It was a long wait—perhaps worth every moment. We share a bond unlike any other. As you read these words, I wonder: Are you convinced? Have you felt the magick I speak of? Have you sensed the Wicca that dwells within me? Have you ever witnessed a phenomenon so strange that no explanation could suffice? Felt an instant connection with someone upon your very first meeting? Or known a deep bond with someone you’ve never even spoken to? As we read different stories, we find pieces of ourselves reflected in countless experiences. I have returned to you now, to share the other half of this tale—the hidden truths that complete the whole. This is no fabrication. Every moment I describe comes from the absolute, from a place beyond doubt or denial.

These are the days before the Summer Solstice, before the sun enters the Cancerian cusp. It’s also the season when I was born — on a very hot day, when the earth had become a cauldron. My mother often explains to me that the day I was born was the hottest day of the year; it was very difficult. The Bealtaine season has just gracefully slipped away, and here in the western reaches of Canada, in Vancouver, the rain falls almost every other day. Yet, the bright sun breaks through often enough, pouring life into the earth, infusing the plants and all beings around me with vibrant energy. These summer days awaken a wave of joy within me, stirring memories of when I lived in India, where the sun was not merely a source of light but a sacred benediction for the mind and soul. There are some days when the sun is very sharp and bright, yet the dusk brings in a calm breeze.

It reminds me of those mornings spent in the garden when I lived in India away from the world in the lap of Himalayas, where I would watch the morning glory flowers gently bloom—their delicate petals unfolding slowly. In those moments, I would prepare a cold brew of mint and hibiscus tea. By afternoon, I would prepare a bowl brimming with summer fruits—their lush sweetness mirroring the season’s generous abundance. As evening settled, I would tend lovingly to the plants, watering them with care while the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose. Nighttime would find me immersed in the quiet magic of tarot sessions, guiding my students through the mysteries of the cards, sharing wisdom under the cloak of starlight.

In 2021, I moved to Canada—a transition marked by upheaval and profound change. The first days were a tempest of hardship, and those difficult beginnings stretched into months of struggle. The shock reverberated through my mind and body, but it was the soul that felt the deepest tremor. I had always lived cradled by the energies of the Himalayas, where the mountains held a sacred stillness and timeless power. To leave that sacred embrace for a new land, a new climate, and a rhythm so different was to be cast adrift on an unfamiliar tide.

In those years of slow adjustment, I found solace in writing. Words became my refuge, a means to anchor myself and make sense of the shifting world. I penned countless articles and reflections—fragments of my experience—scattered like petals among my posts. Can one’s soul leave one’s body? I believe it can. If the soul is not nourished, it chooses to linger in the worlds where it once felt peace, joy, and laughter. I felt a loss of purpose. My appetite vanished, and I found no reason to speak to anyone—I didn’t see the point in talking to those around me. I stayed in my room, lost in books. Was I depressed? Absolutely not. It was more a choice of my own making, a quiet refusal to be part of the noise and shenanigans around me.

One evening, after a heavy snowfall, just as the sun was about to set, the skies painted in deep oranges and reds, I opened my window. Outside, the world was wet and glistening. Suddenly, a mist-like breeze, like white smoke, drifted gently into my room, moving softly around me. I felt a wave of rejuvenation wash over me. Had my soul returned? The next day, my hunger came back strong, along with a profound sense of being truly alive. I moved to downtown Toronto, where every night after work at 9 pm, I would go to a dance studio and dance until midnight. That simple ritual changed everything.The Ka — or the Ruh, as the Egyptians called it — is the vital force that embodies the human form. Was I lost in other realms, wandering in search of the blue mountains of the north, where resides the Kaagbhusundi, who eternally recites the katha, the ancient mystical narrative of the universe and existence itself? As the great Goswami Tulsidas beautifully describes in the Ramcharitmanas:

उत्तर दिसि सुन्दरी गिरी नीला,
जहाँ राह कागभूसुंदी सुशील।

Uttar disi sundari giri neela,
Jahan rah Kaagbhusundi susheela.

Translation:
In the northern direction lies the beautiful blue mountain,
Where dwells the gentle Kaagbhusundi.

