Some write scriptures in gold.Others write them in blood.But the holiest ones are written in the breath between a moan and a scream.
302A. Night.
Witness sat alone, laptop glowing on his lap.The cursor blinked against an open document titled:
"The Gospel of the Moan"Collected Rituals, Teachings, and Memories of Rekha and Archa
Each page was sacred.He typed like a scribe haunted by climax.
Rekha's voice echoed in his memory.Her laughter. Her command. Her silent screams.
He typed:
*"Moaning is not lewdness.It is the memory of when we were allowed to be loud and wet and full of ourselves.
Before shame.
Before silence.
Before 'no.'"*
He added her famous quote:
"I don't come quietly, darling.I come like a revolution leaking between temple bells."
Halfway through editing, his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
Then the message:
**"Shut it down, you filthy traitor.Mandiram is a whorehouse.Rekha is burning in hell.
You're next."**– Hindu Raksha Sena
Attached: a blurred photo of Witness entering Mandiram.
Another image: a stick figure hanged, with "MOAN BOY" scrawled below.
He put the phone down.
Took a shaky breath.
Then typed:
*"They called her a slut.So she came again.
They said she defiled dharma.So she moaned into god's ear until god moaned back."*
He hit save.
Mandiram Rahasya. Morning.
Archa read the message aloud to the women.
Some gasped.
Some cursed.
Veera spat on the floor.
"Fucking spineless fucks," she growled."Cocks without climax."
But Archa stayed calm.
She turned to the ritual scroll.
Wrote the words:
"Response Ritual: The Moan That Echoes Through Hate."
She looked up.
"If they want silence, we'll come louder.
If they threaten us with gods —
We'll moan into them."
The Response Ritual began that evening.
Not with candles.But with printouts of hate mail.
Each woman tore a message.Rolled it.Inserted it into her mouth.And moaned around it.
Muffled.Wet.Choked.
Symbolic.Rage-turned-ritual.
Then spat the paper into fire.
In one corner, Veera stood still.
Her mother had arrived.
Sari tight.Face severe.Pride layered over hurt.
She hadn't spoken to Veera in six years.
"You fuck women now?" she asked coldly.
"No," Veera replied."I fuck pain.I moan for the parts of me you forced silent."
Her mother scoffed.
"This place smells like sex."
"That's because it's the first place I've ever come without crying."
Then Veera stepped forward.
Touched her own thigh.Closed her eyes.And moaned directly at her mother.
The sound cracked the air.
No lust.
No porn.
Just rage dressed in climax.
Her mother fell to her knees.
Crying.Shaking.Repeating Veera's name like a mantra.
Later that night.
A girl arrived.
Thin.Small.Barely thirteen.
Her name: Saheli.
She came with an older cousin, who whispered to Archa:
"She hasn't spoken in weeks.
Her stepfather…"
Archa knelt before the girl.
"You're safe here, kanna."
Saheli looked up.Eyes wide.Broken.
Then she asked:
"Do girls always bleed when they moan?"
The question hit like a slap.
Archa froze.
Veera stepped forward.Kneeling beside the girl.
"No, kanna.Girls aren't supposed to bleed.They're supposed to bloom."
Saheli stared.
Then, for the first time in weeks — she smiled.
A thin, trembling, truth-born smile.
Back at 302A, Witness lit a diya.
Printed the first ten pages of The Gospel of the Moan.
Bound it in cloth.Offered it before Rekha's photo.
"This isn't your story, akka.
It's what you left burning behind."
Then he kissed the cloth.
And wept.
In Gujarat, another Mandiram began.
In Kerala, a poet began reciting moans as haiku.
In Hyderabad, walls were graffitied again:
"IF GODS MADE WOMEN IN THEIR IMAGE,WHY ARE WE SILENT WHEN SHE SCREAMS?"
Rekha was becoming gospel.
Archa was becoming priestess.
And the moan…
Was no longer private.
It was now scripture.