A lot of strange shit went down in the world yesterday:
With folks out there changing names, (ahem Meta), Beyonce and Jay-Z doing whatever Beyonce and Jay-Z do, and Halloween looming, the #trending twittersphere inspired me to come clean about my own identity:
I’M A WITCH!
Surprise!
Not like Sabrina the teenage witch, or homegirl from the TV show Bewitched or even those scary, emo-looking babes from The Craft type of witch, no, I’m talking actual, somewhere down the ancestral line, magic-runs-through-my-veins-kinda-witch. My kind of occultism is more about a sense of tribal purpose vs. hocus pocus vibes.
I’ve known about my little inner witch for a long time now. I thought it started when I was around eight years old and reading Roald Dahl’s George’s Marvelous Medicine in school. Something about the way the main character ‘George’ pursued to poison his grandmother felt very aligned with my life at the time: I, too was struggling to deal with a mean granny who despised me and could only escape through George’s plan. Back then, I only really understood my powers through the lens of literature.
Inspired by his creativity and sheer balls, after school I would head upstairs to the bathroom, fill the tub with a concoction of shit (mostly shampoos, body washes, and the occasional dashes of bleach) and dream about blowing my own, not-so-nice gran through the roof.
I never did succeed, btw.
While it wasn’t the potion-making (if you can call it that) that opened me up to my third-eye, nor the David Blaine obsession which was less about a man suspended in a box for 60 sixty days and more about the man himself (shameless), it was hard to ignore that I felt… different. My intuition was strong and my gut was loud, roaring up with signals every time something didn’t feel quite right or patting me on the back when it did. For as long as I can remember, I could read and feel everyone. You call it being an empath, I call it witchcraft. Tomato, tomato.
On my mum’s side, I come from a coven of resilient women and even though I’m a bit sick of that word, it rings true. Every single one of the Khaira’s (including the ones that piss me off) are almost angelic, both in appearance and aura. And the ones who came before my maternal Grandmother, while I can’t see them, I can feel their ethereal presence. Over the past year or so, their voices continue to be a blanket of assurance in the cold unknown. I don’t need a Harry Potter-esque scar to be protected. I have the women in my family.
✨✨✨
A small soliloquy:
I never really got to know my Nani Ji, as we used to call her. I was turning 3 when she was getting ready to leave this life but every part of her lives in my mum. A warm round, light caramel face with dark, dark brown eyes. Just one look her way and you knew immediately that she was a kind person. I carry a small bitterness with me that we never got to talk but have kept my cup full because mum keeps her memory alive. She tells me she thinks about her every day and that’s how I know she’s still here.
✨✨✨
It’s been a fairly good time for witches as of late. Off the back of a thousands-of-years-long-war against the womb, the patriarchy is slowly but surely collapsing (we have a long ways to go) and women are rising and showing up differently.
Generally in my culture, while women are pretty much still viewed as second-class citizens, they’ve somehow managed to nestle themselves at the top of table as the heads of the family. Calling the shots through reverse psychology, whispers and schemes lol, they often let the men feel like they’re in charge where necessary (there’s a lot more to unpack here so look out for upcoming diary entries).
As a Punjabi, talking about magic—particularly dark magic—is not uncommon. Leaving milk out for snakes as a sign of respect and trying to figure out who cursed who in the family is part of daily norms. “None of that shit is real,” I would shout back to my mum who was often trying to ward off evil spirits with a dried red chili ritual around me. With my agnostic head held high, I used to think that everything in our culture was about as make-believe as a Roald Dahl novel.
As October bleeds into November, I get nostalgic for another magical holiday, Diwali:
Growing up, the Festival of Lights was spent cleaning the house from top to bottom, getting ready to go to the temple to light diyas and running home afterwards for our very own fireworks display. Don’t even get me started on the fooooooooood; to fucking die for: daal, sabzi, dad’s tandoori chicken, mum’s pakora and god knows what else filled the kitchen and our bellies. By now, the cold English winter had already set in and there’s nothing like wearing a salwaar kameez in icy winds—but we did it for the magic. Whatever religion or culture or tribe you come from, Diwali has always been about the triumph of good over evil; light over dark.
It’s nice to be a good witch in 2021, share it on the Internet and not worry about being burned at the stake. Trading cauldrons for giant steel pots of chai, incantations for words of wisdom and re-learning the rituals I was taught, particularly around festivals like Diwali is a different kind of magic altogether. These days my inner compass is loud, guiding me to portals where I can connect with the ancestors I never needed to meet in this life. My witchstincts are a gift from those before me, tools to break cycles and create a new kind of legacy.
Horoscope c/o The Hoodwitch.
And that’s why I don’t need a fucking wand. 🔮
Speak soon,
Hardeep
P.s. Happy belated Frank Ocean ❤️