I often wonder—does the soul choose which memories to keep? Is it possible that we only remember what the soul, in its infinite wisdom, chooses to preserve? I’ve witnessed this repeatedly: individuals who were once part of the cauldron—the coven—recalling the sessions in vivid detail, even after many years have passed. They speak of something powerful, something profound that unfolded during those times. A force was present, they say—a deep, unshakable connection that etched those moments into the very fabric of their being. For them, those sessions are not just memories; they are living echoes, unforgettable and sacred.

Some Strange happenings :

During the time when I lived with the coven 2014- to 2019, others who would visit us often could feel the energy. We had an English teacher at university who used to join our sessions now and then, and she too felt the energy. Years after we had graduated, she wrote to me. She said that when she visited the old café we used to frequent, she felt our presence there. She looked at the table where we all once sat and created magick, and for a moment, she could see us from the past. Did we open a portal of life?

Another friend of mine, whom I met in 2016, used to come to the sessions just to see me. We lost touch for many years, but nearly nine years later, he reached out and recalled every small detail from just one or two meetings. He remembered the bus, the table, the place, and most of all—how he felt.

There was also a woman who lived next to our house in Jalandhar. She once spoke to me about how we all used to sit together on weekends, sharing tea, snacks, and long conversations. She told me how peaceful and loved she felt among us, the Wiccans. Years later, she still remembered everything in vivid detail, as if it had just happened. Did we somehow dilate time?

Some of the seekers I knew from those days don’t remember much else—except the rituals and sessions we held at the university. Everyone who came into contact with the coven felt something mystical, something they couldn’t quite explain. Before 2014, I also knew a few other Wiccans from different parts of India. We had all connected through Facebook groups, back when Facebook was still something new. Some of them were serious about their spiritual journey; others had come out of curiosity, for the energy or the experience. I had a large Facebook group back then. I remember Alexis, someone I used to speak with often. We would share our spiritual journeys. He was deeply enthusiastic about Wicca and eager to learn its mysticism. Later, he visited my home in 2015—and then disappeared from all the online platforms. Years later, I was told he had become a monk.

I also remember another guy I met through a Facebook group in 2012. He once sent me some tarot decks but vanished soon after.

Many of those who were once part of the group chose different paths. Some became vegan activists, others joined spiritual communities and became sannyasins in India. None of them continued their journey as Wiccans. But there was one thing I always noticed in all of them—they were real seekers. They were searching for the answers to life.

Continuing from where I left off—there were four of us who shared a rare and beautiful bond: Hemanth, Raven Mystique, and myself. After our classes, we would often drift through different cafés around the university, lost in conversations that wandered far beyond textbooks. By then, I hadn’t yet taken them to the Cue Lounge. Hemanth, perhaps, had visited it before—he lived nearby—but I often wondered if he had felt what I felt the first time I stepped into that space, the quiet pulse of something ancient and unseen. After a year of building a deep connection and truly knowing them, I felt the time was right. That summer, we all set out for a vacation. For years, I had felt a strange pull—Shimla was calling me. The mountains had whispered to me in dreams, and now, finally, I answered. I decided I would go to Shimla, stay for a few days, meet an old friend, and escape the searing heat of June in Punjab, which felt like living inside a burning cauldron.

Being in Shimla turned out to be a deeply transformative experience. It wasn’t just the mystique of the place—the mist, the silence, the ancient hills—but something profound was stirring within me. My inner transformation had begun. I started developing certain abilities, a kind of heightened perception. I could see beyond the veil—realms that once felt distant became vividly clear. Many of these mystical experiences were documented, later finding their way into my book. Shimla, for me, became not just a destination, but a threshold.

It was after my trip to Shimla in the summer of 2015 that something shifted within me. The mountains had whispered secrets, and though I hadn’t understood them then, I carried their weight back with me. When I returned to the university, I sensed it—deep and certain—that the time had come.

The season had begun to turn. It was a humid autumn day, and the rain had just stopped, leaving the air thick and damp, as if the world itself were holding its breath. We were seated in the basement lecture hall, a dim, crowded room where the walls seemed to hum with the silent tension of waiting minds. The lecture was on a particularly intricate computer language—one of those sessions where the body remains still, but the mind drifts.

