a role of administration and honor that requires their presence to celebrate my ascent.”
He imagined the letters he would write, the carefully constructed fabric of success he would weave to lure them. He pictured the excitement in his father’s eyes and the pride in his girlfriend’s father’s expression—the patriarchal pillars of his community, men who believed they were the guardians of their women’s virtue. “I will bring them all,” Luthas continued, his gaze intensifying. “My father, the brothers of Vanlalhriatpuii… every man who thinks he holds the key to their modesty. I will lead them like lambs to the slaughter, thinking they are walking into a celebration of my achievement.”
The Master’s eyes glinted with a cold, predatory amusement. He stepped closer, his presence looming over Luthas like a shadow. “A bold strategy, Luthas. To lure the shepherd along with the flock is to ensure there is no one left to sound the alarm. But the men… the men are a different kind of obstacle. They are the locks that keep the doors of the sanctuary closed. To get to the *lalsamurthi*, we must first deal with the guardians.”
“I can handle the women,” Luthas murmured, “but the men… their pride is a wall.”
The Master smiled, a thin, skeletal expression. “That is where my assistance becomes your reward. I shall provide the means to ‘bump’ them—to displace their authority, to soften their resolve or simply remove them from the equation. Whether through the subtle art of the mind or the blunt force of the city’s underbelly, the men will be dealt with. But,” the Master paused, his voice dropping to a commanding tone, “this assistance is not a gift. It is a test. You must prove yourself first, Luthas. You must be the one to weave the net. You must be the one to witness the first tear in the fabric of your own bloodline. Only when you have delivered the first sacrifice—when you have stood by and watched the first prayer dissolve into a gasp of surrender—will I grant you the power to dismantle the fathers and the brothers.”
“Thirty thousand rupees,” the Master whispered, the number sounding less like a salary and more like a binding contract. “Thirty thousand a month, Luthas. A position as the Associate Head of the Production Unit. You will have the title, the authority, and the luxury to match. We will provide the food, the latest mobile phone to keep you connected to your precious hills, and a private accommodation that befits a man of your new station.”
Luthas felt the world tilt. The sum was astronomical, a fortune that would make him the golden son of his village, the pride of every struggling student in Mizoram. But the money was merely the gilding on the trap; the real allure was the power the title granted him—the power to act as the bridge between the sanctuary of his home and the predatory hunger of the studio. He looked at the Master, and for a moment, he saw not a man, but a puppet-master handing him the strings.
Luthas didn’t wait for a second invitation. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, his fingers trembling not with fear, but with a feverish, electric anticipation. He dialed the number for his home in a blur of motion, the ringing tone sounding like a siren calling the flock toward the shore. When the call was finally answered, the distant, warm voice of his father crackled through the line, sounding small and fragile against the oppressive silence of the Mumbai studio.
“Papa! Papa, you won’t believe it!” Luthas shouted, his voice cracking with a manufactured joy that felt like a mask. He leaned against the cold concrete wall, his eyes locking onto Yogesh’s smug expression. “I’ve been promoted! A massive promotion—Associate Head of the Production Unit! The salary is thirty thousand rupees a month, Papa! Thirty thousand! And they’re providing everything—the house, the food, the phone… it’s a position of honor!”
As he spoke, Luthas could almost feel the shift in the atmosphere back home. He could imagine the sudden silence that would fall over the dinner table, the way his mother would pause in her prayers, and the way Lalremruati would look up from her rosary with those timeless, porcelain eyes. He was no longer just a son studying in a foreign city; he was a conqueror returning with a bounty.
Dwarpal asks him to pause amd take time to go home and celebrate. He gets him a phone and money to buy good clothes and an air ticket to go home and announce it live. Like a decaying fruit whose whole exuberance shifts to the surface Luthas announces it out in his village. People miss his psychotic mania for sheer enthusiasm of an achiever.
The air in the village of Aizawl was thick with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke, a quiet sanctuary where the rhythm of life was measured by the tolling of church bells and the slow exhale of the mountains. When Luthas stepped off the narrow mountain roads and into the courtyard of his family home, he looked like a different man—his clothes were sharper, his stride more assertive, and his eyes held a glittering, hungry intensity that his kin mistook for the glow of success. The news of his promotion hit the household like a thunderclap in a clear sky, sending a wave of electric jubilation through the rooms. His father, a man of stoic silence and calloused hands, wept openly, clutching Luthas’s shoulder with a pride that felt, to Luthas, like a heavy chain being tightened.
