RELEASE ANNOUNCEMENT: Dual Chapter Drop & Content Notice
To All Fast Readers – Quick Details Below:
The Release Time: Both upcoming chapters will be dropped together tomorrow at 9:45 PM Sharp.
Chapter 59 Content Advisory: A gentle reminder to everyone that roughly one-fourth of Chapter 59 features highly intense, deeply passionate, and sensual sequences.
It is not a cheap or standard transactional scene, but carries that exact raw intensity executed with my unique creative touch, emotional weight, and narrative significance.
Lock your schedules, prepare your reading sanctuaries, and get ready for the storm tomorrow night!
Thank you
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The Soul Behind the Script — For Those Who Want to Know Anurag Gupta (Skip If Only Here for the Plot)
A Personal Note from the Author:
If you are only here to track the commercial plot progression, the daily release metrics, or the fast-paced updates of this universe, you have my full permission to skip this section entirely.
Your time is valuable, and Part I has already given you all the logistical details you need for tomorrow night's dual release.
But if you are one of the deep-spectrum readers who has ever paused mid-page to wonder about the actual gravity, the raw emotional furnace, or the real-life scars that power the execution of this book—this section is exclusively for you.
The upcoming chapters are intensely personal.
The raw, bleeding lines of romance, the fierce territorial shields, and the unyielding protective focus you are about to witness in Chapters 58 and 59 were not synthetically simulated by a machine.
They were mined directly from my own living timeline.
Below is the raw, unfiltered truth of who I am, the past I carry, and the muses who permanently redefined my reality.
WHO AM I
This past week has been an absolute whirlwind of exhaustion. My days were entirely consumed by intense work with international clients, forcing me onto a sudden three-day business tour to Hyderabad for non-negotiable meetings.
It was a demanding, relentless stretch of life, but today, I finally stepped back into the quiet safety of my home—my true sanctuary.
Upon returning, I looked at our progress and felt a profound wave of happiness wash over my soul. God of Acting has officially crossed the monumental milestone of 500,000 words.
We are touching nearly 500 collections now, and within that space, there are about 200 readers who genuinely love this story with everything they have.
Most of you choose to remain entirely silent, leaving no comments or tracks behind, yet your quiet loyalty and steady support mean the world to me.
As many of you have likely noticed, God of Acting is slowly transforming into something far grander and deeper than a typical, predictable wish-fulfillment novel.
The standard cycle of this genre is simple: an author writes a movie launch, displays the roaring public reactions, details the massive box office collection, hands out the glittering awards, and then executes the exact same pattern over and over again with different movies.
I am deeply sorry, but I simply cannot do that anymore.
Especially after the conclusion of the Dhurandhar Arc, my heart completely refused to return to that repetitive factory line.
Lately, I have become incredibly vocal in my thoughts, sharing raw fragments of my personal life with you all. I know this must come as a massive surprise to my older, original readers who have followed my creative journey since my first book, The Return of Dharma.
Those readers know that I have always maintained a strictly professional wall.
In my other stories, I never shared a single drop of my private world.
But something has changed within me.
Something has deeply, permanently affected the very core of my spirit.
You can clearly trace the pattern in how my chapters have grown so massive, completely overflowing with deep, heavy human emotions.
There is only one single, unforgettable reason for this profound transformation.
Her name is SIMRAN—my first love.
Before you begin reading about my past, I have a single request for you: plug in your earphones, isolate yourself from the noise of the world, and play the song Sajna by Darshan Raval (the music version).
Let the melody settle into your mind.
If you truly want to comprehend who Anurag Gupta is—and why the very ink of his writing style is so heavily flooded with raw emotions, deep pain, and heavy tears—you must first listen to the music that is currently anchoring my soul because I am also listening the very same song.
To be completely honest with you, I never intended to show this side of myself.
I have always preferred to remain a silent, unbothered presence behind the screen.
But right now, an immense, overwhelming wave of emotion has completely breached my defenses. As I sit here in the dark, the vivid memories of my past, my ancient heartbreak, and my second love, Divya, are violently resurfacing within my chest.
My oldest, original readers know that I have always been deeply reluctant to write intense romance. Over the months, many of you have demanded it, yet I always pushed it away, choosing to stay behind a safe professional wall.
I did that because there was a deep, quiet agony buried inside me. I knew that the moment I allowed my characters to experience true, boundless love, that sleeping furnace would wake up, forcing me to relive the raw pain of what I had lost.
Simran and Divya are not fictional constructs—they are the real-world, living inspirations behind the very souls of Simran Reddy and Isha Ambani.
Right now, it is exactly 8:00 PM.
I am sitting out in the open air of my balcony. My upper body is entirely bare, my body clad only in a simple pair of shorts. Beside me sits a small, concentrated cup of dark espresso, and my MacBook Pro lies open on my lap, its screen lighting up the quiet evening.
I am wearing a pair of zero-power glasses—not because my sight is fractured, but because I am forcing a physical shield over my eyes. I refuse to let the heavy, streaming salt water of my own tears fall onto the keyboard and damage this beautiful beast of a machine.
I already know the fate of my night.
I am going to sit beneath the stars and write the entire night away, pouring my actual blood and spirit into the final execution of these two monumental chapters.
I will cry all night, letting the raw grief wash over my skin until my garments are soaked—which is exactly why I have removed everything from my upper body.
The storm inside my mind is ready to break, and I am prepared to face it completely bare.
ANURAG 1.0( Motu Ram Halwai/ Hathi ka Bacha ) and the Hidden Void
Long before the world-building of this story ever took shape inside my mind, my own life began within the bustling, crowded expanse of the Delhi NCR. From my earliest childhood days, the people around me would playfully tease me, tossing heavy nicknames in my direction. They called me "Motu Ram Halwai" or "Hathi ka Bacha" because I was always an incredibly big, broad boy for my age.
