"You can't save anyone , you can only love them" but my heart tears when I see someone I love hurting I want to burn the world down for them
this is what i call "jalti nas pe haath rakhna"

blake kathryn
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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if i look back, i am lost
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

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occasionally subtle
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

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@darkdrmrs
"You can't save anyone , you can only love them" but my heart tears when I see someone I love hurting I want to burn the world down for them
this is what i call "jalti nas pe haath rakhna"
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Felt like restarting 😌
CHAPTER 3: The Binding of Cursed Topography
The Boys' PG, Room 302
The faint, melancholy strumming of an acoustic guitar filtered out from Danish’s phone, which was balanced precariously on top of the small plastic water cooler. Anuv Jain’s voice was drifting through the humid room, singing softly about love and distant skies, creating a completely mismatched background score for the absolute chaos Danish was currently performing in his boxers.
"I am telling you, bro, she is a total riot," Danish said, a massive, helpless grin breaking across his face as he stood in the middle of our cramped space, holding a half-eaten slice of cold Dominos pizza like a microphone. He wasn’t actually mad—the guy was so hopelessly in love with Priya that even her anger was a badge of honor to him.
He cleared his throat, dramatically paced across the small gap between our metal bunk beds, and shifted into a pitch-perfect, high-pitched imitation of her. He even captured that classic, rhythmic Indore tilt that always came out whenever she was furious.
"‘Dekho Danish, hum tumse pehle hi keh rahe hain... yeh jo tum din-bhar bhedchaal chalte rehte ho na doston ke sath, yeh hume jam nahi riya hai bilkul! Bade aaye hoshiyar chand!’" [Look Danish, I am telling you beforehand... this herd mentality of yours, hanging out with your friends all day long, I am not liking it one bit! Look at you acting like Mr. Smarty Pants! ]
Danish took a bite of the pizza, chuckling to himself as he pointed the stiff, greasy crust at me.
Danish was my roommate and best friend—a loud, hyper-social Bangalore local who knew every shortcut in the city and treated life like a continuous stand-up set. With his perpetually messy hair, sharp, street-smart eyes, and a wardrobe that consisted entirely of oversized black t-shirts and silver chains, he was the guy who could talk his way out of a traffic fine or a late college submission in under two minutes. He was fiercely loyal, completely bulletproof to seriousness, and the absolute anchor that kept me grounded whenever the stress of our Master's degree started pushing me over the edge.
"Bro! Full Indori attack mode!" he groaned, his eyes crinkling with affection as he talked over Anuv Jain’s soft vocals. "She literally stood there outside the college library, crossed her arms, and said,
‘Afeem chat li hai kya tumne? Hum yahan kabse khade hain aur tumhara alag hi tamasha chal riya hai. Zada dedh-shane mat bano humare samne, ni toh aisi chaped padegi na!’ ["Have you lost your mind? (literally: Have you licked opium?) I've been standing here for God knows how long and you are running your own little drama. Don't try to act overly smart in front of me, otherwise, I’ll give you such a tight slap!" ]
I swear to god, Aaru, when she drops that ni toh, she looks so cute I completely forget what we were even fighting about. I just stand there staring like a fool while she roasts my entire existence."
I couldn't help but laugh, the sudden burst of genuine amusement cutting through the thick fog of panic that had been sitting on my chest since last night.
"So what did you do?" I asked, leaning back against the cold wall. "Did you use your classic Bangalore maccha defense?"
"Are you mad?" Danish snorted, finally tossing the pizza crust back into the cardboard box and grabbing his college bag to pack his notebooks. "Against that MP accent? I am a simple guy, bro. I just stood there, looked her dead in the eye, and said,
‘Ji bhiya, bilkul sahi keh rahi hain aap. Humse hi galti ho gayi.’ [Yes boss, you are absolutely right. The mistake was entirely mine.]
She tried to hide it, but she had this tiny smile on her face. Man, she’s incredible."
He kicked the empty pizza box toward our overflowing dustbin, the cardboard sliding across the dusty green linoleum floor, and zipped his bag shut with a sharp clack.
"Come on, move your ass, we’re going to be late," Danish urged, grabbing his toothbrush and a faded towel from the hook. He bolted out to the shared corridor bathroom, his loud voice still echoing back into the room over the sound of running water. "And then she had the nerve to call me at midnight just to check if I ate dinner! Like, hello? Who was threatening to slap me five hours ago? She’s completely unpredictable, I love it."
I stood up slowly, my joints feeling stiff and heavy. While Danish was down the hall making enough noise for the entire third floor, I grabbed my own backpack, my hands trembling slightly. I carefully adjusted the heavy fabric of my hoodie, pulling the cuff tightly over my left wrist where the Mahurian bell was silently throbbing, a hot, rhythmic ache against my skin.
By the time Danish bounded back into the room, smelling of mint toothpaste and shaking his wet hair like a stray dog, I had my shoes on.
He pulled a wrinkled black t-shirt over his head, but as his face popped through the collar, his manic energy dipped for a split second. His sharp, street-smart eyes locked onto me, replacing his goofy grin with a subtle, observant squint.
"Anyway, what's your scene, Aaru? You're being exceptionally quiet today," Danish said, slinging his heavy laptop bag over one shoulder. He reached out and grabbed his phone, cutting Anuv Jain off mid-verse. "And why the hell are you wearing a heavy, thick hoodie today? Look at the time, it’s nine o'clock. The Bangalore rain last night was heavy, but it’s not Himalayas cold, bro. You look like you're trying to hide a contraband package or something. Everything good?"
I adjusted the cuff of my sleeve one more time, making sure not a millimeter of the blackened skin was visible.
"Yeah, bro. Just... caught a bit of a chill in the rain last night. Let's get ready for college."
The Main Road, Outside the PG
The air outside was thick with the scent of wet asphalt and fried onions from the corner kachori stall. The storm from last night had passed, leaving behind a sky the color of dirty silverware and a chaotic stream of tech-park commuter traffic splashing through the muddy puddles of the lane.
Danish was walking a half-step ahead of me, his thumbs flying across his phone screen as he sent a voice note to Priya—undoubtedly a poetic apology wrapped in heavy Indori flattery.
I kept my hands shoved deep into my hoodie pockets. My left fingers were tightly clenched around the brass body of the Mahurian bell, trying to steady it. Every time my stride jarred my arm, the cool metal scraped against the raw, blistering skin of my wrist. The pain was an sharp, electric reminder that the house wasn’t just a nightmare I could sleep off. It had left its teeth in me.
As we reached the mouth of the cul-de-sac, my pace naturally slowed. My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest.
"Hey, Danish," I started, keeping my voice flat, trying to sound like I was just making idle conversation to pass the walk.
"Hmm? Speak, bhiya," he muttered, not looking up from his screen.
"That plot right there," I said, nodding my head toward the left side of the lane. "House Number 17. The heritage place with the yellow tiles and the veranda. Who... who lives there? Do you know the family?"
Danish stopped dead in his tracks.
He lowered his phone, his thumb hovering over the send button. Slowly, he turned his head to look at the plot, then turned back to look at me. His expression was a mix of genuine confusion and absolute amusement.
"Are you completely out of your mind, Aaru?" Danish snorted, a loud, barking laugh escaping him. "What heritage house, maccha? What yellow tiles?"
"The one right there," I insisted, my voice dropping an octave as a cold sweat broke out under my collar. I stepped closer to him, pointing a trembling right hand toward the clearing. "Right next to the apartment boundary. The wooden gate. The porch light is literally still on, bro. Look at it."
Danish stared at the empty space, then walked over to the rusted iron chain that blocked the entrance of the plot. He kicked a crushed, muddy paper cup right into the center of the clearing.
