The Clouds Passing - Chapter 10 — A Life Touched by Poison

Chapter 10 — A Life Touched by Poison

Someone started writing stories of her life

She is so much distanced from that

She came to dance, sing, and eat with the children

happy homemaking cooking

She behaved as if she did not care for their scripts.

Why you dont fight?

She asked herself.

Nobody is there for her

Everybody wants notorious maha; all the world is involved naturally in the script

It looks like everybody is dancing like mad in the Maha Sivaratri festive holy without any knowledge of social concern for humanity

Maha often worries that the bomb they made is human emotions, and they can be used for ages more innovative

How to fight?

Any proof?Does

anybody to support her?

Anyway she has her two kids at any time?

Music is for them

sports for them, politics for them, jewels for them, lands for them, money is for them, interview fame legendry mastery is for them

Ayyo sami

How arrogant established execution politically and officially with public concern

One friend said you have everlasting beauty eroded in others' eyes

I said no, see rambha urvasi menaka dancing its not that

I had some IQ and performance added to that, but they often cut.

That change did not arrive like a knife.

It did not slash through the house in a single moment.

It came quietly instead, sat itself at the edge of Maha’s mind, and remained there like an unseen guest nobody acknowledged.

No one in the house raised their voice.

Yet the silence was not peaceful.

It felt like a warning.

The walls said nothing.

But somehow they seemed to have heard everything.

Doors opened and closed as always.

Still, every time Maha entered a room, conversations shifted direction with practiced ease.

Answers appeared for questions she had never asked.

And during the hours she was absent, decisions about her life quietly continued without her.

One evening, while standing near the dining table, she understood it clearly.

This was not a fight.

No.

It was something far more dangerous.

A silent rearrangement.

No one removes a person’s place in a single day.

First, they stop asking for her opinion.

Then they say explanations are unnecessary.

And finally, they begin to wonder aloud whether her presence itself is required.

That night, Maha looked at her place within the family.

It was still there.

But only partially.

Motherhood, she realized, was not merely biological truth.

It was the history of sleepless nights.

The memory of worry.

The instinct that spends years building a future for another human being.

A mother never imagines losing her child.

But sometimes loss does not arrive as separation.

Sometimes it arrives as the slow loss of authority.

Maha did not become angry.

Anger erupts.

This feeling did not.

It settled deep inside her in complete silence.

And silence, at times, weighs heavier than pain.

That experience quietly rebuilt her understanding of life.

For years she had believed safety came through relationships.

Now she was no longer certain.

Sometimes safety came only through structure.

That was why marriage no longer looked to her like a romantic dream.

It looked like a carefully built territory.

Not the ending of love—

but perhaps the beginning of protection.

She did not long for unlimited freedom.

What she desired was simpler.

A life where she would not constantly have to justify her existence.

A home where every word was not questioned.

A peace without interrogation.

She began to understand something most people learned too late:

Some relationships do not provide safety.

Some relationships create it.

Perhaps marriage, she thought, could draw a new boundary around her life.

Not a boundary that imprisoned her—

but one that guarded her.

Perhaps a home could exist without investigations.

Perhaps a relationship could steady her voice instead of reducing it.

For the first time in many years, she understood that stability was not an external condition.

It was the state in which the heart no longer feared.

And that belief slowly pushed her forward.

Because happiness was no longer the thing she searched for most.

She searched for lasting peace.

“Maha, when the sunlight hits properly, shake the hay. Let the dust rise.”

Maha looked up lazily.

“Hm. I’m not some village farm woman from Kallikaadu.”

The old man laughed softly.

“Look… people speak as though farmers' work is superior. But if that were true, why are we all collapsing under chemicals and exhaustion?”

“That’s because nobody knows balance anymore,” Vikram replied.

“A house garden matters. Physical labour matters. Every kind of work once matched the body, hormones, strength, temperament.”

He picked up a rough leather tool from the table.

“When you work with leather instruments, you should also work with hay, dust, fire… the body was designed for variety.”

Maha folded her arms.

