Definitely Not a History of Magic (Except It Is)
Excerpt from Forgotten Lineages: The Eastern Origins of British Wizarding Houses
(By Amartya Senapati, Scholar of Magical History, 1997)
Though widely considered an old British pure-blood family, the Potters present an unusual historical anomaly. Unlike most magical lineages tracing their ancestry to medieval Europe, records suggest their roots lie in the Parsi community—Zoroastrian immigrants from Persia who settled in Bharata before making their way to Britain. The earliest mention of a magical Parsi family bearing resemblance to the Potters appears in the Bombay Ledger of Magical Commerce (1721), which records Ardeshir Kaikhushru, a renowned metalsmith whose enchanted crafts were prized among wizards and non-magical patrons alike. Parsis, revered for their skill in metallurgy and their fire-worship traditions, played a crucial role in the British East India Company's trade networks. It is believed that the Kaikhushru family, like many Parsi merchants, came into contact with British wizards through their work in charmed metalwork and alchemy.
By the mid-18th century, Darius Kaikhushru Potter appears in British records as an artisan of protective amulets, noted in the Guild Register of Enchanted Craftsmen (1764). Some historians argue that "Potter" was a deliberate anglicization, either to aid integration or to reflect his trade in enchanted ceramics and metalworks. Unlike other pure-blood families, the Potters never embraced the rigid isolation of bloodline purity, a trait likely inherited from their Zoroastrian heritage, which upheld the principles of Asha (truth and order) and placed great emphasis on duty, honor, and the protection of others.
From the Lost Chronicles of Bharata, as preserved in the House of Smṛti-Rakṣakas
For centuries, the lands of Bharat have walked a path different from the magical communities of the West . Where they cloaked their magic in secrecy, Bharat wove it into the very fabric of life. The Samyak-darshi—those who see the world with clarity—have never been separate from magic but have lived alongside it, as farmers live alongside the rivers that nourish their fields. It was never a thing to be hidden, nor something to be feared; it was knowledge, to be sought with reverence and wielded with responsibility.
In the ancient centers of wisdom—Nalanda, Takshashila, Gnanakoodam—magical and non-magical scholars sat together, debating philosophy and science, exchanging theories on the nature of existence and the forces that bind it. The Mantravadis of the northern kingdoms, tasked with safeguarding temples and palaces, wove spells into the very stones, ensuring that time itself bent to the will of their craft. In the courts of kings and the ashrams of sages, magic was a sacred art, passed down to those who had the patience to learn its ways. The Khalsa Vidyarthis trained in the arts of war and healing, binding their steel with spells of protection, ensuring that both sword and soul remained unbroken in battle. The Vidya-Dharas of Buddhist and Jain traditions sought wisdom over power, using their craft to sharpen the mind rather than the blade, their spells heightening perception, unveiling truths hidden from ordinary sight.
In the eastern lands of Bengal, Odisha, and Assam, the Tantrikas practiced the magic of transformation, bending the elements to their will through sacred yantras and mantras. The Daitapatis of Puri controlled the monsoon winds, calling forth the rains that would feed their fields and calm the seas. In the shadowed forests of Mayong, illusionists and shape-shifters guarded secrets known only to the oldest of their kind. Jewish scholars in Kolkata inscribed spells into parchment, preserving enchantments older than kingdoms, sought after by those who wished to unlock the wisdom of forgotten ages.
To the west, in the sun-scorched lands of Gujarat and Rajasthan, alchemists worked in hidden chambers, distilling the essence of immortality drop by drop. The Atar-Vidya wizards of the Parsi fires stood eternal watch over sacred flames, their spells feeding the ever-burning embers of divinity. The Jain Rasayanikas, masters of transmutation, whispered to the elements, coaxing gold from lead, sickness into health, age into youth. The wandering Sufi Fakirs, with their feet dusty from travel, carried dreams in their hands, unraveling visions of futures yet to be written. The Curandeiros of the Konkan coast, touched by the tides, mingled the magics of distant lands with those of Bharat, calling upon the sea to guide their spells.
In the south, where the land is ancient and the traditions older still, magic hums through temple stones and sacred groves. The Siddhars of Tamilakam command the winds and fire, their chants carrying the voices of the elements. The Kaavu Muni of Kerala stand as guardians of enchanted forests, their magic interwoven with the spirits that dwell within. The Agamic wizards of Karnataka carve spells into pillars and doorways, inscribing protections that will outlast empires. The Syrian Christian Mar Thoma healers, bearers of wisdom both foreign and native, blend the light of the divine with the herbs of the land, their touch soothing wounds both of flesh and soul. The Jyotishis of Andhra read the stars, their spells tracing the paths of destiny itself, shifting the threads of fate before they are fully woven.