I was a quiet, deep book lover who lived to read absolutely anything I could get my hands on. From my earliest years, I was heavily gifted in my academics. Just like Anant, I possessed a rare, deep memory that held images like clear ink—I don't forget things easily, and even now, I can vividly recall exactly what my three-year-old self was doing.
I was a natural topper, yet I deliberately chose to hide myself within the Top 5 rankings. I wanted to completely escape the bright limelight of public attention because I was deeply shy, quiet, and an introvert by nature. The mere thought of a public speech in the school assembly, a presentation at a Science Exhibition, or standing before a crowd filled my chest with an intense, suffocating fright. I chose to be a humble, quiet, and obedient child instead, proudly earning the 100% attendance awards in Class 11 and Class 12.
By the time I reached Class 12, I stood at 5'9", but my frame was round, heavy, and pudgy. I didn't even possess the simple guts to speak to the girls in my class without stuttering heavily, burdened by a deep inferiority complex.
I will never forget a specific physical education class in Class 11.
We were forced out onto the field, and I found myself hopping across the dirt like a tired, exhausted animal. I was completely unable to execute a single proper crunch or a basic push-up. The entire field erupted. My classmates—both the boys and the girls—began to laugh openly, and even the teacher was giggling at my struggle.
No one in that school yard knew the immense, burning pain I was forced to swallow in that single second. I put on a fake smile, pretending it didn't hurt, because I had to maintain the image of the "good boy" who bears everything without a word.
But deep within the hidden corners of my soul, a silent, freezing pride was always present—a state of mind very similar to Anant's cold void persona. Internally, I looked down on their laughter because I knew, with absolute certainty, that not a single one of them could ever touch my intellect in the classroom. I held my power back simply to stay invisible.
Away from the school yard, my childhood was filled with a beautiful, rich universe of stories. I completely devoured animes, Hollywood blockbusters, television series, and Bollywood films. I sat spellbound before B.R. Chopra's Mahabharat, Ramanand Sagar's Ramayan, Krishna, Shaktimaan, Shaka Laka Boom Boom, Bongo, and Junior G.
It was the old Animax channel that truly opened the grand gateways of anime to me, introducing my mind to Pokemon, Digimon, Dragon Ball Z, Yo-Yo, and Beyblade. When I wasn't watching the screen, I was playing classic video games like Mario, Race Kart, and Contra, never missing an episode of Power Rangers.
Because my academic marks were always secure, my parents never forced me into a suffocating study regime. My mother—who serves as the direct, living inspiration for Anant Gupta's mother in God of Cricket—loved me more than life itself. She would constantly feed me massive quantities of pure, healthy food, pouring fresh ghee and rich milk into every meal.
We were a strict, traditional vegetarian family. My mother would always tell me with an innocent seriousness that outside food was bad, very bad. But she would mischievously add that I was allowed to eat Indian street foods like samosas, chaat, and golgappas—just never the American fast-food slop. She was so beautifully innocent back then, and she remains the same even now. Alongside her warmth, I had a little sister, and just like Anant, my protective instincts for her were absolute from day one.
My father was a complex combination of both Anant Sharma's and Anant Gupta's fathers. He was strict, somewhat traditional, and bound by societal expectations. He loved me more than anything in this world, but he was completely unable to show his true feelings.
Because of this, I never really had a grand role model to look up to in my early years. He was entirely consumed by his small family business, working day and night, rarely finding the time to sit down with us.
And then, during my Class 10 year, a sudden, dark tragedy violently shattered our family circle.
One of my senior relatives ended his own life. The shockwave of that loss broke everyone into pieces. Even to this day, the raw, despairing shrieks of his grieving mother and father echo clearly within my memory.
He had taken that extreme step simply because he was unable to secure a seat in a Government Engineering College. Society had built a terrifying, toxic phobia around us—a cruel narrative declaring that if you complete your engineering from a private institution, you are automatically a failure, a loser, and a piece of waste.
The entire Chhichhore tribute arc in my novel is my raw, personal tribute to that lost soul. I lost someone precious to our broken, merciless education system when I was just a young boy in Class 10.
The tragedy left my father deeply shocked and terrified for my own future. The fear softened his strict edges, and he suddenly began to draw closer to us, deliberately making time to sit with his family.
But at that age, my cold internal void could only see the hypocrisy of human behavior. A dark, bitter whisper echoed inside my thoughts, telling me that he only cared for me now because he was afraid of losing his lineage, not because he truly saw me.
It was a dark, cynical thought for a child to hold. But wrapped in my mother's boundless love, I slowly accepted my father's changing warmth, and over time, I began to truly understand his silent pain. I realized that everything he did, every single waking hour he labored, was a quiet sacrifice for our survival.
My father valued deep human moral values far above simple exam marks. He held a fierce, unyielding hatred for smoking, drinking, and the modern swearing culture. That code deeply influenced my own worldview.
Even today, I hold a profound disgust for vulgar language. How can someone casually throw foul words targeting a mother or a sister? Do they not have a mother and a sister breathing in their own homes?
As I grew, I began to see the massive, glaring hypocrisy embedded within our society—the very same sickness I addressed during the Durga Arc, where people will fast and pray during Navratri, yet turn around and ruthlessly demand dowry from a young bride.
When I entered Class 11 with physics, chemistry, and mathematics, my relatives immediately urged my father to enroll me in an engineering coaching institute. Because I had a natural affinity for coding and computer technologies, my father came to me and requested that I join.
Yes... he requested me. He had never used a soft tone like that before. He was simply terrified by the lingering shadow of our relative's suicide, and the fear had made him completely soft. Out of pure, deep respect for his vulnerability, I nodded and agreed. But I laid down a single condition: if I found that I hated the environment, I would walk out immediately. He agreed.
That was how I entered FIITJEE, the most famous, high-pressure coaching institute in the Delhi NCR.
I hated it to the very marrow of my bones.