That was when it happened.

A strange disconnection overtook me. I felt myself pulling away, as though I were no longer inside my body. I could see myself—my physical form—seated among the rows of students, staring blankly at the slides flickering on the projector. Time stilled. The noise of rustling pages, tapping pens, the occasional cough—all of it receded into a kind of sacred silence.

In that silence, I felt the pull.
Not toward the lecture. Not even toward the room.
But toward something ancient. Something waiting.

I reached into my bag and pulled out an old piece of paper—creased and yellowing with age. My hands moved almost without thought, guided by something deeper than intention. In a style that felt as though it belonged to another era, I began to write.

It was a letter of invitation.

Not to a gathering or a casual meeting, but to something solemn and binding. I invited them to their Wiccaning Ceremony—a rite of passage, a sacred initiation into the Craft. The words poured out in the cadence of old English, as if dictated by unseen forces. It wasn’t merely a note. It was a calling.

When I finished, I passed the letter to them. No words. Just the gesture.
I watched as they read it in silence.

There was no rush. I knew better. This wasn’t a decision to be made lightly. This was a path that would span years—maybe lifetimes. It demanded devotion, not curiosity. Faith, not flirtation. I left them with the letter and with time to think.

The rain outside had started again, softly tapping against the basement window. And deep inside me, I knew: a threshold had been crossed. Whether they answered or not, the Craft had called.

And I had listened.

It was September. The air was thick—warm and swollen with humidity—as if the season itself was holding its breath. Everything hummed with anticipation. The ceremony had been planned for the weekend. Instructions had been given clearly: wear black, bring roses, offerings for the altar, a diary for reflections, and food to share in celebration.

A few others joined us—not as initiates, but as volunteers. They came with open hearts, offering their hands and energy. They helped prepare the meal, every dish infused with intention and care. It was food made with love—and, I must say, it was genuinely delicious. There was no pretense in their service. Just quiet reverence.

By then, they knew me well. They had come to understand the way I moved through the world—precise, deeply intentional, and, yes, occasionally edged with a sharpness that could be mistaken for sternness. But to them, it never felt like a threat. That edge was a boundary, a blade turned outward, never inward. It was protection—quiet, unwavering. And in that, they found safety.

And then the day arrived.
The Wiccaning.

A day of transformation. A threshold. A passage not merely into tradition, but into self.

The full details of what took place must remain unspoken—held in the sacred trust of our Craft. These are mysteries not meant for the page, but for the heart, passed through whispered lineage and lived experience. Wiccan secrets, after all, are sacred for a reason.

Still—no one ever forgets their first ceremony.

As we cast the circle, called the quarters, and invoked the spirits and ancestors, the air around us changed. You could feel it—the thinning of the veil, the weight of the unseen pressing gently into the space we had made sacred. And in that moment, we were no longer students, or skeptics, or youth. We were vessels. Witnesses. Participants in something far older than any of us. What made it even more profound was that we were, by all accounts, students of science. We spent our days studying biology, chemistry, genetics—breaking down the human cell into equations and structures. We questioned everything. We were raised to seek proof, to value reason over intuition. And perhaps that’s what made it all the more meaningful.Because what we found in ritual wasn’t a rejection of science—it was its mirror. In the lab, we studied life under a microscope. But outside of it, within the circle, we touched life in its rawest, most elemental form. Not to explain it—but to feel it.

Our education extended far beyond textbooks. We consumed philosophy. We scoured the lesser-known writings of Tesla and Edison—their musings on energy, frequency, and the mysteries they dared only whisper. We read of life, of death, of the spaces in between. We weren’t simply seeking answers. We were seeking a way to live—with clarity, with power, with purpose—in both the seen and the unseen. This wasn’t a phase. It was an initiation. The beginning of something real.

We studied Indian classical music and dance. I was a student of Kathak, and Raven would attend music classes, where she learned different ragas.

Existence has no end—it is eternal. So is the Divine.

