2

The night had wrapped the world in a blanket of deep darkness. Countless stars glittered across the endless sky like scattered diamonds, while a gentle crescent moon drifted silently among thin silver clouds.

A cool breeze brushed over the calm river, carrying the soothing scent of fresh water and damp earth. The only light that pierced the darkness came from the small fire lamp hanging at the front of the boat. Its golden flame danced with every ripple, casting long, wavering reflections across the water.

The narrow river wound through dense forests on both sides. Towering ancient trees leaned over the water as though guarding its secrets. Their dark silhouettes swayed gently in the wind while the occasional call of an owl echoed through the silent night.

Menakha lay peacefully inside the boat, gazing at the endless sky and admiring the breathtaking beauty of the stars.

“The reason for traveling alone...?” the boatman asked in a rough voice, his eyes never leaving the river ahead. The flickering glow of the lamp illuminated only a part of his weathered face.

“I’m an orphan,” Menakha replied softly, sorrow lingering in her voice.

The boatman remained silent. Without another word, he continued rowing the boat with slow, steady strokes.

“Are you the only boatman here?” Menakha asked after a few moments.

“Yeah,” he replied instantly.

The river continued to carry them through the peaceful darkness.

“Do you ever feel afraid on nights like this?” Menakha asked curiously.

The old boatman let out a rough laugh.

“Now... I don’t feel any kind of emotion,” he replied in a calm but weary voice.

Even as he spoke, he never once looked at her. His complete attention remained fixed on the winding path ahead.

“Why... why would you say that?” Menakha asked gently.

Several moments passed before he finally answered.

“I once had a beautiful family...

A beautiful wife...

And a beautiful daughter.”

His voice remained steady.

“We spent thirty-one wonderful years together.

My daughter never married.

She chose to stay beside her old, weak parents and care for us until the end.”

He paused.

“But time... took them both away from me.”

Menakha quietly lowered her eyes, unable to find any words.

“There’s an old saying in Chandrapuri,” the boatman continued.

“Those who truly love someone never leave them... even after death.”

He gave a faint smile.

“My wife and daughter are still with me.

They guide me every day.”

He looked toward the distant darkness ahead.

“But my own journey is nearly over.

When my time comes...

We shall walk toward Heaven together.”

His face remained completely expressionless, as though grief had long since become a part of him.

Menakha remained silent.

She slowly lay down inside the boat once again. Watching the countless stars above, she allowed the gentle rhythm of the flowing river and the cool night breeze to lull her into a peaceful sleep.

The first rays of dawn gently awakened the world.

When Menakha opened her eyes, the boat had already reached the shores of Suryagarh.

The boatman was still awake, quietly watching the kingdom's distant border.

“Thank you... for bringing me here safely,” Menakha said gratefully as she stepped out of the boat onto the cool ground.

The morning air was crisp and cold. Thick white mist covered the earth like a soft blanket, hiding the distant landscape beneath its veil. Dewdrops shimmered upon the grass as golden sunlight slowly pierced through the floating fog.

Beyond the mist stood the magnificent kingdom of Suryagarh. Its towering walls, majestic gateways and distant palace rooftops slowly emerged as the morning grew brighter.

“Take care... young lady,” the old boatman said with a gentle nod.

Menakha smiled gratefully.

When she turned back only a moment later...

The boat...

The old man...

Everything had disappeared.

Only the drifting white mist remained above the silent river.

She stood frozen for nearly a minute, wondering whether she had truly met an ordinary boatman... or someone far more mysterious.

Taking a deep breath, she began walking toward Suryagarh.

The narrow stone road curved gently through lush green fields where farmers had already begun their morning work. Birds sang joyfully from flowering trees while cool mountain winds carried the fragrance of blooming jasmine and freshly tilled earth.

As she walked farther, small cottages appeared on either side of the road, followed by temples, gardens and beautiful ponds filled with blooming lotus flowers. Gradually, the peaceful countryside gave way to the bustling streets of Suryagarh.

Soon, she reached the city's grand marketplace.

The market overflowed with life.

Merchants cheerfully called out to passing customers. Children laughed as they ran through the crowded streets. The sweet aroma of freshly baked bread, ripe fruits, fragrant flowers and exotic spices filled the air.

People from every background walked together without fear or discrimination. Wealthy merchants, humble laborers, scholars, soldiers and travelers all shared the same streets with mutual respect.

Not wishing to draw attention to herself, Menakha took a soft shawl from her bag and wrapped it around her upper body and face, leaving only her beautiful eyes visible.

