The Weapons of Mass Attraction

The air was heavy with the scent of incense and the faint murmurs of mourners who had gathered to bid farewell to Bhayankar, a man who had lived his life as… well, an enigma. His death, like his life, refused to go unnoticed.

As the family and priests surrounded the pyre, a peculiar problem emerged. The body was laid out respectfully, wrapped in traditional white cloth, but there was an undeniable… protrusion. Bhayankar’s infamous “Weapon of Mass Attraction” stood tall, defying death itself.

The pyre was carefully arranged, but every time someone tried to place the firewood on top, it wobbled precariously and toppled over, causing a few spectators to stifle giggles while others whispered in hushed shock.

“This is… unusual,” the head priest muttered, trying to maintain his composure.

“Unusual?” Bhayankar’s Cousin Brother whispered back. “It’s Bhayankar! Even in death, he’s causing chaos.”

One overly brave relative suggested, “Maybe we should… uh… tie it down?” This caused the elderly  to gasp dramatically, clutching their pearls as though Bhayankar himself had spoken from the beyond.

Another mourner, suppressing a laugh, chimed in, “If this isn’t a sign of a powerful life, I don’t know what is.”

As the crowd deliberated on what to do, the youngest nephew innocently asked, “Why is Uncle Bhayankar’s…weapon uh… thing standing up? Does he still need to pee?” The scene erupted into muffled laughter, breaking the somber mood.

The chaos at Bhayankar’s funeral only escalated. Each attempt to arrange the pyre resulted in the same outcome—the wood crumbled, toppled, or simply refused to stay steady, all thanks to the unrelenting defiance of Bhayankar’s infamous Weapon.

After much deliberation and several failed attempts, the eldest among the mourners, known for his wisdom and, apparently, his patience, sighed deeply and declared, “This is no ordinary situation. We must adapt.”

The crowd leaned in, curious and horrified, as the elder made the ultimate suggestion: “Face him down! Let the Weapon nail the ground itself.”

A stunned silence swept over the mourners, followed by murmurs of disbelief. One bold voice broke through, muttering, “Only Bhayankar could leave this world ass-first.”

As the body settled into place, Bhayankar’s cousin—unable to resist one last jab at the man’s outrageous legacy—muttered under his breath, "Now he’ll fuck the ground too."

Despite the absurdity of the idea, the mourners reluctantly agreed. With a mix of frustration and humor, they flipped Bhayankar’s body face down, his infamous Weapon firmly pointed into the earth. Finally, stability was achieved.

As the priest resumed the rituals, a mourner whispered, “He was such an asshole in life, it’s only fitting he’s showing the world his ass on the way out.” Suppressed snickers rippled through the crowd as they lit the pyre, knowing that Bhayankar had managed to turn even his own farewell into a legendary spectacle.

As the embers of the funeral pyre began to fade, Bhayankar’s uncle sat down with a curious stranger—a traveler passing through the village who had attended the ceremony out of sheer intrigue. The stranger, unable to contain their curiosity, asked, "Who was this man? I’ve never seen a funeral quite like this."

The uncle sighed, taking a long sip of chai before leaning back in his chair. "Bhayankar wasn’t just a man," he said, shaking his head with a mix of amusement and exasperation. "He was a phenomenon—a walking disaster, a relentless troublemaker, and, most of all, the biggest headache our family ever had."

The stranger leaned in closer, eager to hear more. The uncle continued, "You see, his life wasn’t just one long joke—it was a series of punchlines, each more ridiculous than the last. From the day he was born, he made sure the world would never forget him. And trust me, it wasn’t always a blessing."

With a wry smile, the uncle began to recount the early days of Bhayankar’s life: his tumultuous childhood, his larger-than-life personality, and the many, many women who crossed his path. Every story seemed to include some outlandish tale of his infamous "Weapon," and how it often got him into more trouble than he could handle.

He chuckled, then added, "You saw what just happened. Even in death, he found a way to screw with everyone. That was Bhayankar for you—always unforgettable, for better or worse."

The stranger, now more curious than ever, urged him on. "Tell me more about him. What made him… so unique?"

The uncle smirked. "Unique doesn’t even begin to describe it. Let me start from the beginning. You see, Bhayankar’s story isn’t just a life—it’s an epic. The man lived like every day was an audition for a comedy show. And that, my friend, is why he’ll be remembered."

The uncle leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "But if you really want to understand Bhayankar, you need to know about his so-called 'Weapon of Mass Attraction.' That thing was both his blessing and his curse… and the reason we’re sitting here laughing about his funeral instead of mourning it."

The stranger’s eyes widened as the uncle continued.

The crackling flames of the pyre cast flickering shadows as Bhayankar’s uncle leaned back against the wooden bench. He took a long sip of his chai and sighed deeply, the kind of sigh that spoke of years of dealing with chaos.

“You want to know about Bhayankar?” he began, looking at the curious stranger who had witnessed the most bizarre funeral of his life. “To understand him, you first need to know about my elder brother and his… unique path to fatherhood.”

The stranger leaned in, intrigued. Bhayankar’s uncle smirked and continued, “My brother, Devendra, was a simple man, married to a kind woman, Meenakshi. They were the perfect couple—hardworking, loving, and deeply traditional. But there was one problem.”

“What problem?” asked the stranger, his curiosity growing.

“They couldn’t have children,” the uncle said, shaking his head. “Years went by, and no amount of blessings, herbs, or temple visits made any difference. They were desperate. And that’s when the village priest—Pandit Haridas—came into the picture.”

The uncle chuckled, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Pandit Haridas was known for two things: his eccentric rituals and his flair for the dramatic. He claimed to have a solution—a ritual so ancient and sacred, it would guarantee a child. But there was a catch.”