In the Ramcharitmanas, Goswami Tulsidas writes:

“आदि अंत कोउ जासु न पावा।।
मति अनुमानि निगम अस जाना।।
बिनु पद चलइ सुनहि बिनु काना।
कर बिनु करम करहि बिधि नाना।।”

None have known Its beginning or end.
The wise have only guessed, and the scriptures speak thus.
It walks without feet, hears without ears,
Acts in countless ways without hands.

The seekers—our Wiccan initiates—received their first tools of magick: crystal pendulums.

Pendulum dowsing is a simple yet powerful way to connect with one’s inner intuition. I wanted them to form a bond with their crystals, to experience magick through direct connection. Each of them chose a specific crystal to work with. Mystique chose amethyst, Raven chose rose quartz, and Hemanth chose red bloodstone. We would gather in the park, sitting quietly with our crystals, meditating with them—feeling their energy, tuning into their vibrations. Those were slow, intentional moments, where silence was filled with awareness. It was also a time when I wanted to enjoy the witchcraft classes I offered so freely, from a place of devotion. I knew that, in time, they would move beyond fantasy and begin to seek real magick. Every morning at 10 a.m., the café doors would open, and we were always the first to walk in. It became our quiet ritual, our daily sanctuary. We’d step in gently, giving the staff a moment to settle in, to let the hum of the espresso machine come alive, and for the first pot of coffee to brew—fresh and full of promise. There was something sacred about that waiting time, as though we were allowing the space to breathe before filling it with intention.

I would carry with me a stack of paper printouts—illustrations of Tarot cards, stripped of their colors. These weren’t just art projects. I handed them out as a quiet invitation for the others to connect deeply with the cards, to notice the minor symbols tucked into corners, the expressions on faces, the flow of robes, swords, wands. As they colored, each stroke of the pencil or brush brought new life to the archetypes. They weren’t just filling in lines—they were forming a relationship with the cards, seeing truths hidden in plain sight.

When the coloring was done and the table was speckled with color shavings and warm mugs, I would unwrap a cloth bundle and place my crystals on the table—one by one, gently, reverently. Alongside them, I scattered a few fresh flowers, picked on the walk over. Then I would speak softly about each crystal—its origin, its energy, its history. I encouraged them to touch the stones, to close their eyes and feel. Some felt vibrations. Others, warmth. A few felt nothing at all at first—and that was fine too. Connection can be quiet, and it can take time.

Later, I’d open a worn book filled with documented paranormal encounters—real stories, recorded by fellow Wiccans over the years. I’d read aloud from its pages, letting the words settle over us like a spell. Sometimes we paused to talk, to question, to share our own strange moments. Time moved differently in those hours. We often lost track, and by the time we realized, we were running late for our classes. But none of us seemed to mind. These mornings were their own kind of lesson. As we moved deeper into Wiccan spirituality, our focus turned to the foundational framework of the Four R’s: Relationships, Roles, Resources, and Responsibilities. These weren’t abstract ideas—they were living principles that shaped how we moved through the world as Wiccans.

To explore them more intimately, we turned to the Tarot, allowing its ancient symbolism to guide our understanding. Each of the Four R’s was paired with one of the four suits of the Minor Arcana, aligning energy with meaning:

• Wands represented Relationships—the fire of human connection, creativity, passion, and purpose shared between souls.
• Swords stood for Roles—our mental clarity, our decisions, our truths, and the positions we take in the great web of life.
• Pentacles embodied Resources—our material needs, the Earth’s offerings, and how we manage and honor abundance.
• Cups reflected our Responsibilities—the emotional weight we carry, our compassion, intuition, and the sacred duty to nurture and protect.

Each suit became more than a tool for divination—it became a mirror. We studied the cards not just for what they could predict, but for what they revealed about our current path, our inner landscapes, and our sacred contracts with the world around us.

Through the Four R’s, the Tarot came alive with deeper purpose. It taught us not just how to interpret signs, but how to live with intention.

Every day felt like a whisper from the universe. Each meeting brought a new insight, a new layer of awakening. We laughed, we learned, and we listened—to each other, and to something greater than ourselves.

The Days of Autumn.

