When the world exhales

 

There is that time between midnight and three in the morning when the world exhales. The wind hushes. The moon holds its breath. And if you listen closely enough, you might hear it, the whisper of something ancient, something forbidden. The shadows become darker and bigger and your imagination takes you for a ride.

The tiny forays into the dark portal of the anti-god beckons you with muted sounds and curling tendrils of mist. I have been in this dimension many a times in my life. In my earlier write ups I have categorically stated that I believe in Ghosts. They do exist for I have had many an encounter with them.

I believe that Ghosts are always in the state of limbo, neither here nor there and they (most of them) are not wicked. I have yet to meet an evil one like the ones we see in movies. The ones who try to destroy you. Most of them have been forgotten souls who are lost in the abyss of chaos and do not have the energy to pull themselves out of it.

They say every spell begins with a whisper, a sound too soft to be heard, but too heavy to be ignored. It seeps through candle smoke, slips between shadows, and coils around the listener’s heart like a serpent waiting to strike. Those who hear it never forget. This is the voice of black magic.

I have heard about black magic for years; I have heard the aunts whisper about it and shut up the moment I come into the room. I feel I have felt it too but other than the typical signs of suddenly finding various artifacts related to black magic, I cannot honestly say that I have any proof of it.

Every culture has its version: the witch in the forest, the priest who defies heaven, the scholar who reads one page too far. Each of them, in their own way, becomes a keeper of dangerous knowledge.

I have toyed with my desire to explore this dark world, not exactly for power but rather how to mitigate this force. But there are no temples for black magic, no holy texts to recite. It hides where light falters, in the cracks of forgotten libraries, in the corners of dreams that end too suddenly. It calls not to the pious or the pure, but to the curious, the desperate, and the broken.

Those who answer the call never mean to. It begins innocently, a question whispered to the dark, a candle lit for comfort. But the dark always answers, and never for free.

Black magic is not chaos for its own sake. It is hunger given form. It promises not peace, but power, the power to unmake what fate has written.

I have heard so many stories about this taboo subject, about mothers who control their sons, about wives who wield power over their husbands, about men who worship in the graveyards for monetary gains, about politicians who touch the feet of sadhus who practice this and so on. But like the veil, the actual deed or the actual fulfilment is undulating, misty and flimsy.

But each society has means to fight the curse. That unexplained illness, a spate of bad luck (appliances breaking down; favourite dress being burnt; just twisting of an ankle on a flat road!) all these cannot be just explained away by logic and science. Thus we have the black eye removal ritual (it differs from place to place). But when our puny and tentative efforts cease to help us what do we do? Then the mind searches for ways and means to fight. We start believing in different pujas (very ironical for puja is positive, how can it fight the negative?)

Every tale of black magic ends the same way, with a price paid in silence. Some lose their minds, others their names. A few simply vanish, their absence explained away as madness or myth. Because power, once tasted, refuses to be forgotten. It lingers in the air like smoke from a candle long extinguished. And sometimes, on the coldest nights, that smoke curls back through the cracks of the world, searching for a new breath to claim.

They say light is truth, but that is a lie. Light blinds. It burns away the subtle shades where meaning hides. Only in the dark do we see things as they are, raw, unguarded, alive.

The irony of black magic is that it reflects us, perfectly. Its rituals, whether imagined or real, are mirrors for our most human urges: fear, curiosity, vengeance, love. The flame may burn black, but its light shows us our truest selves.

So when we speak of black magic, perhaps we are not speaking of darkness at all but of depth. Of how far we are willing to go to find meaning in the unknown.

Black magic is not evil. It is simply honest. It whispers what the world tries to silence. But honesty, when spoken in the language of shadows, can tear the soul apart.

Black magic is not an invitation to summon what sleeps beneath. It’s a story about power, mystery, and the price of seeking too much. The wise only listen at the door; the foolish try to open it.

Which one are you?

So when you hear the whisper, the one that sounds almost like your own voice, remember this:
Every door can be opened.
But not every door should be.