The Magician’s Spell

Once upon a time, there was a Magician. In a world of silence, where no one had ever heard any noise, no melody existed and no words either. Emotions were being locked like hunters trapping birds. What changed inside the Magician, no one will ever know but one day, he sat on the riverbank, staring at his reflection for too long. He jumped and went deep into the water. He swam wanting to get near the deep end till all of him drowned. When the villagers found him, he was already dead. Yet they pushed into his chest and pressed. They kept trying to revive him. But what came out of him wasn’t water. It was “words”, unknown to the world and unheard. They bled out of him like a never-ending stream. There was no stopping his powers now. The world was engulfed in the magic and every person stole some of it. Yet, there was one little girl who sat by his side and cried.

The apprentice of the Magician didn’t want the words that her teacher was being bled dry for. She put a layer of spell upon the magic. Any person who stole the words would be unable to use them when he needed them the most. To save a bit of her teacher’s magic, she engulfed herself with the leftover words and so years passed. The young generation was one who grew up listening to words, melodies and magic. But they grew restless. The words failed them; the spell of the apprentice was still in effect. They talked and talked, aimlessly. They wrote letters they would never send. They were in misery.

The descendants of the apprentice shouldered the burden of abstract unfinished thoughts and words. Yet if they died without passing it on to the next generation, the words would bleed back into the world and enter one incomplete human, making him whole. The villagers found out this secret and refused to stay fragmented any longer.

They killed the man by the fireplace and burned him whole as the words of agony, wrath and fire got burned inside their soul. They killed the little boy playing on the field. Guilt, repentance and regret sat on their shoulders now. They killed the woman lying naked in the bathtub. Lust, sin and disgust, grabbed them by the heart. Yet there lay an infant daughter with just one word she had been allowed to carry. They looked at her and just as their hands began to rise, ready to strike her down, finally be whole, she unburdened herself by speaking one word “Mercy.” They didn’t get to kill her and yet Mercy brought them to their knees. The girl survived and the world went on, knowing the strength of mercy but never fully understanding it.

The Pallavi Writes.