The atmosphere was entirely toxic to a soulful mind. Every single student in those rooms was a machine, talking exclusively about clearing the high ranks, securing elite colleges, landing fat corporate jobs, and bagging massive salary packages. Not a single human being in that building was talking about actual Life.
By that point in my life, I had already deeply studied the grand wisdom of the Vedas and the Bhagavad Gita. I carried the timeless words of Lord Krishna from the battlefield of Kurukshetra deep within my heart. Looking at the chaotic greed of the students around me, a sudden wave of quiet dread filled my chest.
Yet, honoring my father's silent sacrifices, I forced myself to continue attending for a full month. I deliberately acted like an upper-mediocre student, completely hiding my true intellectual depth. I refused to let them turn me into a "golden goose" for their ranking boards, fiercely protecting my privacy due to my deep inferiority complex.
And then, one ordinary afternoon... HE arrived. My savior.
My true hero.
My Role Model
Every single day, I would travel directly from my school to the coaching center. I was forced to wear my formal school uniform inside the FIITJEE classrooms—a detail that highlighted me in the crowd and made me feel intensely uncomfortable, yet I bore the shame in silence. To bridge the five to six kilometers between the two buildings, I would usually catch a shared auto-rickshaw, squeezed tightly among strangers.
It was on one of those routine, sun-drenched journeys that my entire reality was permanently shifted...
I was squeezed tightly inside that shared auto-rickshaw, my formal school uniform marking me out in the crowd, desperately working through advanced calculus problems in my notebook.
I was trying to crack an entirely new form of pattern for the national competitive examinations—back then, the education system was undergoing a massive shift, moving away from the old AIEEE and IIT-JEE structure into a newly designed format.
Suddenly, HE arrived.
He slid effortlessly into the vehicle, wearing cool glasses, a sharp, mischievous smile playing on his lips. He glanced carelessly down at my tattered notebook. Without even pausing to take a breath, he directly stated the absolute answer right to my face.
I sat there in complete, paralyzed shock. Even the elite coaching teachers at FIITJEE couldn't solve a complex calculus equation with such effortless, blinding speed. Before I could even recover my speech, he calmly broke down the shortcuts, showing me how to solve the equations at a rapid, breathtaking pace.
"Who are you?" I stuttered, my quiet, introverted nature flaring up.
He didn't give me his name. Instead, he looked straight into my eyes and asked a single, sudden question that hit my soul like a physical blow:
"Are you happy?"
I was completely speechless. Within less than a minute, this total stranger had looked straight through my pudgy exterior and read the deep, hidden agony of my life better than anyone else ever had. Before I could even design a retort to protect my pride, he leaned closer, his voice carrying an unshakeable emotional gravity.
"Always choose freedom, chote. Never compromise your spirit. Become entirely free, find out who you truly are, and never chase mere tags—especially not the IIT tag."
My mind violently rebelled. I opened my mouth to argue, to defend the sacred goal that society had beaten into my skull. But he just smiled warmly, giving me a soft, carefree wink.
"I was a computer science engineering student at IIT Bombay," he murmured lightly.
The revelation struck my sanity like a sudden thunderclap. Before my brain could even process the shock, the auto-rickshaw screeched to a halt at his destination. He stepped out onto the pavement and walked away with a completely carefree, unbothered stride, waving his hand over his shoulder with one final wink.
As the vehicle crossed the junction, I watched his retreating silhouette in absolute, starstruck awe. A single, heavy tear broke free from my lashes, spilling down my face. His words echoed like a mantra inside the deepest channels of my mind:
Always choose freedom. Become free.
In that exact heartbeat, the ancient wisdom of the Bhagavad Gita flashed clearly before my eyes. I remembered the sacred words of Lord Krishna on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, declaring that a soulful human must liberate his own spirit from worldly bonds. I bent my torso forward, bowing toward his direction in deep spiritual reverence.
The shared auto-rickshaw pulled up outside the imposing gates of the FIITJEE center. I stood on the asphalt, looking up at the building. To my awakened eyes, it no longer looked like a temple of learning—it looked like an industrial factory line, a cold assembly machine built to grind human souls into numbers. A serene, defiant smile broke across my face.
I didn't enter. I turned my back on the factory line and simply ran away. Squeezing my heavy, pudgy frame forward, I ran despite my massive weight, my chest heaving violently, but my heart was overflowing with an intense, pure happiness.
That very night, I stood before my father in our living room. I looked straight into his eyes and calmly announced that I was quitting the coaching factory permanently—I would self-study and crack the exam on my own terms. The declaration struck his traditional worldview with a sudden surprise.
His face flushed with a sudden anger, his voice tightening as he demanded a hard answer:
"If you leave the coaching, exactly which engineering college do you think you can even reach?"
The magnificent face of my hero flashed clearly in my memory. I raised my chin and told him with absolute confidence:
"IIT Bombay Computer Science."
The words shocked him to the absolute core of his existence. Seeing his silent disbelief, I added quietly: "And if not Bombay, then IIT Delhi. Because I can either live at home with my family, or I will go to Bombay because it holds the supreme throne for computer science."
I knew it sounded like a fleeting, impossible dream for a round, introverted boy studying on a bed. But my father didn't berate my arrogance. A warm, proud smile graced his lips. His deep paternal instincts sensed that by setting such a monumental, towering goal, my gifted intellect would naturally secure an elite government seat anyway.
From that hour, I poured my entire blood and spirit into self-study. The distant whisper of my hero—choose freedom, be free—burned continuously inside my marrow. To survive the brutal daily grind, I manifested my inner void persona completely. I stopped suppressing the freezing, detached force inside my soul; instead, I weaponized it to obliterate every single academic obstacle in my path.
Long story short, the cosmic wheel turned. I didn't secure a computer science seat at IIT Bombay or IIT Delhi. My score wasn't enough for the top-tier branch at those specific institutes, though the reach of my performance easily granted me lower-level engineering branches at those legendary IITs, or a premier Computer Science seat at DTU in Delhi.