"Bro, there is literally nothing there but three stray dogs, a pile of construction gravel, and enough wild weeds to start a forest department," Danish said, shaking his head. He walked back to me and smacked the side of my head playfully. "Did you take a hit of something weird last night? There hasn't been a building on this plot since our PG landlord bought his first tractor. It’s an empty dumping yard, you psycho."
I stared past his shoulder.
The wooden gate was there. The white paint was peeling at the edges. On the veranda, a small wicker chair sat exactly where it had been last night, catching the dull morning light.
Danish saw an empty, weed-choked mud pit.
I saw a home.
"You really don't see the veranda?" I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
Danish’s smile faded slightly. His street-smart eyes scanned my face, noticing the pale tint of my skin and the dark circles under my eyes that the morning light couldn't hide. He stepped closer, dropping his loud tone.
"Hey, jokes apart... you’re actually creeping me out now," Danish said, reaching out to pull at my hoodie sleeve. "Why are you staring at a pile of dirt like you’ve seen a ghost? Come on, we’re going to miss the internal assessment."
Before his fingers could touch my left wrist—before he could feel the cold metal of the bell hidden under the cloth—a sharp, clear voice cut through the roar of a passing auto-rickshaw.
"He's not joking, maccha. He’s just stupid."
We both spun around.
Standing by the blue metal gate of the adjacent high-rise apartment block was Meera. She was dressed in crisp, charcoal-grey corporate formals, a heavy leather laptop bag slung over her shoulder, and a half-empty glass of iced coffee in her hand. Her thick, curly hair was pinned back in a sharp, professional bun, but her eyes were completely lawless.
She wasn't looking at Danish. Her dark, cynical gaze was locked entirely on my covered left wrist.
"Morning, boys," Meera said, taking a slow sip of her coffee, her expression dripping with cold, dangerous amusement. "Nice weather for a walk, isn't it?"
Danish’s entire demeanor shifted in a fraction of a second. The confusion vanished from his face, replaced instantly by his signature, smooth-talking smirk. He slicked his messy hair back with one hand, shifted his weight, and dropped his voice into a lower, effortlessly charming register. To Danish, a sharp, incredibly attractive woman in corporate formals interrupting his morning wasn't a threat—it was an opportunity.
"Oh, hello, hi," Danish said, flashing his most winning smile as he casually stepped into Meera's line of sight, trying to shield my pale, sweating face from her. "Thank God someone sane finally walked past. I’m Danish, by the way. Fourth-floor PG? And honestly, you are completely right. My friend here has clearly been studying too hard. He’s literally seeing luxury real estate in a pile of municipal dirt. I was just about to take him for coffee to fix his brain cells."
Meera didn’t blink. She didn't even shift her eyes to look at him. She stood perfectly still, her iced coffee condensation dripping onto the hot asphalt, treating Danish like a minor piece of background noise.
"Fascinating, Danish," Meera said, her voice smooth, clinical, and completely devoid of warmth. "But if your friend doesn't fix his brain cells by tonight, a coffee is going to be the least of his expenses."
Danish’s smirk faltered, his street-smart brain momentarily buffering at the icy corporate shutdown. "Uh... what?"
Before he could recover his charm, Meera unzipped her heavy leather tote bag. Danish’s eyes darted down, probably expecting her to pull out her phone to drop her Instagram handle. Instead, her long fingers reached past a sleek tablet and pulled out a thick, heavy book.
It looked incredibly old, its thick edges slightly frayed, wrapped in a plain, unlabelled dull brown paper cover that gave away absolutely nothing. It looked completely out of place against her sharp charcoal suit.
She didn't give it to Danish. She stepped right past him, invading my personal space, and thrust the heavy volume directly against my chest. I had to pull my right hand out of my pocket to catch it. The sheer weight of it surprised me.
"Read it," Meera whispered, her eyes boring into mine with a sudden, lethal intensity that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "Chapter Four. The Binding of Cursed Topography. Read it by tonight, Aarav. Every single page."
My breath hitched. She knew my name. I hadn't told her. Danish hadn't said it.
"Hey, wait a minute," Danish stammered, his loud, protective instinct finally kicking in as he saw my face go completely white. "Who even are you? How do you know his—"
"I have an Uber to catch," Meera interrupted smoothly, checking a sleek smartwatch on her wrist. She took one last sip of her iced coffee, tossed the empty plastic cup into a nearby bin with perfect precision, and turned on her heel.
As she walked toward the main road, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement, she paused and looked back over her shoulder. The corporate persona was entirely gone for a split second, replaced by the dark, cynical shaman who had watched me from the dark room last night.
"Don't leave the room after sunset, Aarav," she called out casually, as if advising me on the weather. "The house doesn't like it when its guests are late for dinner."
She turned the corner, vanishing into the crowd of tech-park commuters, leaving the two of us standing frozen by the rusted iron chain of the empty plot.
Danish stared at the empty space where she had been, his mouth slightly open. He looked at the empty, weed-choked mud pit, then down at the heavy, mysterious brown book in my hands.
"Bro..." Danish whispered, his voice completely stripped of its usual humor. "Who the hell was that? And why does she look like she knows exactly how you're going to die?"
Helloo!
A lot of people have been reaching out to me lately regarding their businesses and my ongoing story, When the Bell Rings. I genuinely appreciate the support and messages, but since I’m unable to reply to everyone individually, I just wanted to say this here:
At the moment, I’m mainly focused on writing and continuing my story, so I’m not really looking into business offers or promotions right now. Thank you so much for understanding and for all the love you’ve been giving When the Bell Rings <3
Chapter 2: cul-de-sac
PART 2
MEERA - 06:45 PM
EcoSpace Tech Park, Outer Ring Road
The fluorescent lights of the floor hummed with a low, agonizing frequency that always gave me a headache by sunset. Around me, the relentless tap-tap-tap of mechanical keyboards sounded like a swarm of digital locusts.
"Meera, did you push the latest build to production?"
my team lead called out, leaning over his cubicle with a plastic cup of machine coffee.
"Client wants a status update before the US login."
"Done, boss," I lied smoothly, staring at my dual monitors. My eyes were burning. I hadn't looked at the code in an hour.
Instead, my right hand was jammed deep inside the pocket of my formal trousers, my thumb tracing the rough, cold edge of an old, heavy iron key. For the last two hours, a persistent, rhythmic thrumming had been vibrating in my inner ear—like the heavy drop in atmospheric pressure right before a massive thunderstorm hits.
But it wasn't the weather. The sky outside the glass facade was clear for now.
I shut down my laptop with a sharp snap, tossed my notebooks into my leather tote bag, and slung it over my shoulder.
"I'm logging off for the day,"
I muttered to no one in particular, ignoring the judgmental looks from the tech-bros pulling an all-nighter. I needed a drink. I needed a lot of drinks. Loud music and burning alcohol were the only things messy enough to drown out the frequency in my ears.
MEERA - 08:30 PM
A Beer Pub, Indiranagar
The bass was a physical wall of sound. Neon pink and blue strobe lights cut through the thick layer of cigarette smoke and the heavy scent of spilled craft beer.
"Another neat gin," I yelled over the music, slamming my empty glass onto the polished wooden counter.
The bartender nodded, sliding a fresh drink toward me. I swallowed it in one sharp, burning gulp. My throat stung, and a warm, dizzy haze began to spread behind my eyes. Perfect. The alcohol was finally blurring the edges of my perception. The thrumming in my ears was retreating, replaced by the loud, mindless chatter of drunk corporate workers celebrating a Thursday night.
To anyone looking at me, I was just another 24-year-old corporate millennial blowing off steam. A girl with wild, curly hair tied into a messy bun, wearing an oversized flannel shirt, laughing carelessly at a pub bar.
They didn't see in my eyes. They didn't know that every time the pub’s heavy iron exit door swung open, my eyes automatically scanned the threshold, checking the shadows of the people walking through.
I lived two lives. In one, I wrote automation scripts and hung out at microbreweries. In the other, I carried the curse of a childhood in Kerala where I learned that some dark corners in this country don't contain ghosts—they contain things much worse.