Autumn had arrived. It was October now, and the evenings had begun to carry a quiet chill. As the sun dipped below the horizon, a silver mist would rise slowly, wrapping the city in a soft, dreamlike veil. There was something undeniably magical about this time of year—something that stirred the senses and whispered of old stories waiting to be remembered.

Jalandhar held a unique kind of magick, one I had never experienced elsewhere. A quiet mysticism lingered in the air, woven into the rustle of the trees and the swirling of the breeze. Even during the busiest hours and in the most crowded places, there was a sense of peace—an invisible rhythm that grounded the chaos.

Evenings were the most enchanting. As the mist crept in, the city seemed to transform. In Model Town, the glow from shopfronts and cafés shimmered against the fog, casting golden halos that blurred the line between the mundane and the mystical. People came out in waves, drawn to the warmth of food stalls and the comfort of each other’s company. There was laughter, shared meals, and soft conversations over cups of chai. There was love in the air—togetherness in its purest, simplest form. I had never felt anything quite like it elsewhere. Jalandhar was not just a place; it was a feeling, a spirit, a memory that lived and breathed.

Even its name was steeped in legend. “Jalandhar” comes from the tale of a powerful demon born of water—Jalandhar, whose story is echoed in the Ramcharitmanas. He was said to have risen from the depths of water. Like the city itself, his story flowed through time, part of a much older current that connected myth, land, and spirit. In Jalandhar, the veil between worlds felt thinner. And in the quiet of those October nights, under the rising mist, it felt like anything was possible.

Anaad ( the one without beginning , Endless)

Of all the happenings during that time, there was something else—something waiting silently to become part of the eternal ritual we were shaping.

One evening, as the four of us—myself, Hemanth, Raven, and Mystique—sat with a few other university students at our usual café, we were sipping espresso and devouring warm brownies. Laughter drifted softly through the air, mingling with the scent of coffee beans and the quiet clatter of cups. And then, suddenly, I felt it—a presence. A strong, unmistakable aura.

I turned and saw him. A regular-looking young man dressed entirely in black, playing snooker in the corner of the café. He struck the balls hard, almost too hard, but it wasn’t the force that caught my attention—it was his gaze. He was watching us, or more specifically, watching the crystals laid out on the table before us. At first, I dismissed it. We had become used to curious stares. People often assumed we were part of some underground cult—something like the Illuminati. We never confirmed nor denied anything. We let the mystery feed itself. Our circle had gained a kind of quiet notoriety. Mystique, in particular, added to our intrigue—her five thick dreadlocks always drew glances. She wore them with pride, and they unsettled many.

But this young man—there was something different about him. His aura was unlike anything I had seen. He hardly spoke to anyone. He moved through the campus like a shadow, always alone. His face carried a stillness—a gravity that made him appear distant from the trivialities of student life.The more I tried to ignore him, the more I felt drawn. For weeks, I didn’t know his name. Mystique ( one of the seekers) noticed a tattoo on his arm one day—his name inked into his skin. I won’t reveal it here. Let us call him Anaad—the one without beginning.

Anaad came to the café daily, always to play snooker. He wasn’t just good—he was disciplined, almost meditative in his play. The café didn’t attract many new faces, especially in autumn, when the sun dipped below the horizon by 5 p.m. Most students would retreat to their rooms. But Anaad was a constant presence.

I had met many people in my life—some inspiring, some forgettable. But Anaad… there was a subtle strangeness about him. My gift—the Sight Beyond—usually allowed me to sense the energy of others, to read the layers hidden beneath smiles and silence. But with Anaad, I saw nothing. It was as though his aura concealed itself from me.

Had I met him before? In another life, perhaps? Or was he placed here, in this life, to awaken something still dormant? I began to find myself distracted during our Wiccan sessions at the café. Whenever he entered, a quiet restlessness would settle over me. One evening, I shared this with Mystique. She, too, had sensed something. As her own intuitive abilities were growing, she had begun to notice that same subtle strangeness surrounding him. At first, I tried to reason it away. We were university students, after all—young, intense, and easily fascinated. Maybe Anaad was simply interested in one of the girls in our group. He did watch our table with sharp attention. It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption, especially at our age. He was a year senior to us.