She quietly walked through the crowded marketplace, observing everything around her. Blacksmiths hammered glowing iron into shining weapons. Potters shaped clay with remarkable skill. Jewelers displayed dazzling ornaments beneath the morning sunlight, while musicians filled the streets with lively melodies. The city pulsed with warmth, kindness and prosperity.

After walking for some time, Menakha stopped before a small fruit shop run by an elderly woman.

Fresh fruits were neatly arranged in woven baskets, while jars of sweet fruit juices and delicious fruit-based delicacies decorated the wooden shelves. Behind the modest shop stood a cozy little home surrounded by flowering plants and fruit trees.

Gathering her courage, Menakha stepped forward.

“What would you like, child?” the old woman asked with a warm smile.

“Can I... get a job here?” Menakha asked politely.

“No,” the old woman replied gently.

“There isn't any work available here.”

At that very moment, a sudden breeze swept through the marketplace.

The shawl slipped from Menakha's face and shoulders.

The old woman's eyes widened.

For a brief moment...

She simply stared.

The divine beauty before her was unlike anything she had ever witnessed.

It felt less like looking at a human being...

And more like witnessing the blessing of a goddess.

Recovering from her astonishment after several silent seconds, the old woman gently raised her hand.

“Come here...” she said softly, gesturing toward her home.

The two of them slowly walked together.

“What is your name, child?” the old woman asked kindly.

“Menakha,” she replied with a gentle smile.

The little house stood beneath the shade of ancient mango and neem trees. Colorful flowering plants bloomed along the narrow stone pathway leading to its entrance. Clay lamps decorated the veranda, while fragrant jasmine vines climbed the wooden pillars. The home itself was simple yet welcoming, built from polished wood and smooth stone, with a peaceful courtyard where birds happily chirped among the fruit trees.

Together, they stepped inside the house.

A neatly folded cotton blanket lay spread across the floor beside a soft pillow.

“Are you from Chandrapuri?” the old woman asked gently.

“Yeah,” Menakha replied.

“How did you know?” she asked with curiosity.

“A great many people from Chandrapuri have come here to settle over the years,” the old woman answered with a warm smile.

“What is your name?” Menakha asked politely.

“Kousalya,” the old woman replied, her gentle smile making her wrinkled face glow with kindness.

“Are you living here alone?” Menakha asked softly.

“Yes,” Kousalya answered with a faint smile.

“My husband passed away a few months ago. My two daughters are married now. They both live in the ancient kingdom of Ratnapura, so this little home has become quiet.”

For a brief moment, silence filled the room.

“Can I call you Amma?” Menakha asked hesitantly, hope shining in her eyes.

Kousalya's expression softened.

“Of course, child,” she replied lovingly.

“What about your family?” Kousalya asked after a moment.

“I... I'm an orphan,” Menakha answered quietly.

The words hung heavily in the air.

Kousalya's smile slowly faded.

She did not ask another question.

Instead, she walked to a wooden shelf and returned with a clay cup filled with freshly prepared mango pulp.

“Here,” she said gently.

Menakha accepted it with both hands.

The sweet fragrance of ripe mangoes filled her senses. She slowly sipped the thick, golden pulp, savoring every drop. It tasted fresh, comforting, and strangely familiar.

When she looked up, Kousalya was smiling at her with the affection of a mother.

“I'll return to the shop now,” Kousalya said kindly.

“You can rest here until I come back.”

“Thank you... Amma,” Menakha replied with a grateful smile.

Kousalya nodded before quietly leaving the house.

By early evening, long golden rays of the setting sun painted the sky with shades of orange and crimson.

Around five o'clock, Kousalya returned much earlier than usual after closing her fruit shop.

She carried a woven basket filled with fresh fruits, homemade fruit sweets, and another cup of chilled mango pulp.

Slowly opening the wooden door, she stepped inside.

Menakha was sitting quietly near the window, watching the fading sunlight.

“Hey, dear,” Kousalya called cheerfully.

“I brought some sweets for you.”

“You're so kind, Amma,” Menakha replied with a grateful smile.

After a brief pause, she asked shyly,

“Amma... may I take a bath?”

“Of course,” Kousalya replied.

“Just wait for a moment.”

She placed the basket beside a small wooden table before walking into the storeroom.

After searching through several wooden boxes, she found a small earthen pot decorated with delicate floral carvings.

Returning to Menakha, she carefully handed it to her.

“This is saffron oil,” Kousalya explained gently.

“Before your bath, apply it all over your body. It nourishes the skin, keeps it soft, and fills it with a beautiful natural glow.”

Menakha smiled softly.

The simple act of care stirred an old memory deep within her heart.

For just a moment...

She remembered her grandmother lovingly applying herbal oils to her hair when she was a little girl.

A quiet sadness passed across her face.