By nine, the rain began to crash against the pub's glass windows, heavy and sudden. The atmospheric pressure dropped like a stone. The dizzy comfort of the alcohol vanished in an instant as a sharp, icy spike of adrenaline shot through my chest.
The thrumming in my ears came back, louder now, screaming at a pitch that made my teeth ache.It was close. Right in my neighborhood.I grabbed my tote bag, threw a few crumpled notes on the bar counter, and walked out into the downpour.
MEERA - 09:40 PM
Reddy’s Chai, Near Outer Ring Road
The heavy bass from the Indiranagar pub was still buzzing faintly in my forehead, but the rain had completely sobered me up.
I sat at the far end of the wooden bench under the blue tarpaulin of Reddy’s Chai. It was the only spot within a two-kilometer radius that felt grounded. Around me, a group of techies were arguing loudly over filter coffee -"Yeno baddi magane, script execute agilla [What the hell man, the script didn't execute]"—while the scratched speaker behind the counter blared Atif Aslam’s "Tu Chahiye" over the sound of boiling milk.
I leaned my head back against the damp wooden pillar, feeling the heavy weight of the long, dark iron hair-stick securing my messy bun. It was a solid piece of forged metal, disguised as a casual aesthetic choice. I reached up, my fingers tracing its smooth, cold surface, just to anchor myself.
Every single day, I had to walk past that specific cul-de-sac on my way back to my apartment flat which sat directly overlooking the courtyard of the boys' PG. And every single day, walking past the rusted iron gate of House No. 17 gave me a localized, sickening drop in blood pressure. The air there always felt like the inside of a meat locker. I knew something was festering in that lane, but I had kept my head down. In Bangalore, you mind your own business if you want to survive.
Then, he stumbled into the halogen light.
He looked like he was about to collapse. Lean build, soaked checked shirt, a heavy college backpack slipping off his shoulder. He was shivering so hard his teeth were clicking audibly over the music. He collapsed onto the far end of my bench, burying his face in his hands.
“Oye, Shankar! Ek special single chai dena isko. Extra adrak,” I called out to the boy behind the counter, not taking my eyes off the stranger.
As the boy moved to grab his bag, his wet sleeve rode up an inch.
My breath caught.
Tied around his left wrist was a thick, frayed red-and-black thread holding a tiny, oil-slick bronze bell. It had no clapper inside. And right beneath it, the skin was blistered into a fresh, bleeding, circular burn.
My hand instantly went to my hair, my fingers locking around the base of the iron hair-stick. I slid it out a millimeter, ready to pull it and let my hair drop if he turned out to be an extension of whatever was in that lane. I must have looked incredibly suspicious to anyone watching ,a girl sitting alone in the dark, smoking, staring intensely at a shivering college kid while gripping a weapon hidden in her hair.
But my mind was racing. No clapper. Deep iron etched bronze.
My grandfather back in Palakkad had an old, leather bound journal filled with sketches of spiritual seals from across the country remnants of his own travels as a traditional practitioner. I remembered a specific page detailing the Shakti Peeth at Mahur, Maharashtra. The journal warned: The blacksmiths of Mahur forge a silent metal. It rings only when the threshold is hungry.
This terrified, pale-faced kid was carrying a lethal piece of ancient Mahurian temple magic on his wrist, and he looked like he didn't even know how to use it.
I flicked my cigarette butt into the rain, keeping my voice dry, casual, and completely steady.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," I said, leaning forward.
He flinched violently, pulling his left hand deep into his sleeve to hide the welt. "Just... the rain," he mumbled, his voice cracking, his accent thick with rural Maharashtra. "The traffic is bad."
I let out a short, sarcastic laugh, watching him closely. "The traffic in Bangalore can make you want to die, friend. But innu njan ithu vare [but today, until now], it usually doesn't make a person forget how to breathe. You're hyperventilating."
He grabbed the glass Shankar slid over, his hands shaking so much the hot liquid spilled over the rim. He swallowed it in silent, panicked gulps.
"You stay in that boys' PG down the lane, right?" I asked, adjusting my oversized flannel shirt. "What a scene, ya. I stay right next door to your building, fourth-floor, Come, let's head back before this rain completely wrecks us. Walking alone in this weather is a literal headache."
MEERA - 10:05 PM
The Lane
The rain had settled into a heavy, relentless drizzle, flooding the edges of the broken pavement. I walked with my hands jammed deep into my pockets, totally chill, while this guy walked like he was navigating a minefield. Every time an auto-rickshaw splashed past or water gushed loudly into a storm drain, he jumped a mile. He kept his right hand tightly clamped over his left wrist, guarding that strange, clapperless bell like it was a physical lifeline. He was a certified scaredy-cat.
As we turned the corner into the narrow cul-de-sac, the air temperature suddenly tanked. It didn't just feel cold; it felt heavy, like the atmosphere was physically pressing down on my chest.
Then, cutting through the sound of the rain, came a sharp,
cling.
It was a tiny, metallic sound, but it vibrated straight through my teeth. The bronze bell on his wrist was vibrating, pulsing against his skin.
The guy froze dead in his tracks. He stared across the street, his eyes widening into pools of absolute, coping denial. He stood there, a weird, forced smile stretching across his face as he said something completely stupid.
"Ah... the weather is so nice tonight, no?" he mumbled, his voice sounding completely hollow. "Aunty was saying they might repaint the veranda next week. The yellow light looks so cozy..."
I stopped walking. I didn't look at him. I looked exactly where he was staring. Through the rusted, heavily chained iron gates of House No. 17, there was absolutely nothing.
No cottage tiles. No warm amber light. No veranda.
It was a completely empty, overgrown, abandoned mud plot. A single, skeletal dead tree stood in the center, its bare branches clawing at the dark sky, surrounded by wild weeds drowning in pitch-black rainwater. The foundation walls had been demolished decades ago, leaving nothing but rotting stone covered in moss. There was no house. There was no girl. There was just empty, dark rain falling into a void.
I didn't say a single word.
I didn't tell him he was talking to thin air. I didn't tell him the plot had been a ruin since before we were born. I just stood there in the rain, rain dripping down my nose, looking from the black, empty mud plot to his face as he stared into the illusion.
I just nodded slowly, silently cataloging exactly how deep this kid was in the trap.
I pulled my hands out of my pockets, tapped him casually on the shoulder to break his trance, and kept walking down the dark lane toward our buildings.
MEERA - 10:15 PM
The kid practically sprinted the last ten meters into the fluorescent glare of his PG entrance, his damp sneakers squeaking frantically on the tiled stairs. He didn’t even look back to say goodbye. He just wanted a locked door between himself and the street.
I stood under the awning of my own building next door, watching him vanish inside.
"Pavam [Poor thing]," I muttered, shaking my head as the heavy iron elevator gate groaned open. "He’s going to have nightmares for a week."
I rode the creaking elevator up to the fourth floor, unlocked the front door of Flat 402, and tossed my soaked flannel shirt onto the entryway coat rack. The living room was a completely generic Bangalore techie setup. A grey Ikea beanbag, a cluttered work desk with a dual-monitor rig, three empty pizza boxes stacked near the kitchen sink, and a framed poster of Pulp Fiction on the wall. It smelled faintly of lavender room spray and dust.
I immediately stripped out of my damp jeans and headed to the bathroom. I took a steaming hot bath, washing the sticky, humid street grime out of my thick, curly hair. Ten minutes later, I walked out into the living room drying my hair with a towel, now wearing oversized grey sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt.
I went to the kitchen, opened a packet of Maggi, and tossed it into boiling water. While the noodles cooked, I hooked my phone up to the living room Bluetooth speakers and turned on a heavy, deep-house DJ set. The bass boomed through the small apartment, a solid electronic rhythm filling the space.