Curious, I asked Mystique to invite him for coffee—to open a door, perhaps, and discover more. He refused. Not politely. His response was curt, almost dismissive. After that, we let it go. We returned to our rituals, our sessions, our growing practice. By the summer of 2016, all the initiates had received their first tarot decks. They were learning—numerology, astrology, spells, Wiccan rites, and the deeper mysticism of the Tarot. But the real magick had not yet begun. I was preparing them.
I wanted them to experience higher magick.

Of Katha, Manas.

It was a regular evening. We all sat together in the open park, the soft rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds wrapping us in a quiet calm. Behind the main path, nestled in a more secluded corner, I began sharing stories—tales of spirit encounters and cases of possession that blurred the veil between this world and the unseen. As the session came to a close, Mystique turned to me, her eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and wonder. “Puneet,” she asked, “you often speak of Katha and its magick. But how can a simple story—recited in chaupais and dohas—carry such immense power? Power enough to open dimensions… to heal a soul?”I looked at her and smiled. The moment had arrived. The gates of higher magick—divine magick—were ready to be opened. And the seekers were ready to receive.

From the Notes.

Beyond the mystical studies and spells, the Wiccan spirit is, at its core, a rebellious one. It rises in the face of injustice. I’ve felt it in my bones—my spirit burns when I witness what must not be tolerated. I turned thirty year. I had weathered many storms—none more defining than my move to Canada. A land wrapped in illusions of opportunity, where governing bodies often feed on the vulnerable, and where privilege—particularly skin privilege—seeks to dominate quietly but ruthlessly.

Part of my duty as a guide was to awaken this fire in my seekers—not to breed anger, but to cultivate awareness. They had to learn to rebel—not in chaos, but in clarity. Existence and nature speak through Wiccans. We are attuned to what is right, and what must be discarded.I have my peace within. I have nothing to lose.

And when a being has nothing to lose, it becomes unshakable. Rebellious.
No system can take from me what truly belongs to me—my art, my creativity, my vision.

I was never compatible with the terms of the modern world, especially not in a place like Canada. But I didn’t want to teach them to adapt—I wanted them to evolve. To be strong, clever, and daring. To stand against the evil intentions that sometimes cloak themselves in order and normalcy.

They must not be sheep of the herd.
I wanted them to be wild and aware.
I wanted them to learn to use their athame—the ceremonial blade—not just for ritual, but for protection and justice. More than their wands, their blades would hold truth. The inner, shadow self—the sinister being—must be tamed and directed, not suppressed.

Manas begins.

By the autumn of 2016, the breeze had changed. A certain coldness crept in. It was August, and we had just returned from summer break. There was something different in the air, and something changed in each of us, too. Mystique and Raven, especially, were full of renewed excitement.

I had brought with me a new book—one I wished to introduce into our Wiccan studies: The Republic by Plato. Before the break, I had already told them that we would begin exploring the Ramcharitmanas in a Wiccan way. We would take one word, one theme, a corresponding chaupai, and find the raga through which to sing it.

Time and again, I had witnessed how the word from the Manas aligned perfectly with the present moment—the astrological flow, the season, the festivals, the inner and outer landscapes of our lives.

That year, The Republic spoke to me through the figure of Socrates. It was time to introduce the seekers to the idea of Wiccan Wisdom—or Vivek—what Osho once called intelligence. Not intellect, which is learned, but intelligence, which is received.

I wanted them to understand philosophy—not as dry theory, but as a mystical way of knowing. Philosophy is nothing less than the comprehension of the hidden structure of existence. It is an essential part of Wiccan training.

We began our session in the cue lounge, invoking the name of Pavan Tanay, the spirit of Hanuman—the force of breath, of strength, of loyal power. We sang from the Ramcharitmanas, recited the opening mantras, and opened our hearts to its rhythm.

As the seekers were already learning the Tarot, I decided—through the guidance of Existence—that each topic would be paired with a Tarot card. That card would become our lived symbol, a mirror of the lesson we explored. For the days we discussed a theme, we would also chant the chosen chaupai.