Kousalya noticed it but chose not to ask.

Instead, she gently guided Menakha toward the small bathing room.

The bathroom was simple yet beautiful. Smooth stone walls surrounded the room, while a polished bathing stone rested in its center. A brass water vessel stood beside a large earthen pot filled with cool, crystal-clear water. A small window allowed the gentle evening breeze to enter, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of jasmine blooming outside.

As Menakha sat upon the smooth bathing stone, Kousalya quietly walked back into the hall.

She carefully closed the wooden windows to keep the evening chill away.

Then she picked up a clean cotton towel hanging nearby and returned to the bathroom.

Standing beside Menakha with a motherly smile, she said softly,

“Let me help you apply the oil.”

Menakha looked at her for a few silent moments before smiling warmly.

Once again...

She was reminded of her grandmother.

For the first time in many years...

She felt as though she had found a mother's warmth once more.

Kousalya poured a measure of the golden oil into her palms and rubbed them together until they shone.

“Rise for a moment, child,” she said gently. “It shall be easier thus.”

Menakha stood. The cloth about her hips slipped lower, revealing the full grace of her form beneath the fading light ,the narrow waist, the heavy, rounded bosoms, and the generous curve of her hips.

Kousalya’s gaze rested upon her for a long moment, lingering especially upon the rich, full shape of her bosoms. A quiet breath escaped her lips.

“By the grace of the gods…” she murmured, eyes widening slightly. “In all my years I have beheld many maidens, yet never have I seen bosoms such as these.” She gave a small, knowing smile.

“Child, with bosoms so fine and heavy, you will most certainly draw a great deal of attention from men.”

Menakha smiled shyly, a soft flush rising to her cheeks.

“Amma… do not make me nervous,” she said, her voice light with embarrassment.

Kousalya stepped nearer and laid her oiled hands upon Menakha’s shoulders, then guided them slowly downward. When her palms reached the sides of the young woman’s bosoms, she paused, clearly struck by their size and softness.

“These bosoms…” she said softly, almost in reverence. “So full… so weighty. Like twin pots of pure gold, such as the ancient poets once praised when they spoke of celestial women. Even the cloth can scarcely contain them.”

Menakha’s cheeks grew warmer, yet she did not pull away.

Kousalya’s hands cupped the heavy bosoms from below, lifting their soft fullness. The yielding flesh overflowed her palms. She pressed gently, feeling their remarkable tenderness and weight, then took more oil and spread it carefully over the pink areolas. With slow, deliberate circles of her thumbs, she worked the warm oil over the sensitive, cherry-like tips of Menakha’s bosoms.

Menakha’s cheeks turned a deeper red. A soft, unsteady breath left her lips.

“Amma…” she whispered, “it feels so relaxing…”

“You are most welcome, child,” Kousalya replied, still working the oil with patient care over the full, rounded shapes.

“Permit me to tend to you properly.”

“Well, dear Menakha, the gods have certainly blessed you with extraordinary beauty,” Kousalya said with a knowing smile.

“But such beauty may bring troubles of its own. You may have to endure aching shoulders... and the wandering gazes of men wherever you go.”

Menakha covered her smile with one hand and let out a soft, amused laugh.

“Kousalya Amma, you speak as though beauty itself were a curse!” she teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

The old woman chuckled warmly.

“Beauty is a blessing, child,” Kousalya replied with a gentle smile. “It is the attention that comes with it that can sometimes become troublesome.”

Menakha shook her head with a playful smile.

Her hands continued, massaging in slow, rounded motions over the heavy bosoms. The soft, wet sound of oil against skin filled the small bathroom. Each stroke lifted and pressed the soft flesh, making the full globes move and glisten. Soon both of Menakha’s beautiful bosoms shone completely, looking even fuller and more magnificent under the dim light ,like two perfectly ripe, golden fruits.

Kousalya’s fingers lingered, stroking the deep valley between them, then returning to cup and gently squeeze the soft weight once more, as though reluctant to leave such a wondrous form.

“The goddess herself must have shaped these bosoms,” she said quietly, a small smile touching her lips.

She gave the full bosoms one final, slow, admiring press, anointing them until they shone like polished gold.

When at last she stepped back, her hands were glistening and her eyes held both motherly warmth and quiet awe.

“There,” Kousalya said softly. “Now these lovely bosoms are protected and radiant.”

Menakha remained standing a moment longer, her chest rising and falling. The heavy, oiled weight of her bosoms made her more keenly aware of her own body than ever before. Each soft movement sent a warm, lingering sensation through her.

Outside, the last light of evening faded.

Inside the small bathing room, the scent of saffron and warm skin lingered like a quiet secret.