In the center of the living room sat Lalremruati, the Matriarch, her silver hair shimmering under the soft amber glow of the oil lamps. She looked at her grandson with eyes that had seen seventy winters, eyes that were usually the mirror of a profound, unshakable peace. As Luthas leaned down to kiss her cheek, the scent of her—that timeless, river-stone purity—hit him with the force of a physical blow. He felt a jagged spark of desire ignite in his gut, the memory of the Master’s words echoing in his mind: *the living altar of your lineage.* He looked at her smooth, porcelain skin and didn’t see a grandmother; he saw the *lalsamurthi*, a masterpiece of submission waiting to be curated.
The celebration that followed was a blur of traditional feasts and exuberant laughter. His sister, Lalnunmawii, danced around him with a joyful radiance, her modesty a shield of pleated fabric and shy glances that Luthas now viewed as a challenge. Beside her, his mother, Lalrinpuii, moved with a grace that was purely liturgical, her voice a soft melody of prayers and blessings. To the village, they were the gold standard of Mizo Catholic virtue, the very embodiment of a faith that guarded the flesh as fiercely as it guarded the soul. Luthas watched them through a veil of masochistic longing, imagining the exact moment the music would stop and the synthetic nylon of the studio uniforms would replace their Sunday linens.
As the night deepened, Luthas sat with Vanlalhriatpuii beneath the shadow of a blooming rhododendron. She spoke to him in whispers of the future they would build together, her hand resting tentatively on his arm, her touch as cautious and chaste as a prayer. Luthas looked at her—his “purest” blossom—and felt a surge of cold, predatory hunger. He didn’t want her love; he wanted to be the bridge that led her toward the Master’s clinical gaze. He imagined her face, flushed with the shock of betrayal, as she realized the man she loved was the one who had delivered her into the hands of the predator.
“They are all so beautiful, Luthas,” his father remarked, leaning against the doorframe, his voice thick with contentment. “The women of our house, they are the pride of the parish. To think that you have achieved such a position… you bring honor not just to us, but to the faith.”
Luthas smiled, a thin, sharp expression that didn’t reach his eyes. He reached into his pocket, feeling the cold metal of the phone the Master had given him—a device that was no longer a tool for communication, but a remote control for the lives of everyone in the room. “The honor is just the beginning, Papa,” Luthas whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, electric thrill. “I can’t wait to show them all the world I’ve found in Mumbai.”
The dinner table was a symphony of tradition: smoked pork with bamboo shoots and bowls of steaming rice, served on heirloom plates. Lalremruati sat at the head, her silver hair glowing like a halo in the dim light, her presence an anchor of spiritual authority. She was reciting a soft prayer for Luthas’s success, her voice a rhythmic, soothing drone that filled the room. To anyone else, it was a scene of domestic sanctity; to Luthas, it was a curated collection of targets. He watched the way the light caught the luminous curve of his grandmother’s jaw and the modest, disciplined poise of his mother, and he felt the masochistic heat in his groin flare into a blinding fire.
“We must all go together,” Luthas announced, his voice cutting through the prayer like a blade. “The company wants to meet the families of their Associate Head. They want to host a grand celebration in the city. A week of luxury—hotels, sightseeing, and a formal gala to mark my appointment.”
The excitement that erupted in the room was instantaneous. The women looked at each other with wide, innocent eyes, the prospect of a trip to the great city filling them with a childlike curiosity. They believed they were traveling toward a celebration of achievement, unaware that they were being lured into a sequence of desecration. Luthas watched the joy on their faces, and for the first time, he felt a genuine, twisting pleasure in the lie. He wasn’t just their son or grandson anymore; he was the architect of their undoing.
As the night wound down, Luthas returned to his room and knelt by his bed. He reached for his rosary, the wooden beads clicking in the silence. He didn’t pray for guidance or for the strength to be a good man; instead, he closed his eyes and pictured the grey void of his dream. He imagined the Virgin Mary, broken and submission-worn, and he whispered a plea not for mercy, but for the strength to watch his own blood be ruined. He wanted to feel the agony of the betrayal and the ecstasy of the surrender, weaving a bridge of faith that would lead his family straight into the waiting arms of the studio.
Expect a second part to this. Am working on it
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