Immediately, the entire circle of my relatives swooped in like vultures. They crowded our home, throwing their unsolicited advice in my father's face, loudly declaring that the field didn't matter—that I must take the IIT Bombay tag at all costs to preserve our family's social status.
Internally, a silent, freezing arrogance flared within my chest. I looked at their animated faces and thought: Who the hell are you to tell me what to do? Are you even qualified to guide a mind like mine?
//Hahaha I was so arrogant that time//
Shocking every single person in my social circle, I executed a completely magnificent, defiant choice. I rejected the standard engineering paths entirely. I didn't choose DTU or the lower IIT branches.
Instead, I chose a legendary, elite Tier-1 private sanctuary that granted absolute, uncompromised freedom to its students—a kingdom operating on pure merit with zero reservation quotas.
BITS Pilani.
My competitive score was so exceptional that the institute granted me a grand fee waiver for my first semester. Do not ask me for my specific rank, my raw marks, or any transactional numbers tonight—those details hold absolutely zero value now.
All of this executed more than a decade ago.
I chose my freedom because, deep down inside the hidden calculations of my brain, I knew that targeting IIT Bombay was never about the final destination. It was simply a massive, driving catalyst meant to push my limits.
My hero had spoken the ultimate truth: The tag doesn't matter. Freedom matters. This was the final, definitive chapter of Anurag 1.0. Because the moment my feet stepped onto that sacred desert campus...
Anurag 2.0
The moment my feet stepped onto that sacred desert campus of BITS Pilani, a sudden wave of relief washed through my soul. I fell deeply in love with the landscape—the majestic clock tower piercing the sky, the grand academic halls, and, above all, the legendary zero-attendance policy that granted an absolute, uncompromised freedom to every student. The campus web speed back then was incredibly fast, allowing me to dive straight back into my old passions, devouring endless animes, movies, and series during my free hours.
It was in those early days that I crossed paths with my very first friend and roommate, Shubham. He was a brilliant mind who shared a strange resemblance to my own frame, and we became instant brothers, filling our small room with constant laughter.
Yet, there was an underlying, silent grief that many of my peers carried across those red-brick pathways—a heavy sorrow born from the societal narrative that if you didn't secure a seat in a Tier-1 IIT, you were a rejected piece.
They sought out Pilani as a quiet sanctuary to heal their broken pride. But for me? I didn't care about their labels or tags. I was entirely content just to breathe.
Yet, my physical form remained a heavy burden. I weighed a massive 110 kg, my frame round and heavy to the point where my neck was practically invisible. Squeezing my heavy shape into simple checkered shirts and loose trousers, I looked shockingly old. With the thick specs I routinely wore—since blue-light filter glasses were an absolute trend back then to shield our eyes from computer screens—I looked less like a freshman and more like a senior man well into his mid-forties.
Amusingly, this elderly appearance became a shield. The seniors on campus completely mistook me for a senior academic or an older authority figure, which entirely saved me from the traditional pranks and playful ragging faced by other first-years. But I refused to live a lie. When I honestly revealed my true freshman status to them, they simply burst into laughter and asked Shubham and me to execute a classic saree dance—a lighthearted memory I later honored within the Chhichhore tribute arc of my manuscript.
But then came the sudden catalyst that shattered my peaceful ignorance.
It happened on the very last day of my second-semester examinations. The entire campus was vast, and after walking for hours across the scorching ground, my heavy frame was completely exhausted, gasping heavily for air.
A fourth-year senior girl noticed my struggle from the shade. Walking over with a look of pure, gentle concern, she handed me a cup of cool water and asked softly, "Are you okay, uncle?"
That single word—uncle—struck my chest like an iron blade.
The carefully built armor of my internal confidence shattered into absolute dust in a single second. I couldn't harbor a single drop of hatred for her; she had spoken out of genuine kindness and pure empathy. But the blow to my pride was absolute. I merely nodded with a tight, hollow smile, drank the water with my head hanging low, and walked back to my room in a silent, suffocating fright. It was supposed to be a day of pure celebration, a beautiful dawn marking my return to Delhi for the summer vacation, but every ounce of my happiness had completely vaporized.
Standing before the mirror in my room, I took off my specs and forced myself to look at the heavy, out-of-shape reality of my form. Deep within the quiet channels of my mind, the distant mantra of my auto-rickshaw hero echoed with a sudden, burning power: Become free. I pointed a finger straight at my own reflection and swore a silent, non-negotiable vow: I would transform my body no matter what it took.
Returning to Delhi, I secured a small, low-stress summer internship that left me with ample hours of free time. One evening, I approached my father, nervously asking for his permission and support to join a local gym. A warm, proud smile graced his chiseled features. Without a single word of hesitation, he reached into his drawer and placed a thick bundle of cash straight into my hands.
Back then, our family's financial condition was comfortably placed between the upper and middle classes, built entirely on his relentless, exhausting hard work. He looked at me and whispered softly, "You secured a grand fee waiver at BITS anyway, beta. Consider this money your own earned reward."
An immense wave of deep emotion flooded my chest. I threw my arms around his shoulders, before leaning down to touch his feet in pure, heartfelt reverence—a sacred gesture that warmed his paternal heart to its absolute limits. He pulled me back up, wrapping me in a tight, protective embrace. My father, my mother, and my little sister could all sense a profound, silent change executing within my soul, and it brought a beautiful light into our household.
The next morning, I entered the gates of Gold's Gym and transformed into an absolute madman. I became entirely obsessed with pushing past human limits, grilling my body to the absolute edge of survival. I executed a brutal, continuous routine: three grueling hours in the early morning and two more intense hours every single evening. I was a boy possessed by a beautiful madness. The sweat poured off my skin in heavy sheets, completely soaking through my garments within minutes, even while training inside the heavily air-conditioned rooms.
