I Tried Wiccan Spells on Myself for a Month

Back in college, I shared my hostel room with a girl who referred to herself as ‘Li’l Witch’. And while her idea of folk culture was more Ben Howard than black magic, I once walked in on her poking defused matchsticks into Bourbon biscuits in some wannabe-Wiccan attempt to ensure that we would excel in our exams. But even as my inner cynic tried to shrug it off, I was curious about whether her method of madness could have any real impact.

I felt that same curiosity when the mystical folks at Mumbai’s Wiccan Shop revealed their range of bewitching products to me. Their Wiccan Magick spells included a money-multiplying potion, a guarantee of great sex. and even the possibility of controlling an individual’s anger levels, contained in vibrant vials of scented oils. They had cool shit like Cleo May oil, which is supposed to shower you with unexpected gifts, and even a sweet-smelling infusion to attract a bankrolling sugar daddy. I was intrigued. So, I sacrificed my skepticism and bucks to experiment with these five oils and their astonishing aspirations for a month.

The process of casting the spell was simple: All I had to do was take a drop of the crystal-composed oil and gently rub it on my skin or an object relevant to its specific purpose while visualising the ideal outcome. They each had an overpowering odour that either drenched me in a nectarous fragrance or left me feeling like polluted potpourri. So I started by surrendering my wallet to the musty stench of the Fast Money oil on a Friday, hoping my funds would replenish soon enough to sponsor my weekend drinking plans. They never did, but I drank anyway to drown my disappointment.

Accepting my broke-ass fate, I moved on to Cleo May, which I was told brings with it unexpected offerings like Facebook friend requests. But before any “Hi dear” messages could flood my inbox, I accidentally dropped the bottle, watching its blue liquid ooze all over my floor. The only unexpected gift I got out of it was an au naturel air freshener that left my room smelling like an antiperspirant.

There is also an oil called Tame, which may sound like the muggle’s substitute for Imperio, but is really just a spell that uses the essence of agarbatis (incense sticks) to calm people who have zero chill. I used it after I had successfully managed to piss off my mom, subtly rubbing it on her forehead under the guise of an apologetic head massage. Maybe she just appreciated the spontaneous stroking, but the oil definitely worked its charm.

If you find yourself in a sexual dry spell, the Wiccans have Lust oil, a flowery fluid that promises boys making a beeline for you. It became a Saturday night staple and earned me a share of fuckeyes at the clubs. But I’d like to think that wasn’t just the oil’s doing (insert wink emoji).

Their sugar daddy/mommy oil however, did not sit well with me. So, I did what any self-rationalising person would do and used a confession of how my best friend finds older women attractive to convince him to try it instead. He took one for the team, but didn’t manage to take any wealthy cougar home. Which made me wonder: Was it because he didn’t visualise it well enough, or was I just not a good enough wing-woman?

Finding myself with dwindling spell supplies, and no effective anecdotes to account for them, my one-month Magick trial period ended with shattered hopes and the realisation that the cynic within was probably right all along. But, besides leaving behind a permanent aroma of attar, the spells taught me a valuable lesson in positive visualisation and its placebo effect. So even as I dismiss them as aromatherapy, these Wiccan spells got me to believe in something bigger than myself and I think that’s where the real beauty of magic lies.

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