Though the magic of Bharat remains open to those who walk its lands, few from beyond its borders truly see it for what it is. Those who arrive from foreign lands, bound by the laws of secrecy, find their minds veiled in illusion. The Smriti-Rakshak, keepers of memory, weave the Jñāna-Vaaraṇa—an enchantment that ensures outsiders perceive only what they expect to see. To them, the spells of Bharat are mere coincidences, tricks of the mind, folklore without substance. But for those who remain long enough, the veil begins to fray. The truth reveals itself in glimpses—the flicker of a protective charm in a temple archway, the whisper of a spell woven into the wind. And when they leave, their memories are gently rewritten, their minds made to believe that Bharat was, as they had always been taught, a land where magic was hidden.
Yet, in truth, it has never been hidden. It has only ever been lived.
From the Hidden Chronicles of Bharata, as preserved in the House of Smṛti-Rakṣakas
There was a time when Bharata knew no veils. Magic coursed through the rivers, danced in temple fires, and whispered in the winds that carried monsoon rains. The Samyak-darshi—those without magic—lived alongside the Vidya-Dharas, Mantravadis, and Rasayanikas, seeking wisdom and protection from those who had mastered the unseen forces. For centuries, knowledge flowed freely, not as privilege but as duty, bound by Dharma-sahavāsa, the rightful coexistence of all beings.
But in the age of shadows, outsiders arrived with fire and greed. The Mughals, though wielders of their own enchantments, sought dominion over the sacred lands. They built grand courts where Persian Aamils and Central Asian sorcerers debated with Bharatiya sages, yet beneath the exchange of ideas lay the weight of conquest. The Raj-Purohits of Rajasthan and the Khalsa Vidyarthis of Punjab stood against the tide, forging spells of resistance. When Aurangzeb’s men sought to extinguish the sacred flames of the Parsis, the Atar-Vidya wizards turned their fire against the invaders, ensuring their traditions endured. The Mughals ruled, but they never truly subdued Bharata’s magic, for it had already woven itself into the very fabric of the land.
Then came the British. They did not come with spells, but with ink and steel, with treaties and treachery. Unlike the Mughals, they did not attempt to understand magic; they sought to unmake it. They feared what they could not grasp, dismissing it as superstition while they plundered the enchanted relics of temples and ancient scrolls from Nalanda’s ruins. The Vidya-Dharas saw what was coming. The Smriti-Rakshaks, guardians of memory, convened with the oldest orders—Buddhist monks from Ladakh, Jewish scribes from Cochin, Jain Rasayanikas from Maharashtra, and the Sufi Fakirs of Rajasthan. Even the Roma, the wanderers who had left Bharata long ago, whispered warnings from afar.
The Christians of Bharata, though few in number, had long lived in harmony with the land’s magic. The Syrian Christians of Kerala, who had walked these shores since the time of Thomas the Apostle, had never sought to destroy Bharata’s knowledge. Their priests whispered ancient Aramaic prayers that intertwined with the chants of the Namboodiris, their rites blending with the land’s energies rather than seeking to break them. When the British came, demanding loyalty, the Syrian Christians stood divided—some took up their cause, seeing in them a protection against other invaders, but others remembered their oaths to the land. It was the latter who aided the Smriti-Rakshaks, hiding away sacred texts within their churches, placing enchanted relics beneath altars where foreign eyes would not look.
It was then that Jñāna-Vaaraṇa—the Great Veil—was woven. Not a wall, nor a spell of erasure, but a mist over the eyes of the unworthy. The invaders would see what they wished: a land of myths, of primitive beliefs, of men who bowed to stone. They would call the Siddhars madmen, the Tantrikas frauds, and the Agamic temple-wizards mere architects. But the magic did not die. It simply stepped out of sight.
When the British tightened their grip, the hidden orders rose. Sikh warriors moved unseen through enchanted forests, their blades finding those who sought to enslave the land. The Kaavu Muni of Kerala whispered to the monsoons, drowning out supply lines with relentless storms. The Tantrikas of Bengal wove sigils into the very roads the British marched upon, leading them in endless circles, lost in the land they thought they had conquered. The Syrian Christian mystics, keepers of forgotten tongues, whispered protective incantations into the winds, ensuring the enemy’s letters never reached their intended hands, their orders lost in the endless void of the unknown.
And when the time came for the final reckoning, the Smriti-Rakshaks ensured that the colonizers would leave with no memory of Bharata’s true power—only confusion, only fear, only an unspoken dread that this land was never truly theirs.
To this day, Jñāna-Vaaraṇa remains, not as a prison, but as a test. Only those who seek magic with an open heart, who walk the path of Dharma, may see through the mist. The rest will look upon Bharata and see only what they expect: a land of dust and gods, of chants and rituals—never realizing that, beneath it all, the rivers still sing, the winds still whisper, and the old magic still watches, waiting for those who remember.