During those intense weeks, I stumbled upon the legendary One Punch Man manga illustrated by the magnificent artist Yusuke Murata. The absurd three-year training regime of Saitama fascinated my imagination—especially the simple concepts of consuming a single banana and deliberately turning off the air conditioning to forge an unbreakable willpower.
I took his words as an absolute gospel. Returning home from the grueling gym sessions in the middle of the scorching Delhi summer heat, I refused to turn on the cooling units. I would lie down beneath a simple, slow ceiling fan, letting the heavy heat bake my discipline while my muscles throbbed in constant, 24/7 physical pain. I discarded rice completely from my diet, forcing an empty feeling within my stomach. I consumed my mother's home-cooked meals in tiny, controlled portions. It deeply displeased her maternal heart to see her big boy eating so little, but seeing the burning focus in my eyes, she quietly accepted it.
The breakthrough was breathtaking. The weight melted away rapidly at first, and I shed a massive 15 kg within the first three weeks. But then, my body hit a sudden plateau. For a solid week, the scale refused to move even a single millimeter. Frustration and anxiety tried to claw their way into my thoughts.
But in that dark hour, the distant voice of my savior echoed once more: Just be free. I completely freed my mind from the tyranny of scales and numbers. I stopped tracking the weight loss entirely and simply began to enjoy the raw, beautiful intensity of the exercise. I pushed my body forward, laughing out loud on the gym floor as I conquered the iron.
The results were magnificent. I reduced a total of 27 kg in two months, and by the end of the third month, a staggering 30 kg had permanently vanished from my frame. I remembered my school days—the absolute shame of that physical education field where I couldn't even manage a single crunch or a basic push-up while the crowd giggled.
Now, my resurrected frame was effortlessly executing 50 continuous push-ups, explosive clapping push-ups, triple-clap push-ups, and jump push-ups, finishing my routine with intense crunches while holding a heavy 15 kg dumbbell in each hand.
From my two-month internship, I earned my very first salary of 10,000 rupees. I didn't spend a single copper coin on personal luxury. I bought a beautiful traditional saree for my mother, fresh clothes for my little sister, and an elegant Titan watch for my father. The entire remaining amount was immediately donated at the holy altars of Gurudwara Bangla Sahib. Money held absolutely no personal allure for me, anchoring my soul to a foundational core philosophy that guides my life to this day:
"Without the blessings of Goddess Saraswati, one can never truly receive the pure grace of Goddess Laxmi." True knowledge must always precede wealth.
When my family witnessed the final, complete transformation of my body, they were struck with an absolute, paralyzed shock mixed with a boundless pride. My little sister couldn't help but tease me with a mischievous grin, loudly declaring that it was finally time for me to find a girlfriend. I merely let out a soft chuckle, entirely unbothered by her words. Even with my new physical presence and personal aura, I remained intensely wary and distant toward women, completely uninterested in the shallow romances of youth.
But then... a magnificent, true magic executed the moment I stepped back onto the desert campus as a second-year student.
When I unlocked the door to my room, Shubham stared at me in complete, paralyzed disbelief. He couldn't accept that the transformed, chiseled individual standing before him was his old roommate. He confessed later that he had written off my summer gym vows as empty, passing promises.
Then came the grand unveiling on the first day of our second year. The core Computer Science courses were starting, so the lecture hall was packed to its absolute limits with eager students. Most of my peers already knew each other, but as I stepped through the double doors, a sudden, confused quiet rippled across the benches. They recognized Shubham, but they kept whispering, completely unable to identify the confident, sharp-jawed boy walking beside him.
Several people openly asked him, "Hey, where is Anurag today?" Shubham simply smiled and pointed his finger straight at me. A wave of absolute shock swept through their faces. Still an introvert at heart, I felt my face turn a sudden warm pink, blushing and laughing awkwardly as I tried to evade the heavy public attention. But inwardly, my mind was shaken.
For the first time in my entire existence, I could look straight into a girl's eyes with absolute clarity, entirely free from my old, heavy inferiority complex. I walked down the steps and took my place in the third row, occupying the second seat.
SIMRAN
Suddenly, SHE entered the room.
Simran walked down the aisle, her presence drawing the eyes of the hall, and took the first seat of our very same third row, sitting directly next to me.
She cast a brief glance sideways, her features wrapping in a sudden surprise as she looked at my profile. But I maintained a cool, unbothered distance. She wasn't my friend yet, so I didn't offer a greeting or a smile, keeping my eyes fixed ahead.
Intrigued by my silence, she leaned forward to whisper to her companion in the second row, asking in a hushed tone, "Who is the guy sitting next to me?"
When they whispered back that it was Anurag, her eyes widened in total disbelief. She turned her torso toward me, looking at my face with an intense seriousness before asking directly, "Are you really Anurag?" I simply nodded once, keeping my words minimal as the professor stepped up to the board and our lecture commenced.
Throughout that second year, my physical transformation accelerated at a terrifying velocity. I threw my entire focus into calisthenics and yoga.
However, because of my strict, pure-vegetarian lifestyle, building dense muscle tissue was an incredibly slow climb, even with regular protein powder supplements. Driven by a beautiful, obsessive madness to break my physical boundaries, I executed a completely bizarre plan.
Hahaha
I procured raw Shilajit and Ashwagandha to forcefully drive my masculine energy to its peak. To add to the sheer freakishness, I prepared a concentrated blend of fresh garlic fully submerged in raw honey, letting it sit to infuse for a full month before consuming it daily. Shubham watched my bizarre routines in absolute disbelief, thoroughly convinced I had turned into a complete fitness freak.
To push my willpower to an unshakeable standard, I adopted the ancient practice of semen retention. But to test my mental discipline under the most extreme conditions, I added an absurd, dangerous exercise to my routine: every single day, right after consuming the Shilajit, Ashwagandha, and hot milk, I would force myself to watch adult content for exactly 30 minutes.