Why Katha?

Because I have had mystical experiences with the Ramcharitmanas—transformative, unexplainable—experiences that changed the course of my life. Someday, I will speak of them. To be a witch is not to be a magician. It is to be aligned with nature, to be in communion with Existence. Magick is happening in every moment—but it is blocked when we betray our true path. The Wiccan brings magick back into being—by walking with truth. It had become a tradition—our own cauldron of thought and soul. After “Socrates,” we studied Sahaj—the Zen philosophy of effortlessness, of pure being. With every topic, we chose four lines—one chaupai—from the Manas. Some themes stayed with us for months. Transformation was underway.

We were deeply immersed—in music, in ritual, in research. A subtle detachment had begun. We no longer cared for the noise of the world. We had stepped out of its rhythm, and into our own. It was during this time that Anaad stopped coming to the café. Each day, I found myself staring at the doors, hoping to see him walk in—but he never did. A quiet worry settled in my heart as I wondered if he was alright. Then, after a few days, he began appearing in my dreams.

Almost every night, I would see him.
Always in a dark, cold space. Alone. Surrounded by silence that was not peaceful.
I wanted freedom from those visions—they brought a pain I could not place.

It was a new experience for me. Was he a trickster? A magician of some kind?
I began to feel that I had known him across lifetimes. His nature was not unfamiliar. There was a connection, and I wondered—did he feel it too? I didn’t want this feeling to grow.
I didn’t want to become someone melancholic, not when something so sacred was unfolding in the Wiccan sessions. These were the most beautiful, the most significant days we had known.

The cue lounge café lights were dim. By then, the place had grown popular—new chairs, new tables, a fresh menu. Though the food still lacked soul, and the coffee, now nearly twice the price, didn’t taste the same. Still, we returned.

We often skipped lunch, choosing instead a shared dessert with coffee—our ritual offering to the moments we lived together. Autumn had deepened. The evenings turned cold, and the sky bloomed in hues of pink, orange, and violet. Every day felt full—lived completely, with awareness and wonder.

We were perfectly attuned to the season’s rhythm, the dance of shifting winds, the whisper of trees, the golden slant of light that fell across the café’s floorboards. Each Wiccan session carried its own presence. My Tarot deck was always with us, carefully wrapped in a cloth bearing a special pattern—a pattern that, over time, became one of the remembered symbols of Bewitched Cauldron. Sometimes we’d place flowers on the deck, a quiet offering to the unseen.

In the Indian Katha tradition, the sacred text is placed before the speaker, an emblem of sanctity and divine presence. In our sessions, Raven would bring her copy of the Ramcharitmanas. Covered in soft blue velvet, the book had grown worn with use. Notes crowded its margins, lines were highlighted and underlined—each mark a trace of study, of devotion. She sang the chaupais aloud, her voice filled with reverence. Mystique, as always, wrote with intention. Her diary was beautifully kept, each page thoughtfully organized. She would record my explanations word for word, gathering her questions for our nightly talks.

Hemanth sat quietly. He listened, but his silence was different—it carried weight. I could feel he was struggling. The studies, the rituals, the higher magick—they eluded his understanding. He was afraid. Afraid of the dark, of the unknown. I knew, even before he did, that he would eventually leave the coven. Being male, it seemed to sting his ego—to learn from another man of the same age. That wounded pride had begun to show. I sensed a subtle shadow in his presence, a quiet resistance forming in his energy.

By then, Mystique and I had started living in the same apartment. Evenings became sacred, too. After returning home, before dinner, we’d share a cup of coffee—sometimes with samosas—discussing the day’s session and the deeper insights that had risen. By the end of 2016, Mystique had memorized most of the stutis from the Ramcharitmanas. She could recite them without looking—every word, every syllable, and its meaning. It was extraordinary.

This wasn’t something an ordinary person could achieve in such a short time, especially given that Sanskrit and Hindi weren’t her first languages. She remembered every line of every chaupai and could explain its essence. I remember once, during a past-life reading, she discovered that she had been a male trader in a previous life—someone who traveled from city to city for business. And during one such journey, she had met me, seeking answers. I had been a different being then, perhaps a woman.