Sitting on the sofa with my steaming bowl of noodles, I opened my laptop and queued up the latest episode of a K-drama I’d been binge-watching. For the next forty minutes, I just tuned everything out. I laughed at the screen, slurped my noodles, and bobbed my head to the electronic beat. To anyone looking through the window, I was just another 24-year-old software engineer unwinding after a rough shift on the Outer Ring Road.
By 11:30 PM, the episode finished. I took my empty bowl to the sink, turned down the music volume just a bit so the bass was a low, steady heartbeat through the walls, and walked down the short hallway past my bedroom.
At the very end of the hall was a heavy, dark teakwood door. It was the second bedroom of the 2BHK, but the handle didn't have a standard lock. It was sealed with three thick brass latches, each one etched with intricate, geometric Yantra diagrams.
I reached onto the top of the doorframe, grabbed the long iron hair-stick I had left there earlier, and inserted its sharp, pointed end into a hidden groove in the center latch. With a heavy, mechanical click, the seals released. I pushed the door open, stepped inside, and closed it firmly behind me.
The corporate world, the K-drama, and the modern city of Bangalore ceased to exist.
The room was pitch-black, suffocatingly warm, and thick with the overwhelming, heavy scent of dried camphor, burnt neem leaves, and aged blood. There were no windows here; they had been completely boarded up from the inside and covered with thick, velvet black curtains that absorbed every drop of light. I didn't turn on a switch. I moved blindly through the dark, my bare feet navigating a floor covered in coarse, unpolished black sand. I struck a single match, touching the flame to a brass oil lamp shaped like a coiled serpent.
As the amber flame flickered to life, the true horror of the room bled out of the shadows.
This wasn't a bedroom. It was a private, consecrated sanctuary of Mantrikam—the dark, esoteric occult arts of the deep south.
Stacked from floor to ceiling along the walls were massive, decaying wooden bookshelves, bending under the weight of hundreds of brittle, ancient palm-leaf manuscripts wrapped in faded red silk. These weren't standard academic texts. These were forgotten grimoires, handwritten diaries of ancestral shamans from Palakkad, detailing the naming, binding, and execution of entities that predated human memory.
In the center of the room, drawn directly into the black sand, was a massive, intricate geometric circle—a Kalam—painted using dried rice powder, turmeric, and charcoal. At the five cardinal points of the diagram sat five polished human skulls, their jawbones wired shut with silver thread.
A low, rhythmic, localized humming vibrated through the floorboards, perfectly syncing with the faint DJ beat bleeding through the door. It didn't come from the street. It came from a large, heavy glass jar sitting on an altar at the back of the room. Inside the jar, submerged in a thick, translucent amber fluid, was a severed, preserved human hand, its fingers twitching imperceptibly every time the rain thundered outside.
I walked over to a stone basin, washing my hands in consecrated water. In the flickering, low light of the oil lamp, the shadows under my eyes looked deep, ancient, and terrifying.
I reached onto the top shelf and pulled down a heavy, leather-bound register. I flipped past pages of complex diagrams, stopping at a fresh, blank sheet.
I picked up a dip pen, soaked the nib in a dark, metallic-smelling ink, and began to write in a sharp, elegant script:
Subject: Lane 3 Cul-de-sac. House No. 17.
Classification: Active Feeding Ground (Ghul/Preta class). Spatial distortion fully stable.
Variable: A boy from the neighboring PG entered the perimeter tonight.
I paused, my mind flashing back to the vibrating, clapperless metal on the kid's wrist, and the raw, bleeding burn it had left behind.
I dipped the pen again, a cold, clinical smile creeping onto my face.
Observation: He carries a functional Mahurian Boundary Bell. He is completely untrained, terrified, and oblivious to its utility. He thinks the entity is a girl named Ananya. He will likely return to the threshold within forty-eight hours.
If the bell breaks ….. the house digests him.
I closed the book with a heavy, muffled thud, the dust swirling in the amber light. I blew out the lamp, plunging the room back into absolute, terrifying darkness.
Chapter 2: cul-de-sac
PART 1
The iron gate slammed shut with a sharp, metallic clang that vibrated through the quiet evening air.
I stood on the veranda, the steel bowl of green peas still cradled in my arm, staring blankly at the empty lane. The heavy rain was coming down in sheets now, washing over the stone steps where, just a second ago, Aarav had been standing.
"Aaru...?"
I called out, my voice swallowed instantly by the sound of the downpour.
There was no answer. Just the distant, frantic squelch of his old sneakers sprinting down the asphalt, his dark windbreaker disappearing into the shadows of the overhanging raintrees.
I felt a cold draft hit my arms and shivered, pulling my cotton dupatta a little tighter around my shoulders. My heart was thumping against my ribs, not from anger, but from a deep, confusing worry.
"Anu? Kya hua beta? Kisko awaz de rahi ho? [What happened, child? Who are you calling out to?]"
My mother’s voice drifted warmly from the kitchen, accompanied by the comforting, rich aroma of frying mustard seeds and garlic. The sound of her steel spatula scraping against the kadhai was grounding, a familiar rhythm that usually made me feel safe.
"Nothing, Ma," I called back, turning my head slightly toward the brightly lit hallway. "It was just Aarav. From the PG down the road."
"Then why didn't you bring him inside? Itni tez baarish hai [It's raining so heavily], he'll fall sick."
"He... he ran away," I muttered, looking back at the wet gate.
I set the bowl of peas down on the low wooden bench. I was genuinely bewildered. For the past month, Aarav had been coming by our lane. He was a quiet, painfully shy boy from a village in Maharashtra, struggling to fit into the chaotic corporate rush of Bangalore. I had seen him wandering lost three weeks ago, looking so exhausted and lonely that I couldn't help but strike up a conversation. Since then, he’d felt like a gentle, sweet friend. I liked his quiet manners, the way his accent slipped when he got nervous, and how his eyes lit up whenever he talked about his grandmother.
I had developed a massive crush on him. Tonight, seeing him completely drenched, I thought we would finally sit down, have dinner, and talk without the awkwardness of the open street.
But the moment he stepped onto the veranda, something had gone entirely wrong.
He had looked at me, lifted his foot to cross the threshold, and then... he just froze. His face had gone completely pale, the color draining from his lips until he looked like a corpse. I had asked him what was wrong, stepping closer to help him, but he had stared at my face with absolute, unadulterated horror.Like he was looking at a monster.
I reached up, my fingers brushing my cheek. Was there something on my face? I felt a sudden, sharp prick of insecurity. He had stared at my wrist, then at my eyes, his jaw shaking as if he wanted to scream but couldn't find the air. And then, without a single word, he had staggered backward, tripped on the steps, and bolted like a wild animal.
“Vatsala Bai is dead, Aaru,” I had told him gently, trying to comfort him because he had been muttering his grandmother's name under his breath like a protective mantra. “Who told you to keep her promises? You can rest now.”
Had that frightened him?
I only said it because he looked so heavily burdened by whatever old village superstitions he was clinging to. He always wore that strange, ugly black-and-red thread around his wrist with that tiny, scratched-up bronze bell. It looked old and dirty, and whenever I was near him, he would nervously tuck it into his sleeve as if he was ashamed of it. I just wanted him to know he didn't have to carry his past like a ghost anymore.
"Anu, khana thanda ho raha hai. Andar aaja [Anu, the food is getting cold. Come inside]," Ma called out again.
"Coming, Ma," I said softly.
I walked to the edge of the veranda, looking down at the dark granite floor. Right where Aarav had frozen, there was a faint, circular smudge on the stone—like a tiny bit of grey ash had fallen from his sleeve when he shook.
I bent down, wiping the smudge away with my thumb. It felt strangely cold against my skin, but I brushed it off on my kurta, ignoring the slight shiver that ran down my spine.