It was a brutal, agonizing battle against my rawest human instincts, a fierce fire testing my control, but I successfully mastered my lust, training my mind to remain perfectly calm under the heaviest internal storm.
After a month of this intense mental grilling, a profound shift occurred—I grew completely bored of the content, realizing it looked cheap, empty, and mechanical.
Instead, I redirected my analytical mind to ancient classical texts, thoroughly studying the deep sutras of Kama to unlock the profound secrets of the male and female forms.
Simran continued to choose the seat next to me in our daily classes. Over the months, I slowly opened up to her, and we forged a comfortable, beautiful friendship, though I still didn't allow myself to view her through a romantic lens. Then came the sharp, freezing arrival of winter, specifically the morning of November 24th. I have always been an early-to-bed, early-to-rise individual, and by 5:00 AM, I was already inside the open campus park executing a punishing calisthenics session.
Because of the explosive combination of Shilajit, Ashwagandha, semen retention, and that honey-soaked garlic, my core was generating an unearthly, scorching internal heat. Feeling the intense fire inside my chest, I took off my shirt and my vest, training completely bare-chested in the freezing winter air. The sweat was pouring off my chiseled frame so heavily that the cold atmosphere caused the moisture to instantly condense under the dawn sky—my entire silhouette was literally steaming like a locomotive.
This exact, raw real-life morning was the direct inspiration behind Anant Gupta's steaming body during the Ranji Finale in God of Cricket. In reality, it was simple physics, but on the page, it became a grand, awe-inspiring moment of cinematic power.
Suddenly, Simran appeared. She usually jogged with a group of friends, but on that particular morning, she was entirely alone. She froze in her tracks, witnessing my resurrected frame under the early sunbeams—a vision of absolute confidence, electric energy, and raw vitality. I held zero fear in my heart. I looked back at her, let out a warm smile, and waved my hand while standing bare-chested, completely unbothered by my exposure.
A sudden spark ignited between us. As she began to jog toward my position, her shoe subtly slipped on the wet morning dew. Her balance fractured, and she fell forward into the empty air. I vanished from my spot with a blinding speed, catching her slender frame securely in my arms before she could touch the ground.
We stood there in a tight embrace, our chests colliding as a wave of deep concern for her safety washed through my mind. Looking down at her face from a hair's breadth away, I truly saw her for the first time—she was breathtakingly beautiful.
On a sudden, unexpected impulse of pure emotion, I leaned down and kissed her straight on the lips. Simran didn't pull away; she locked her arms around my neck and kissed me back with an intense sweetness under the quiet morning sky, entirely hidden from the eyes of the world. That morning, beneath the freezing desert wind, we became an official couple.
Our winter romance blossomed into a beautiful sanctuary. I stood at a proud, commanding 5'11", wearing simple T-shirts, completely shed of my old, nerdy posture. We spent countless beautiful hours together across the campus grounds.
My most cherished memory was when Simran would lean her head softly against my shoulder, gently humming a sweet, innocent melody that completely fascinated my soul, leaving me wondering how a boy like me had deserved a queen like her.
But the light brought a sudden, devastating shadow. My best friend, Shubham, completely stopped talking to me, retreating into a silent, intense, and bitter jealousy.
I previously unsealed a raw reflection of this exact childhood heartbreak as a flashback sequence within my first novel, The Return of Dharma. Shubham was an exact mirror to my previous, heavy self; he stubbornly refused to exercise or alter his lifestyle, leaving me entirely helpless to save his spirit.
The painful reality soon uncloaked itself in typical movie fashion—it turned out that Shubham had harbored a secret, silent crush for Simran as well. Seeing my transformation and my sudden happiness, he felt completely betrayed and replaced, abruptly packing his belongings to leave our shared room.
I sat in the empty space, my chest heavy with a profound sadness. But Simran held my hand tightly, drawing me close as she consoled my spirit with words of absolute clarity: "He was never your true friend, Anurag. He only loved you because you looked exactly like his own unmoving, heavy reflection. The moment you chose to rise and claim your freedom, his pride couldn't bear the weight of your light."
Driven by the pain of that betrayal and a deep desire to read the hidden patterns of the human heart, I selected the HSS Human Psychology elective course for my next semester. I completely poured my intellect into advanced studies regarding human behavior, mentalism, hypnosis, and psychological manipulation—the exact, rich educational foundation that now allows me to craft the complex mind-games and spymaster blindspots within my current manuscript.
In our third year, our love reached its absolute summit. Simran granted me the ultimate honor, choosing to become my very first, transforming my soul from a boy into a man through a beautiful, sacred union.
But every mortal sanctuary faces its inevitable twilight.
During our final year, Simran made a sudden, shattering announcement: she had secured her path to America for higher studies, demanding that I pack my bags and accompany her across the ocean to build a life. I looked into her eyes and calmly, resolutely rejected the offer. I could never leave my mother, my sister, and my father behind; my loyalty belonged entirely to the soil of my family.
Simran, hailing from a highly wealthy, elite-class background, broke into a fierce, wounded anger. Our beautiful connection fractured, and we broke up in our final semester. I spent those final college months locking myself away, crying bitter, heavy tears alone in my room over the tragic loss of my first love.
Simran was fiercely ambitious, focused entirely on the systemic hypocrisies, corruption, and glaring issues of India. While her criticisms were valid, her sight was entirely blinded to the deeper beauty of our homeland. I would passionately speak to her about the nation's magnificent culture, spiritual roots, and timeless depth, but her mind was permanently set on chasing the glittering American Dream.
Through the campus placement drive, I secured a premier software engineering role at a major product-based corporation in Bangalore with an exceptional salary package. On our last day on campus, we exchanged a final, quiet farewell. I stood completely frozen on the asphalt, crying silently and numbly as I watched her departure car disappear over the horizon. I had lost my best friend, and now my first love was permanently gone.