Could that explain the subtle masculinity she carried in this life? A mind that could solve complex mathematical equations and physics derivations with an ease even our professors couldn’t match?

I was never good at mathematics. Or physics.

I often wondered what made her sit beside me that very first day. She would say it was my intelligence that fascinated her—but that never made much sense to me. Perhaps what she truly saw was magick.

And then, Anaad returned.

I was startled. He looked exactly as I had seen him in my dreams—uncannily so. His hair was cut very short, his clothes plain and casual. His face was puffy, his skin pale.

Something in him remained unhealed.
Something inside him had broken.

I could see it, even in silence.

---

Alongside our Ramcharitmanas studies, we delved deeply into the philosophy and secrecy of Wicca—ascending into higher magick. After initiation, a covenant of rules guided our learning and discipline:

• Wear black every day
• Prioritize Wiccan sessions above all
• Avoid frivolous gossip and shallow relationships
• Dress elegantly, embodying intention

For Mystique, this discipline was natural—woven into her being. Raven found it challenging at first, but soon discovered the grace and power in black, and embraced it wholly.

Our sessions were boundless—much like the eternal hymn of the Manas:

हरि अनंत हरि कथा अनंता | कहिहि सुनहि सब विधि सब संता ||

Translation:
Hari (the Divine) is infinite, and so are His stories.
All saints and sages speak and listen to these countless tales in their own ways.

In the Bewitched Cauldron, our sacred trinity became clear: one word, one Tarot card, one chaupai sung in its raga. Around this center, we conducted our practice—studying esoteric wisdom, performing rituals, and journeying to charged sites. On our days off, we would visit the newly opened Barista café in Jalandhar. We’d settle into a cozy corner, sharing a Nacho platter, sipping creamy lattes, indulging in pastas, and savoring a variety of desserts. The ambience was warm and inviting—soft lighting, gentle music, and a relaxed vibe. It became our special spot, the place where we held our meaningful meetups and made memories.

Now, living in Canada, I see stark contrast. Here, life becomes mechanical—people shuffled through rat races, hearts hardened by systems. Yet, it’s in the echoes of our coven sessions that I remember what it means to be alive. Our coven was never mundane. It was born of intention—a ritual altar built on love and belonging. In today’s noisy, fast world, many feel a strange emptiness. But that ache—Sangam, the sacred union of souls—is precisely what calls us home.

We remember our purpose. As Mahadev tells Parvati in the Manas:

राम जनम के हेतु अनेका। परम विचित्र एक ते एका॥
जनम एक दुइ कहउँ बखानी। सावधान सुनु सुमति भवानी॥

“There were many reasons for Lord Rama’s birth, each mysterious and profound. I will now describe one or two purposes of His incarnation—listen carefully, O wise Bhavani.”

We carry stories and purpose woven into our souls at birth. Whether to dance, to heal, to love—this is the will of Existence. Deviate, and we feel hollow; align, and every moment hums with meaning. Perhaps all the souls we’ve met were meant to shape our story, just as ours shaped theirs. This is the silent, unutterable truth of the coven.

Hemanth departed—his fear of darkness and depth grew insurmountable. Anaad returned, still bearing unseen wounds. But for us three, those Wiccan sessions became worlds unto themselves. We could spend hours submerged in ritual, untethered from time, immersed in something far greater than this plane.

As I sit here in a quiet café on an oddly cold June day, finishing the fourth part of Cauldron’s Brew, I gaze out through the fogged windowpanes. The mist hangs heavy in the distance, cloaking the streets in a spectral hush. It’s crowded out there—crowded with a kind of hush, with something ancient stirring beneath the stillness.

Believe me, dear reader, this is no fabrication. Magick is real. So is witchcraft. But to witness it—truly experience it—one must first let go of the small, mundane hungers and reach instead for love, for togetherness, for that sacred thread that connects us to the Divine.

This is not a path of God or Satan. It is the path of Godliness. The sacred road of existence itself.

Life is holy in its infinite stories—woven with wonder, shadow, and light. And so I leave you here, for now. But not for long.

I shall return to you soon.