Turning back toward the warm, amber glow of our house, I walked inside and closed the heavy teakwood door against the Bangalore rain. I hoped he was okay. He looked so fragile lately, sleeping so little, staring into space during our conversations. The city was cruel to lonely people; it made them see things that weren't there. It made them paranoid.
I just hoped he hadn't completely lost his mind.
Chapter 1: Aarav
The monsoon in Bangalore didn't feel like the rain back home in Mahur.
Deep in the hills of Nanded district, near the Renuka devi temple, the rain was heavy and honest. It smelled of wet teakwood and red soil turning over. Here, on the Outer Ring Road, it just tasted of diesel exhaust and wet asphalt.
I pulled my windbreaker tighter, trying to shield my laptop bag. My phone had died twenty minutes ago at two percent. The screen just went black, leaving me stranded in the dark. I stepped off the main road, leaving the blinding glare of high beams and choked traffic behind, slipping into the narrow, residential lanes behind the tech parks.
Beneath my damp cuff, the tiny bronze bell pressed hard against my left pulse point. It was smaller than my thumb joint, darkened to an oil-slick black with age, its surface scarred with tiny scratches and microscopic burn marks from the day Vatsala Bai had it forged. There was no metal tongue inside it. No clapper. It was completely empty.
But I knew it could ring.
The air grew suddenly cold. Not a pleasant breeze, but a heavy, suffocating drop in pressure that felt like the air inside an old well. I slowed down. I didn't need a map for this lane anyway. I had been coming here for a month.
Up ahead, House No. 17 stood behind a small iron gate. A soft, amber light glowed from the windows, cutting through the misty drizzle.
Ananya was sitting on the low wooden bench of the veranda, peeling green peas into a steel bowl. For the past month, she had been the only warm thing in this indifferent city. We had shared quiet conversations, and she’d even visited my cramped PG down the road, sitting on the edge of my plastic chair in Room 16 while I complained about college. She felt like a crush. A dream.
But she had never invited me inside her own house. Until tonight.
"You're completely drenched, Aaru,"
she said, standing up and walking to the edge of the porch. She gestured toward the open front door. Inside, the hallway smelled faintly of roasted spices and woodsmoke—the exact smell of my grandmother's kitchen in Mahur.
"Come inside today. Itni baarish mein bahar mat ruko [Don't stand outside in so much rain]."
A physical ache of longing bloomed in my chest. I was so tired of the watery PG dal, tired of being a nameless face in the crowd. I pushed the iron gate open. It didn't make a sound.
I walked up the three stone steps, leaving wet tracks on the granite floor. Ananya stepped aside, her smile widening.
"Go on," she whispered. "Step inside."
I lifted my left foot, balancing my weight, preparing to cross the dark wooden doorframe into House No. 17.
Cling.
The sound was tiny, but it cut right through the heavy thrum of the downpour.
I froze, my foot suspended two inches above the threshold.
The ambient noise of the street went instantly muffled, as if someone had clapped a thick woolen blanket over my ears. Against my left wrist, the red and black thread went unnaturally, agonizingly ice-cold, biting into my skin like frost. The bell didn't swing. It didn't move. But the vibration rattled my bones.
In that single heartbeat, the sweet smell of spices vanished, replaced by the suffocating odor of dry rot, wet ash, and dead leaves. The warm amber light in the hallway glitched like a dying television screen. For a fraction of a second, I didn't see a hallway; I saw a dark, hollow cavern of crumbling stone, its walls weeping with black mold.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I looked at Ananya.
The beautiful illusion had snapped back, but her face hadn't recovered fast enough. Her smile was still there, perfectly wide and static, but her eyes had gone entirely flat two discs of dark, lifeless glass. Her head tilted to the right at an unnatural, rigid angle, a faint click echoing from her neck.
She looked down at my left wrist, where the tiny bell was vibrating imperceptibly. Her unblinking eyes narrowed.
When she spoke, the voice didn't come from her throat. It came from the dark spaces inside the hollow house behind her, layered, echoing, and ancient.
"Vatsala Bai is dead, Aaru," the voice whispered, her static lips moving a second too late.
"Who told you to keep her promises?"
I staggered backward, my boot slipping on the wet granite step. The coldness around my wrist snapped, leaving a burning, raw welt beneath the thread. I didn't yell the terror locked my jaw shut. I turned and ran into the lane, slamming the iron gate behind me.
I ran until my lungs burned, my feet splashing blindly through puddles, not stopping until the quiet lane bled back into the commercial main street. I leaned against a rusted electrical box, gasping for air, trembling violently. I pulled back my sleeve. The bell was quiet now, warm from my skin again, but the red welt was raised and angry.
“Some homes are hungry,” my grandmother’s voice echoed in my head, rough from the smoke of her handmade beedis. “If the bell rings before you enter, walk away, Aaru. No matter who waits inside.”
I wiped the rainwater from my face, my limbs feeling like lead. I couldn't go back to my empty PG room yet. I needed noise. I needed something normal to prove I was still alive.
I wiped the rainwater from my face, my limbs feeling like lead. I couldn't go back to my empty PG room yet. I needed noise. I needed something human, something normal to prove I was still alive.
A block away, a local tea shop—Reddy’s Chai—was still open. A single yellow halogen bulb illuminated thick clouds of steam rising from a brass vessel of boiling ginger chai. The place was alive; a few corporate guys and college students were standing around chatting in a mix of Kannada and English, while Atif Aslam’s "Tu Chahiye" played softly from a scratched Bluetooth speaker in the background.
Hearing the music, the casual laughter, the clinking of glass tumblers... I felt like I was back in a safe place. The suffocating silence of that lane was instantly crushed by the noise.
A girl was sitting on the wooden bench under the blue tarpaulin extension. She wore an oversized, dark flannel shirt over denim, her thick, curly hair tied into a messy bun. A leather tote bag sat beside her, spilling over with notebooks.
She was holding a cigarette between two fingers, completely absorbed in a book resting on her knees. I caught the title on the weathered spine: Suraj Ka Satvan Ghoda.
I sank onto the far end of the bench, my knees shaking. I didn't order. I just stared blankly at the boiling tea.The girl didn't look up, but she took a slow drag of her cigarette, her silver rings catching the dim light.
"You look like you've seen a ghost,"
she said. Her voice was sharp, steady, carrying a distinct Kerala accent.
I flinched, pulling my left hand deep into my sleeve to hide the bronze bell. "Just... the rain," I mumbled, my throat dry. "The traffic is bad."
She finally turned a page, glancing sideways at me. Her gaze was entirely too sharp for a casual stranger. She took in my shivering hands, my pale face, and the faint, distinct smell of old damp wood clinging to my jacket.
She flicked the ash into the wet dirt outside the tarp.
"The traffic in Bangalore can make you want to die," she said dryly, closing the book with a soft thud.
"But innu njan ithu vare [but today, until now], it usually doesn't make a person forget how to breathe. You're hyperventilating, friend."
I stared at the cover of her book, desperate to anchor my mind to something academic, something normal. "That's... Dharmvir Bharati," I said, my voice cracking. "I didn't think people here read that."
She raised an eyebrow, a sarcastic tilt to her lips. "People here read a lot of things. I'm Meera." She turned to the boy at the counter, switching languages effortlessly.
"Shankar, ivari ge ek special single chai kodi [give a special single chai to him]. Extra adrak [ginger]."
She leaned back against the wooden pillar, keeping her distance, letting her cigarette smoke drift into the damp breeze. I watched the steam rise from the counter. The suffocating weight in my chest eased just a fraction. The world here felt solid. It smelled of tobacco, strong ginger, and cheap paper. Ordinary, human things.
I didn't see her right hand subtly tighten around the strap of her tote bag, her fingers brushing against a heavy iron key hidden deep in her pocket. She wasn't looking at my face anymore. Her eyes were fixed on my left wrist, where the red-and-black thread peeked out from my sleeve, the skin beneath it still glowing with a fresh, angry burn.