But right as the suffocating grief threatened to choke my mind, the familiar, distant whisper of my auto-rickshaw savior echoed once more inside my marrow: Be free.
I wiped the heavy moisture from my face, turned around, and bowed in profound, heartfelt reverence toward the red bricks of the clock tower hall, thanking the sanctuary for the timeless memories it gave my soul.
I returned home to my true sanctuary—my family. When I uncloaked the full, raw tragedy of Simran to my mother and sister, their eyes widened in profound shock, but they instantly wrapped my trembling frame in a tight, protective hug.
Sinking into their warmth, I finally understood the ultimate, unshakeable value of family.
My mother, and my sister consoled my spirit, bringing my mind back from the dark.
With my soul entirely healed, I boarded my flight to Bangalore, stepping onto a fresh soil to launch a completely new journey.
DIVYA
When I stepped out of the university gates and entered the raw reality of my adult and professional working life, the illusion of a simple world completely vanished. I found myself witnessing the darker, colder undercurrents of modern society—a wilderness where cheating, manipulation, and shallow games are executed every single day.
Looking at that chaotic landscape, a profound realization hit my soul: my college days had been incredibly innocent. Shubham and Simran were not malicious forces; they were just simple, flawed human beings navigating their own paths.
In the natural flow of time, over the next two years, the universe quietly restored those broken bridges. I reconnected with them both. Shubham reached out to me, his voice shedding its old bitterness as he genuinely apologized for his past jealousy.
I simply let out a soft, lighthearted chuckle, completely erasing the old debt from my mind. I even spoke with Simran, who was now miles away across the ocean, fiercely pursuing her postgraduate business studies at UCLA. I cherished them deeply, realizing that true memories never fade; they simply mature.
During those first two years in the corporate arena, I made a conscious, non-negotiable decision: I did not date a single person as I hate office romanc. I chose to live in absolute isolation, pouring my entire intellect and energy exclusively into my software craft and my own mental refinement.
Soon after, I managed to switch my role to the Delhi branch, renting a small, independent apartment within the Delhi NCR. I wanted to experience true self-reliance while remaining fiercely close to my ultimate sanctuary—my family.
It was during this phase that the grand BITSAA Global Meet was hosted in Gurgaon.
I decided to attend, stepping into the crowded hall where hundreds of alumni had gathered. I crossed paths with Shubham once again. We embraced warmly, sharing deep, peaceful conversations, and my heart swelled with a genuine happiness when he proudly introduced me to his first girlfriend.
But then, a magnificent, sudden shock wave rippled through my focus.
Standing across the room, talking carelessly within a circle of her friends, was SHE. The very same fourth-year senior girl who had handed me that cup of water on the scorching campus grass and called my heavy, 110 kg self "uncle."
I quietly pointed her out to Shubham, breaking the history to his ears. Shocked by the cosmic coincidence, he blinked and asked me in a hushed, nervous whisper: "What are you going to do now, Anurag?"
A slow, dangerous smile graced my chiseled features. I was no longer that round, stuttering boy hiding behind thick specs. I had spent years mastering human psychology, calisthenics, and an unshakeable internal gravity. I looked at him with an absolute, daring confidence and murmured: "Watch me."
I turned my torso and walked calmly across the polished floorboards, my posture radiating an immense masculine presence. I stepped directly into her circle, greeting her friends with a polite, seamless grace. Turning my gaze entirely onto her face, I said softly: "I would deeply appreciate a few private moments to speak with you."
Surprised by my directness, her friends stepped back. I looked into her eyes and introduced myself: "My name is Anurag. May I know yours?"
She blinked, completely captivated by my aura, and whispered: "Divya."
I looked at her, my voice dropping into a low, deeply emotional register. "Thank you, Divya... for permanently changing my life."
A profound, startled confusion wrapped her features. She had absolutely zero recollection of my identity. Without a single word, I pulled out my digital device, sliding the old, heavy photographs of my 110 kg college form right before her eyes. I looked back into her stunned face and murmured: "I am the exact same boy whom you looked down upon with pity on that scorching afternoon, handing me water and calling me uncle."
Divya stood completely paralyzed, her breath catching sharply in her throat as her eyes frantically traveled between the pudgy boy in the old picture and the sharp-jawed, towering entity standing directly in front of her. Before her mind could even calculate the miraculous physical resurrection, I stepped deeper into her perimeter.
Looking straight into her soul with an absolute, uncompromised confidence, I delivered a direct, bold strike: "I want to take you out on a proper date."
The sheer audacity of my declaration shocked her to the absolute core of her being. She saw the total lack of fear, the raw devotion, and the unyielding respect shining in my eyes. Under the intense gravity of my presence, her defenses dissolved completely. She softly nodded her head, agreeing to my request.
I had recently purchased my very first high-performance sports bike—fueled by my deep, lifelong love for the open road and the liberating roar of an engine. Leveraging the power of capital, where doors open at a rapid, breathless velocity if you possess the means, I bypassed every standard reservation line at a short notice. I meticulously arranged an ultra-luxury, Valentine-themed date at a premier 5-star resort.
When my sports bike pulled up to the sanctuary, Divya was completely awestruck. I had already commanded the venue to arrange a private, isolated table beneath the starlight, accompanied by a professional live violinist playing a sweet, cascading melody just for us. She was deeply shocked by the sheer scale of wealth and effort I was spending on her comfort, her heart melting under my focused attention. We enjoyed a magnificent dinner, speaking deeply about our inner worlds, before I drew her onto the floor.
As the violin notes floated through the night air, we danced close together. She looked breathtakingly beautiful, her entire frame relaxing into my warmth. Driven by a sudden, untamed impulse of pure passion, I wrapped my arms tightly around her narrow waist, pulling her frame flush against my chest. My eyes darkened, and before my logical brain could intervene, I leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, burning kiss.