“I know perfectly well what I should do when”

if i do it will became routine to do in all farms

wher every body is eyecandy on us

it is awkward daily rather than this hospitality

Vikram smirked and watched videos

“No matter what I say, this man arrives like a laser beam and starts preaching to you.”

like in Indra Soundarajan novels

“He tells me to provoke enemies so they reveal themselves,” she continued sarcastically.

“Then he says, ‘Record what they do. Observe quietly.’”

“And after that,” she added, rolling her eyes, “he delivers philosophy — one minute of anger can destroy every value you built.”

Vikram burst into laughter.

“Maha, you make me sound like a monk.”

“You are one,” she replied instantly. “A monk pretending to live among ordinary people.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. You separate people gently, politely, intelligently. That’s far more dangerous.”

Vikram leaned back against the chair.

“I’m not made for family politics.”

“No,” Maha agreed. “You play with ideas and meanings eroding and only for you it looks like family but it is war to make yours rise somewhere. Family life needs emotional stamina. You don’t qualify.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. Completely unfit.”

He laughed harder.

“When you threw that slipper at me, though, your timing was excellent.”

“And when I kicked your leg to make you fall,” she said proudly, “that timing was excellent too.”

For a moment, they both laughed like children.

Then her face changed again.

“Vikram… only now I understand why Buddha said desire eventually becomes suffering.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Because enemies learn to use our desires against us.”

“That doesn’t mean abandoning one’s wife is wisdom,” she added immediately.

“A queen with the mind of a ruler needs conflict sometimes. Otherwise, life becomes meaningless.”

“You’ve clearly thought too much today.”

“No,” she said quietly. “Not too much. Just enough.”

Vikram watched her carefully.

She continued in a softer tone now.

“People once selected work according to physical rhythm, hormones, endurance, skill…”

“Hay work. Fireworks. Leather work. Hunting. Farming.”

“The body needed movement before philosophy.”

“And now?” he asked.

“Now everyone lives disconnected from themselves.”

After the connection with the outside world slowly weakened, Maha made a decision.

Strengthening herself would become her first priority.

She immersed herself more deeply in work and outcomes.

But somewhere during that transformation, discrimination quietly began around her.

Perhaps because she now understood what she truly wanted.

Slowly, deliberately, she began building mental endurance.

She loosened herself from emotional dependence.

From the invisible control others exercised over her.

And gradually, she started documenting the needs and emotional realities of women—

First for survival,

then for understanding.

One evening, Vikram asked her jokingly,

“So tell me, Maha… what exactly are you?”

“A life partner?”

“A better half?”

“A companion?”

“A lover?”

Maha looked at him for a long moment.

“With this much confusion,” she said calmly, “I’ll settle for being your wife.”

For once, Vikram had no reply.

At the moment of departure, Maha held tightly onto one thought:

Never forget the people who stood beside you during separation.

Let everyone drift away if they must.

Still, she left the office without saying goodbye to her colleagues.

Some exits did not need witnesses.

In the quiet corners of Mahalakshmi’s mind, the verses of the Abhirami Anthathi began to return again and again.

Not as religion alone—

But as a sign.

Whenever external support disappeared, her mind searched for inner stability.

The work spoke of one enduring truth:

External protection is temporary.

Inner faith alone remains stable.

And so Maha began rebuilding herself from within.

At first came fear.

Then surrender.

Then confusion.

Then, the slow formation of inner strength.

She understood that devotion was not merely about miracles.

It was about psychological steadiness.

About reducing fear.

About learning acceptance.

Gradually, she saw that wealth, position, and even relationships could never fully guarantee peace.

The divine was not merely a figure.

It was the feeling of being accepted completely.

And finally, the fear that once weakened her slowly transformed into resilience.

Life still changed around her.

But her mind no longer trembled before every change.

In the end, she arrived at one final understanding:

True safety is not built by the outside world.

It is built within.

And the journey from fear to inner stability—prepare for what the war is reaching her

her children departed to know things etc

That was the real meaning of her life now.