Passions of yoga chechi in dreams:
Every morning at 6:30, Arjun made sure his balcony chair faced Chechi’s verandah across the compound wall. She was his neighbour—five or six years older, married, graceful, and utterly magnetic. But it wasn’t her age or her status that stirred something wild in him. It was the way she moved.
Clad in a soft, body-hugging yoga outfit, she’d roll out her mat and begin her asanas. Her long braid swayed as she shifted into downward dog, and Arjun’s breath would hitch each time her curves stretched and flexed, every motion like slow poetry.
She never looked his way—but he looked. And looked. Until her silhouette invaded his sleep.
That night, Arjun tossed between sheets, his mind replaying the day’s vision of her. In his dream, Chechi wasn’t across the compound—she was in his room, on his mat. Sweat glistened on her collarbone as she whispered, “Show me your form, moné…”
He knelt behind her as she arched into cat-cow, the soft fabric clinging to her hips, her breath warm and heavy. He reached out, guided by a hunger that felt too real, tracing his fingers along her waist until—
A crow cawed. Morning had broken.
Arjun woke with a gasp, his body still aching from the dream’s heat. And as he peeked out, there she was again—real, divine, untouchable—bending forward in perfect rhythm with the morning breeze.
He knew he shouldn't look.
But oh god, he couldn’t stop.
To be continued.......
Every morning at 6:30, Arjun made sure his balcony chair faced Chechi’s verandah across the compound wall. She was his neighbour—five or six years older, married, graceful, and utterly magnetic. But it wasn’t her age or her status that stirred something wild in him. It was the way she moved.
Clad in a soft, body-hugging yoga outfit, she’d roll out her mat and begin her asanas. Her long braid swayed as she shifted into downward dog, and Arjun’s breath would hitch each time her curves stretched and flexed, every motion like slow poetry.
She never looked his way—but he looked. And looked. Until her silhouette invaded his sleep.
That night, Arjun tossed between sheets, his mind replaying the day’s vision of her. In his dream, Chechi wasn’t across the compound—she was in his room, on his mat. Sweat glistened on her collarbone as she whispered, “Show me your form, moné…”
He knelt behind her as she arched into cat-cow, the soft fabric clinging to her hips, her breath warm and heavy. He reached out, guided by a hunger that felt too real, tracing his fingers along her waist until—
A crow cawed. Morning had broken.
Arjun woke with a gasp, his body still aching from the dream’s heat. And as he peeked out, there she was again—real, divine, untouchable—bending forward in perfect rhythm with the morning breeze.
He knew he shouldn't look.
But oh god, he couldn’t stop.
To be continued.......