The moment our lips parted, the sudden realization of my forwardness struck my mind. I instantly closed my eyes and slightly tilted my face sideways, fully freezing in place, completely prepared to receive a sharp slap across my cheek for crossing the boundary.
Instead, a low, rich chuckle escaped her throat. Divya leaned into my ear, her warm breath sending a sudden heat down my spine as she whispered wickedly: "I am going to punish you for this inside the room."
We entered the private luxury suite, locking the mortal world outside the door. For two whole days and two whole nights, we remained entirely anchored to that same bed, executing a beautiful, wild, and uninhibited dance of absolute intimacy.
During those quiet, starlit intervals between our passions, I held her close, looking up at the ceiling as I whispered honestly: "Even now, it feels like an impossible, fleeting dream. Divya... why exactly did you say yes to me?"
She turned her face, her eyes filled with a soft, genuine warmth as she traced my jawline. "Because, Anurag... I completely fell in love with the way you look at me. In a world full of cheap, lustful wolves, your eyes hold an absolute, beautiful reverence. They are full of pure respect, and full of total devotion."
She nestled deeper into my chest, uncloaking the raw, bleeding details of her recent, painful heartbreak. I remained completely silent, reading her emotions like an open script, offering her the mature, quiet comfort of a protective sanctuary.
Coincidentally, her corporate office was situated close to my own location, and our lives aligned seamlessly. We entered a deep, live-in relationship that lasted for one beautiful year. Together, we explored the wide expanses of the northern kingdom on my sports bike. I took her through the mountain mists of Manali, the sacred evening winds of Haridwar, and eventually, I brought her to my absolute favorite, most sacred destination on earth.
Varanasi. We spent endless, timeless hours sitting on the ancient stone ghats, watching the sacred river flow beneath the moonlit sky, our souls locking into a state of pure harmony.
But every mortal sanctuary faces its inevitable sunset.
Due to her exceptional, brilliant professional performance, Divya was suddenly awarded a massive international promotion—a permanent transfer to Australia to lead her company's global sector. When the news arrived, she was completely frozen in a suffocating fright, entirely broken by an intense guilt. She knew every raw detail of my past history with Simran, and her heart wept with a deep sorrow, believing she was executing the exact same abandonment and inflicting the same bleeding wound upon my spirit.
But I didn't let out a single cry of anger. I looked at her weeping face, a serene, warm smile gracing my chiseled features. I gently held her hands and told her to sign the papers, to soar across the skies, and to claim the grand destiny she had earned. She already knows, with absolute certainty, that I would never leave the soil of India, nor would I ever abandon my family sanctuary.
On her final day, I stood within the bustling terminals of the Indira Gandhi International Airport alongside her grieving family. Driven by a final, romantic impulse, I executed a classic, daring move—I purchased a domestic flight ticket straight to Varanasi simply to pass through the high-security gates, enter the departure lounge, and grant her a proper, private farewell.
When she saw my silhouette waiting near her gate, her tears broke completely. Divya lunged forward, wrapping her arms tightly around my neck, kissing me with a fierce, desperate sweetness that sealed our final minutes. I simply smiled back, holding her frame close until her flight number was called. I stood completely unmoving behind the glass partition, watching her silver aircraft rise and vanish entirely into the infinite sky.
Turning away from the international gates, I boarded my own domestic flight and soared toward Varanasi.
I reached the ancient, timeless steps of the ghats just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon and the grand evening Ganga Aarti commenced. As the heavy brass lamps were lifted by the priests, and the thundering, earth-shaking resonance of the sacred mantras and Vedic chants cut through the air, the dam behind my eyes broke completely.
I sat alone on the cold stone steps and cried my entire heart out. I let the heavy, streaming tears flow without restraint, pouring all my deep sorrow, my broken dreams, and my silent grief directly into the holy currents of the Ganga river.
The sacred vibrations of the ancient chants seeped deep into my marrow, executing a magnificent, spiritual cleansing of my spirit. As the holy waters swallowed my pain, an incredible, profound lightness filled my chest. I opened my eyes, mastered my emotions with an iron-clad discipline, and resolved to step forward into the future.
Tonight, as I bare my soul before you, let me lay down one final, absolute truth: I completely loathe the word "exes." To my eyes, that is a cheap, cold, and transactional modern term used by shallow minds.
Simran and Divya are not my past cast-aways. They are a permanent, living fragment of my own spiritual identity. They are the twin sovereign muses whose beautiful memories I will cherish for all eternity. Even now, in the quiet spaces of my heart, I love them deeply.
My auto-rickshaw savior had handed me the ultimate, eternal mantra: Just be free. Because in the final calculation of the universe, Life is not a rigid destination to conquer—it is nothing but a grand, beautiful, and absolute journey.
That is it—the brief, quiet summary of my past love story. I cannot possibly uncloak every single detail of those long years, for some memories must remain safely hidden within the private sanctuary of my thoughts.
The upcoming two movements are my special, heartfelt tribute to my female readers. I know how deeply exhausted you are of witnessing cheap, empty, and transactional romance across this platform. I genuinely hope I have handed you chapters that hold true emotional weight, artistic beauty, and profound human respect.
If you truly felt the depth of my song recommendation tonight, I ask you to play it once more tomorrow when you sit down to read Chapter 58 and Chapter 59. Let the melody anchor your spirit as you step into the storm.
As for me, I already know the path of my night. I am going to sit beneath the open sky and write through the darkness, crying the entire night away as these raw memories bleed into the script.
But I also know, with an unshakeable certainty, that when the very first ray of morning sunlight falls upon my bare chest in this balcony, the sorrow will completely dissolve. I will look up at the breaking dawn, smile, and laugh out loud at my own beautiful madness, before finally closing my eyes to sleep through the entire day tomorrow.
Thank you for walking this legendary journey with me.
— Sanatani Author