📦 PACKAGES
These are just the topics I could think of ( you can always ask the custom questions of your choice after choosing a package. Meaning if you're choosing the package amour you can tell me your desired ques instead of the ques that I listed below)
TAROT:
AMOUR ( Love package ) ₹888/$10.12
1. Who is next in love
2. How will they make you feel
3. How will you meet and the time frame
4. Description of the relationship
CHHAYA ( shadow work ) ₹777/$8.86
1. What are your shadows
2. What are their origins
3. How to heal them
4. What happens after you heal them and the positive changes
ROMANCE ( Future spouse package ) ₹888/$10.12
1. Description of their physical appearance
2. How and where you'll meet them
3. Personality traits of your future spouse
4. Their love language
I LOVE YOU BUT I LOVE ME MORE ( self ) ₹666/$7.59
1. What are your best qualities
2. Your essence and energy or your strength and weakness
3. What's coming next in your life
4. Qualities you should embody for a better life
CRUSH READING ₹444/$5.06
1. What does your crush think of you
2. What do they wish they could tell you
3. What do they admire about you
4. Their feelings for you
DEITY READING ₹555/$6.33
1. Which god is calling out to you
2. Why are they calling out to you
3. Signs they send you
4. What will working with them bring in your spiritual journey
SPIRIT GUIDES READING ₹555/$6.33
1. Who is your spirit guide
2. How do they protect you from the unknown
3. What are they trying to teach you
4. What do they expect from you
CHAKRA ₹555/$6.33
1. What is your best chakra
2. Daily things you can do to balance your chakras
3. What chakra is blocked for you
4. How will kundali awakening be for you
MAGICAL ₹555/$6.33
1. What are your psychic powers.
2. Powers you need to develop more
3. Shadows to let go so the powers work in your favour
4. Which power makes you most attractive and magnetic
PAST LIFE ₹555/$6.33
1. Who you were in your past life
2. What are the wounds you still carry from your past life
3. how to heal the wounds that you still carry
4. What are the blessings/gifts you still carry from your past life
MONTHLY/YEARLY READING ₹222/$2.53
1. How will be your next (choose the time frame yourself) months/year be like?
2. What should you be aware of
3. What is the guidance that you need to follow.
4. What are the blessings coming in for you
GLOW UP READING ₹333/$3.80
1. What's holding you back from glowing up
2. What do you look like after the glow up
3. Shadow and physical work needed for it
4. Any advice for you
SPIRITUAL GUIDANCE ₹444/$5.06
1. What's the spiritual blockage in your life right now
2. Advice from your spiritual team/higher self
3. What is the guidance for you
4. Random intuitive channeling
CUSTOM QUESTION(S)
one card reading - ₹100/$1.14
Two cards reading - ₹150/$1.71
Three cards reading - ₹200/$2.28
Mini reading(5 cards pull) - ₹250/$2.85
Mini reading(8 cards pull) - ₹300/$3.42
Celtic cross reading - ₹350/$3.99
ASTROLOGY:
VEDIC ASTROLOGY
D1 - rough overview of your ques - ₹300/$3.42
- basic natal chart reading - ₹1100/$12.54
- detailed natal chart reading (with nak interpretation, effects and remedies) - ₹1600/$18.24
D1+D10+D9 - Career reading - ₹888/$10.12
D1+moon+D9- future spouse reading - ₹900/$10.94
D1+D9+D30+D60 - shadow work reading - ₹999/$11.39
D20+27 - spiritual growth, strength n weakness - ₹555/$6.33
D60 - past life, karmic pattern and overcoming challenges - ₹500/$5.70
Book noww ......
What are you doing be quick book
Still here mf go book now
Greetings everyone. So, I have finally decided to open my paid reading services (thanks to @rose-maidenn for encouraging me n believing in me).
I am an intuitive tarot reader and a psychic. I have been practicing tarot since 2020-21 (5 years for now). You can check my pac readings to have a better view of my work.
BASIC STUFF TO KNOW:
You must be 16+ or older to book any sort of reading with me.
Payment must be done beforehand.
No refunds please. Use your own Intuition first before booking any readings from me because I may not be the tarot reader for you but if you still decide to book one then make sure to trust me with my work.
I'll not sugarcoat and will provide raw n unfiltered readings so if you don't have the courage to hear the real truth then you may skip.
I will have the right to refuse your reading. First thing first, I am a full time university student with part time internships which means I have a very busy life of my own n sometimes I'm too burnt out and not in the right place mentally and physically to do a reading for you. Second, if your energy seems too off at the moment u ask for a reading, I may not respond so pls don't get offended 🙏🏼
The payment should be done using Google pay (I'm dealing with bank issues alr so I cannot use paypal as for now. So pls bear with it).
Your reading will be delivered within a week via email. So please be patient. In case of any delay, I'll definitely inform you.
Please refrain from asking about any loss, health, legal, death, cheating or any other such questions. (Seek professional help if needed in this case).
How to book a reading?
Send me a dm or email on [email protected] with the package you'd like to buy. Once your reading is booked, send me the screenshot of your payment n then we can proceed with your reading further.
Packages➡️
I wish that your email gets crashed with requestssss
Also this girl is the best reader in the world<3
“गंगा की लहरों में बहता हुआ राख का साँप टूट-फूटकर बिखर चुका था और नदी फिर उसी तरह बहने लगी थी जैसे कभी कुछ हुआ ही न हो।”
~धर्मवीर भारती (गुनाहों का देवता से)
“ The snake of ash drifting through the waves of the Ganga had broken apart and scattered, and the river flowed once again as if nothing had ever happened.”
~dharmaveer bharti (from gunahon ka devta)
Your 20s are for lusting after furniture you can’t afford actually
Im at that point where I watch reels of lamps, mops,tables,chairs,plants etc etc
𝓦𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓼𝓹𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓵 𝓰𝓲𝓯𝓽𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓻𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 (𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝓽𝓸 𝓪𝔀𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓷 𝓲𝓽)?
𝔚𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔩𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔞 𝔤𝔦𝔣𝔱; 𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔫 𝔭𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔣𝔲𝔩
𝔐𝔞𝔶𝔟𝔢 𝔦𝔱 𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲
𝔐𝔞𝔶𝔟𝔢 𝔦𝔱 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔰
𝔅𝔲𝔱 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔦𝔱'𝔰 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢.
ℭ𝔥𝔬𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔞 𝔭𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔲𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔲𝔞𝔩 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔠𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔟𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰.
🍃Pile Names:
𝕻𝖎𝖑𝖊 1 - 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖔𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖗
𝕻𝖎𝖑𝖊 2 - 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖛𝖔𝖎𝖈𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉'𝖘
𝕻𝖎𝖑𝖊 3 - 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖒𝖜𝖆𝖑𝖐𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝖊𝖞𝖊𝖘
𝕻𝖎𝖑𝖊 1 - 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖔𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖓 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖗
You all are quiet yet powerful souls. Your spiritual gifts are not just from this lifetime but they're earned through lifetimes of penance, devotion and inner work. These gifts are ancient, woven into your very soul but in this life you may have forgotten them. So it may take some time to relearn them but once you do, your power will be immense. But before that learn protection magick and focus on healing yourself, this will help you handle the intense energies that comes with ur spiritual awakenings cause you were always meant to be this powerful and wise. Also you are not the typical soft-spoken or subtle energy workers, you are blunt, bold and speak through truth. You are "death personified" ..destroying illusions, burning karma and birthing transformation. Death and rebirth are your life's mantra. You can communicate and work with the dead easily. Dream interpretation, moon and water rituals, celestial and green witchcraft, herb magick and even working with deities like Medusa, Shiva, Yam, Hades, Lucifer, Lilith and Persephone are ur natural domains.