“A catch?” the stranger asked.

The uncle nodded. “Oh, yes. The ritual required... unconventional methods. He called it the ‘Divine Screwdriver Technique.’ And let me tell you, it was anything but divine.”

Bhayankar’s uncle stood up,  and gestured for the stranger to follow him. "Come, let me show you," he said, his voice tinged with both amusement and nostalgia. The two walked a short distance away from the glowing embers of the pyre, into a quieter corner of the shamshan ghat. The uncle crouched down, drawing a rough sketch of the Devine screwdriver scene in the dirt with a stick.

The stranger burst out laughing. "Are you serious?"

Bhayankar’s uncle leaned closer to the stranger, his face alight with mischief. “You don’t believe me? Fine. Let me take you back to that night. Imagine this…”

It was a moonlit night, and the ancestral home bustled with quiet excitement. In the center of the room, Devendra—Bhayankar’s father—stood shirtless, clutching a small bottle of oil that Pandit Haridas had declared "sacred lubricant." His wife, Meenakshi, sat nervously on a wooden stool, her dupatta slipping as she fidgeted.

Pandit Haridas, in his dramatic red robes, adjusted the ropes tied to the ceiling beams. “Everything must be perfect,” he announced. “This ritual is no joke—it requires precision, balance, and absolute faith!”

The uncle chuckled as he narrated. “Faith, my foot. The man just wanted a good show.”

The stranger listened intently as the flashback continued.

Devendra gulped nervously. “And what do we have to do?”

Pandit Haridas grinned mischievously. “Prepare yourselves for the most divine… and acrobatic… night of your lives

“Think of it as aligning a screw with a bolt,” the priest explained. “The ling(penis) must insert with precision into the yoni(vagina), or the energies won’t merge!”

A large wooden frame with a circular ring in the center was erected—a contraption that looked more like it belonged in a carpenter’s workshop than a sacred ceremony

Meenakshi was carefully positioned, her legs spread wide to align her yoni with the ring. She blushed furiously, muttering, “Is this really necessary?” The priest waved her concerns away. “This is divine science! Do not question it!”

Her legs were spread wide, aligning her yoni with the ring. “Relax, my child,” the priest said, his voice annoyingly calm. “This is the most sacred position for cosmic alignment.”

Devendra, lying flat on a mat below the contraption, stared up nervously. “So… what do I do?” he asked.

Pandit Haridas smirked. “You simply wait, and let the Screwdriver Technique do the work. Helpers, begin!”

Devendra, trying to keep up with the movement, yelled, “She’s spinning too fast! I can’t… connect!”

“Then aim better!” the priest snapped. “Do you want a child or not?”

Meenakshi, her patience wearing thin, yelled, “I’m not a ceiling fan! Get it right, or I’m coming down!”

Her legs were spread wide, aligning her yoni with the ring. “Relax, my child,” the priest said, his voice annoyingly calm. “This is the most sacred position for cosmic alignment.”

The helpers grabbed the frame and began rotating it slowly, causing Meenakshi to spin gently above Devendra. Her expression shifted from confusion to mild horror as the motion began.

“Rotate her faster!” the priest barked. “The energies need momentum!”

The helpers complied, spinning the frame more vigorously. Meenakshi’s eyes widened as the motion grew. “Stop! I feel like I’m on a merry-go-round!” she screamed.

Meanwhile, Devendra struggled to aim. “She’s moving too fast! How am I supposed to… you know… connect?”

“Focus, Devendra!” the priest yelled. “Align your ling with her yoni! This is a divine act, not a village fair!”

Finally, Devendra managed to make contact. The moment his ling penetrated her yoni, Meenakshi’s expression transformed dramatically. Her eyes bulged, her mouth dropped open in shock, and a high-pitched squeal escaped her lips. “It’s… it’s in!” she exclaimed.

The helpers continued spinning the frame, pushing Meenakshi deeper onto Devendra. The priest clapped his hands excitedly. “Yes! Deeper! The energies are merging perfectly! Do not stop until the cosmic connection is complete!”

Devendra groaned as the motion caused the penetration to intensify. “I think my balls just touched her yoni!” he shouted, half in pain, half in awe.

Meenakshi’s face contorted into a mix of agony and ecstasy. “It’s so deep! Is this normal?!” she shrieked.

“Perfectly normal,” the priest assured her, throwing a handful of holy ash into the air. “This is how gods create miracles!”

As the helpers rotated the frame faster, Meenakshi’s facial expressions became even more exaggerated. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth opened wide, and she let out a loud moan that echoed through the courtyard. “Ohhhh! I think I’m going to…!”

The priest interrupted her. “Yes! That’s it! You’re aligning your chakras!”

Devendra, overwhelmed by the intensity, shouted, “I can’t hold it much longer!”

With one final spin, the frame came to a stop, leaving Meenakshi fully impaled, her body twitching from the cosmic "connection." Devendra lay motionless below, muttering, “I think I just saw the face of God.”

Pandit Haridas stepped forward, a triumphant smile on his face. “The Screwdriver Technique is complete! The child born of this union will carry the power of the gods. But beware—this power will bring chaos as well as greatness.”

Meenakshi, still catching her breath, glared at the priest. “Untie me before I curse this ritual myself!”

The stranger chuckled, trying to hide his laughter but failing miserably.

Bhayankar’s uncle sighed deeply, shaking his head.

“And that,” he said, leaning back with a wry smile, “is how the baby was born—thanks to the Screwdriver Technique. And let me tell you, from that moment on, our lives were completely screwed. just like the technique that brought him here.