Why your gifts feel hidden:
Because of trauma especially sexual trauma or romantic betrayal, either from this life or past ones. You may also feel shame or fear around your own sexuality. Also people in the past might have told you that your tongue was too sharp, your truth too harsh n so, you wore a mask to protect yourself, isolating your true voice. You may have faced emotional silencing or rejection which made you introverted. You might also stop talking alot now. There could also be grief from losing a beloved pet (cat, dog, rabbit, parrot) ur only emotional companion causing even more suppression. Your gifts are also hidden cause of a traumatic experience around your own sexuality or romantic life (please know that u are not weak. You are much more than the pain you endured. I love you deeply for surviving it. Rise above that past. You are a gem n tho you wear a mask, your true self is magnificent and sacred).
How to awaken them:
Go on a pilgrimage,visit a sacred mountain/cave, hidden temple, monasteries, ancient n holy forest or sacred river. Or turn entirely inward, your body is your temple. Turn inwards n heal yourself. Meditate, breathe and heal through pranic energy. Reunite your inner masculine and feminine. A true lover can awaken your gifts, the one who sees and loves you beyond all ur flaws and fears.You may also carry the face of the serpent for some reasons like sharp features, ancient eyes. This allows you to lure, read or even manipulate others( for a good reason ofc). Serpent carries the ancient wisdom which confirms that u have the knowledge of lifetimes, it only needs to be recalled n relearn it. Heal your sexual trauma, your shame and awaken through writing, writing shayari, poems, channeling, books, songs, or even automatic writing, these will help awaken your gifts. Surround yourself with your spiritual tribe mediums, witches, monks, reiki healers, astrologers n observe or learn from them cause you yourself are the healers meant to learn all these. Also seek professional help if needed but do ask for the help from the divine for support too. Cleanse your aura, activate your chakras, and align with your higher self. Also start manifesting wealth cause money expands your ability to fulfill your mission. Work with your deity and meditate on the high priestess card. You are the healer and your touch is divine, use it wisely.
> Terms you might resonate with:
Shamanic Healers/tantrikas
Shadow Workers
Akashic record reading
Ancestral work/meduimship
Psychopomps
Dream analysis
Graveyard/cremation ground rituals
Green/celestial Witches
Spiritual coach
𝕻𝖎𝖑𝖊 2 - 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖛𝖔𝖎𝖈𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉'𝖘
You're cutthroat for your age but in a way that comes from being an old soul. You hv got ancestral blessings all over you. It feels like your ancestors are very present n they look out for you, protect you n maybe even try to communicate with you. That's why you're someone who's meant to do bloodline healing. You're a bit of a chhupa rustam. you know a lot but you're holding yourself back. Maybe someone tried to dim your light or you yourself are hiding yourself (and your gifts) on purpose. Your gifts aren't random. They're strong enough to heal lives. You're meant to work with people and maybe even earn money through spiritual work. Even if money feels out of reach right now you're supposed to be abundant through what you do for others. It's like your abilities are like a buried treasure hidden under layers of wounds especially things connected to your mother/maternal family or other women in your life. That's why you might not feel confident enough yet. But remember you're much more than that n your touch, your energy is healing. If someone is sick and you just close your eyes meditate and send them good energy, they could actually start feeling better. White and blue feathers, crows and ravens are the signs that your ancestors are near n protecting you. You're like someone with the 'Midas touch' or 'Kiss of an angel' but you also need to remember that not everything that glitters is real gold. So stay careful. You're also probably drawn to temples, churches or sacred places or you should start visiting them especially on Mondays and Thursdays for some reason. You'd be good at repairing relationships like a natural therapist or guide. But your ancestors want you to give something back too like food, flowers, money or even something like your ego, anger or grudges. On full moon nights or waxing moon period you can offer pink or purple flowers to the moon, your deity n sit quietly and meditate. Can even do blood magick if u are into that. Walking barefoot on grass will help ground u from these intense energies.
Why your gifts feel hidden:
Probably because of wounds from your mom, maternal family or maybe a sister. Maybe you didn't get the love you needed or you experienced betrayal from a woman close to you. This left you feeling 'not enough' and made you doubt yourself. But deep down you know you're capable, wise, and worthy of love. You're the one who can break the family's old patterns by forgiving or just choosing your own path. You can't stand injustice so you'd rather walk away than stay in a toxic situation. You have a rare ability that you can guide people through their pain without judging them. You might feel like you have to hide your deeper side by joking around, acting silly or saying "lol/jk/lmao" after something serious n philosophical because maybe when you tried to speak from your heart and people didn’t take you seriously or shut you down that made u hide ur gifts from the world. But your wisdom is real. You're like a bridge between two worlds. If you connect with energies like Shiva, Bhairava, Hekate, Anubis or even wolf and snow leopard spirits, it'll feel familiar n help u unlock your powers. But you might also fear your own power..afraid that it could hurt you or mess with your peace but if you keep ignoring it life might keep pushing you into situations where you have to use your gifts.
How to awaken them:
Move.. Literally. The place you're living in now feels draining mentally physically n spiritually. Once you relocate, your intuition and gifts will grow stronger. Start focusing on yourself n fill your own cup first. Heal your own wounds before trying to heal others. Work on your confidence n be the main character. Start loving yourself n then give some love out to the others as well. If some father figure's words might still be stuck in your head... let that go. Your ancestors chose you for a reason cause what they couldn't do in their time, they want you to do it. They'll help but you need to ask first. Make offerings to them, pray and trust. If you don't you'll just keep feeling stuck in the same cycle. You're from the family of shamans or tantriks so make use of your Ancestral gifts passed down onto you n help others. 444 when I type this. Divine Protection 😌
> Terms you might resonate with:
Shaman
Tantrik
Ancestral healing practitioners
Bloodline healing
Psychic healers
Energy workers
Rituals specialist
𝕻𝖎𝖑𝖊 3 - 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖒𝖜𝖆𝖑𝖐𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝖊𝖞𝖊𝖘
You're someone who's meant to be successful and honestly famous as well right from the start. Its in your energy. Maybe you already have or feel drawn to something like a wand, a special pendant or even a moon tattoo. That could actually activate your hidden gifts. If you've been thinking about that tattoo...consider this your sign. You come from a warrior lineage so you're not meant for a small life. You're built for something big. Imagine those astrologers or tarot readers who only work with celebrities and high-profile clients that's the level you're meant for. You'll be that vip astrologer or tarot reader😂💞You're supposed to work on your own terms, rule your own space and stand out because you already know more than most people.You might be naturally drawn to or good at so many spiritual things like Vedic, Chinese, tropical, tantric astrology, tarot, smoke/water/cloud scrying, numerology, necromancy, bibliomancy, witchcraft etc n even if you don't master all of them you probably know a little bit about everything in the spiritual world. There's a divine grace about you. You might be a dev gana which sometimes shows up as pride or a bit of arrogance. You know a lot, you're powerful and deep down you're very much proud of it but careful because too much pride can actually hold your gifts back. Think of yourself as a seed. The more you learn and nurture yourself, the bigger you'll grow into a strong tree that can give shade, fruit and life to others. Maybe in a past life you even made a vow to be a channel to guide people in your next life thats why even now you find yourself giving advice or helping people sometimes without even realizing it. Your spiritual team is powerful n so are your gifts. But your "I-know-better" attitude can sometimes turn into a superiority complex and that's a trap. Are you a Leo by any chance? 👀 Be careful cause spirituality doesn't do well with ego. Stay humble because whatever you achieve..you don't want it to backfire. You're probably more of an astrologer than anything else especially the kind who digs into the esoteric, hidden knowledge. That's where you shine the brightest. And yes, you will have everything you want but you need to carry it with humility.
Why your gifts feel hidden:
It's not that they're actually hidden..you already have them. But you fear success. Deep down, you know you're meant to be seen, successful, and maybe even famous yet part of you doesn't trust yourself. You doubt your own advice, your intuition, your knowledge. You might hold back from guiding or advising people alot because you're scared you'll say the wrong thing and hurt someone. There's a wound here..a childhood wound! Maybe you had a house you were very attached to as a kid. It could've had a certain energy or even spirits that felt like companions to you and now you miss that comfort. Even with all your knowledge today.. you feel a void and that makes you second guess yourself. You act like you don't know much all the time like think of a king who dresses as a peasant when he steps into the crowd. You shrink yourself on purpose. You hide your power behind jokes or by acting casual. That's why your gifts feel weaker. You're not weak you're just pretending to be. Stop doubting what you already know. Stop fearing your own wisdom n Intuition. Trust me you'll be successful n famous no matter what so stop hiding yourself n make use of your gifts to the fullest.
How to awaken them:
Heal your heart chakra.. its blocked. You don't fully believe you deserve to be loved, seen or heard. Work on that. Step into star energy.You want to make content? Start. YouTube, Insta, TikTok whatever feels right. That's how your gifts will actually awaken and reach people. Stand up to limiting voices. If your father or some authority figure dismisses your dreams, stop shrinking. Defend what matters to you. Heal your inner masculine energy..it's part of trusting yourself. Fix your money mindset. You may feel like you don't have enough even when you do or maybe money slips away easily. Try simple practices like make a money bowl or carry 2-3 cardamom pods in your wallet or create a sigil for abundance. Be disciplined n consistent with your spiritual work. Visit a temple, pray daily, stay consistent with your sadhana. Showing up everyday will matter the most. Offer your doubts, fears, heartbreak, anger, lust, greed, betrayals to the divine and ask them to clear your path. Stop hiding. The world is more afraid of your potential than you are. That should tell you something. Heal your heart first. Once you do, you'll not only awaken your gifts...you'll attract a healthy, beautiful romantic relationship too. But your self-trust has to come first.
> Terms you might resonate with:
Content creator
Influencer
Astrologer
Sadhak/Tantrik
Spiritual course creator
Author blogger
Public speaker
Actor/musician
Thankyou for reading 🫶🏼
Let me know if the reading resonated in the comment section please. I wanna know if my channeling was right coz this time I tried something new along with my cards n Intuition yk. Also make sure to like and reblog. 🌷
Credits: All the dividers/photos/gifs used within the post are not mine. Credits to their respectful n original creators.
© All rights reserved to verdurous-heaven. Please refrain from reframing, reposting, copying or stealing my work without my permission. ©VH 2025
ORIGIN OF THE HEART 💗
Love or lust?
This heart symbol ❤️ we all use so casually today has a story far more fascinating than any cartoonist’s imagination. Its roots are buried deep in the soil of ancient Libya. There was a region called Cyrene, which is part of modern-day Libya, and there grew a plant called Silphium. This wasn’t just any ordinary herb—it was so valuable that the entire economy of Cyrene practically depended on it. Its seed or fruit had a distinct shape—rounded at the top, tapering to a point at the bottom—the exact outline we now recognize as the heart symbol. That’s why many believe this is where the idea of ❤️ was born.
Elixir of life and rahu-ketu
This is a story that is older than time itself—a tale of arrogance, curses, cosmic revenge, and the birth of two invisible powers that still shake up our lives.
This story begins with Rishi Durvasa, a sage known far and wide for his short temper. One day, Durvasa Muni received a divine garland, blessed with immense spiritual energy. Whoever wore it would have their strength multiplied. Durvasa thought, “I will give this garland to Indra, king of the gods—he will respect it.”
He went to Indra, who was proudly seated on his white elephant, Airavat. But Indra, drunk on his own power, casually took the garland and tossed it onto the elephant’s trunk. Airavat, unaware of its sanctity, threw the garland down onto the ground.
Durvasa’s eyes blazed with fury. He shouted:
“Indra! You have insulted this sacred gift. Your pride will destroy you. From today, you and all your Devas will lose your power!”
This curse hit instantly. The Devas became weak as dry leaves. The Asuras, their eternal rivals, rose up and kicked them out of heaven. Beaten and humiliated, Indra and the other gods ran to Lord Vishnu, praying, “Save us!”
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
By - Fydor Dostoyevsky
Pehle adhyay mein milta hai humein ek hero—ya shayad anti-hero—Rodion Raskolnikov. Ek garib insaan, jiska jeevan ek aise mod par hai jahan har kadam par guilt, dar, aur uljhan hai. Bhai sahab St. Petersburg ke ek gande, ghutan bhare kamre mein rehte hain... jahan unka man bhi kamre ki tarah chhota, tang aur andhera ho gaya hai.
Unki soch kya hai? Ek aisi soch jo unhe ye bharosa dilati hai ki kuch log 'extraordinary' hote hain—jinhe kanoon todne ka haq hai agar wo duniya ke bhale ke liye kuch bada kar rahe hain. Sunte rahiye… ye soch hi aage jaake uske "crime" ka beej banegi.
Ab pehle adhyay mein hi... wo jaate hain ek pawnbroker budhiya ke paas. Naam hai Alyona Ivanovna (Alina chachi). Apna ek chhota sa item girvi rakhte hain. Lekin... asli drama to Rodya ke dimaag mein chal raha hai. Wo us aurat ko leke kuch aur hi soch rahe hain. Ek khayal... ek plan... ek andhera sapna, jo unke andar hi pal raha hai.
Unka man apne aap se lad raha hai. Garibi hai, akelapan hai, aur ek ajeeb si superiority complex bhi hai. Dostoevsky ka jadoo ye hai ki hum uske character ke dimaag mein ghus jaate hain. Har ek vichar, har ek dilemma... humein bhi uski guilt aur madness mehsoos karne lagti hai.
Aur sabse khaas baat? Dostoevsky humein koi conclusion nahi deta. Wo bas dikhata hai ki "insaan ki soch kitni complex ho sakti hai, aur kab soch... apraad ka roop le leti hai."
Maine pdhi white nights mtlb behenchooooodddddddddddddd nastenka when I catch you nastenka🙂 nastenka dhokhebaaz nikli bc😭✋🏼
Usme ki ek meri fav line hai “your hands are cold,mine burns like fire.How blind are you Nastenka” like bhaiiiiiii 😭
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
By - Fydor Dostoyevsky
Pehle adhyay mein milta hai humein ek hero—ya shayad anti-hero—Rodion Raskolnikov. Ek garib insaan, jiska jeevan ek aise mod par hai jahan har kadam par guilt, dar, aur uljhan hai. Bhai sahab St. Petersburg ke ek gande, ghutan bhare kamre mein rehte hain... jahan unka man bhi kamre ki tarah chhota, tang aur andhera ho gaya hai.
Unki soch kya hai? Ek aisi soch jo unhe ye bharosa dilati hai ki kuch log 'extraordinary' hote hain—jinhe kanoon todne ka haq hai agar wo duniya ke bhale ke liye kuch bada kar rahe hain. Sunte rahiye… ye soch hi aage jaake uske "crime" ka beej banegi.
Ab pehle adhyay mein hi... wo jaate hain ek pawnbroker budhiya ke paas. Naam hai Alyona Ivanovna (Alina chachi). Apna ek chhota sa item girvi rakhte hain. Lekin... asli drama to Rodya ke dimaag mein chal raha hai. Wo us aurat ko leke kuch aur hi soch rahe hain. Ek khayal... ek plan... ek andhera sapna, jo unke andar hi pal raha hai.
Unka man apne aap se lad raha hai. Garibi hai, akelapan hai, aur ek ajeeb si superiority complex bhi hai. Dostoevsky ka jadoo ye hai ki hum uske character ke dimaag mein ghus jaate hain. Har ek vichar, har ek dilemma... humein bhi uski guilt aur madness mehsoos karne lagti hai.
Aur sabse khaas baat? Dostoevsky humein koi conclusion nahi deta. Wo bas dikhata hai ki "insaan ki soch kitni complex ho sakti hai, aur kab soch... apraad ka roop le leti hai."
The more people are hurting me the more im turning towards krishna and sants