If you grew up South Asian, you probably know nazar—the “evil eye”—by feeling more than definition. It’s that instinctive pause before you share good news too widely, the tug to keep joy close until it’s “safe.” My mom is a strong believer, and I grew up inside that care. As a baby I wore tiny gold bracelets (common in Bohri and many Indian families), and as a toddler I had a kāla tika behind my ear. Even now, when my mom senses nazar around us, she’ll recite a dua over water or give sadaqa on particular days to reset the energy. Recently, right before a big family trip, we all came down sick. My mom was convinced it was nazar because we’d told too many people we were traveling. I don’t dismiss her concern; I understand it. And yet, I’m a founder whose work depends on storytelling in public. That is the tension this essay sits inside: how do you honor belief without letting it shrink your life or your leadership?
What nazar is—and why it’s everywhere
Nazar is the belief that an envious or overly admiring gaze can unintentionally—or intentionally—cause harm, illness, or delay. It’s not unique to South Asia; versions of the evil eye appear across the Mediterranean, Middle East, North Africa, and beyond. You’ll see different names and different protections: the blue eye bead in Turkey, drishti rituals in South India, nazar or buri nazar in Hindi and Urdu. Within Islamic contexts, belief in the evil eye is acknowledged; common remedies emphasize prayer, modesty around praise, and acts of charity. In many South Asian homes, the everyday expressions feel familiar and tender: a black dot to “confuse the eye,” lemons and chilies at doorways, a quick sweep with salt to “take off nazar,” a discreet amulet tucked under a shirt. In Gujarati spaces like mine, there’s a quiet confidence that a small ritual before a milestone can re-balance what’s unseen. In Bohri households, those gestures are paired with faith practices—dua, sadaqa—and, often, a preference to soft-launch good news to an inner circle before going wide.
The good—and the trap
There are parts of nazar that have genuinely shaped me for the better. It’s taught me discernment: not everything is for everyone, and some moments are sacred precisely because they’re held close. It’s also taught humility—let the work stand, don’t oversell—and grounding, because ritual can be a kind of calm. But there’s a shadow side. Fear of nazar can turn into a habit of hiding. I’ve waited too long to share legitimate wins. I’ve avoided video or updates because of an inherited fear of being “too seen.” And while that might feel protective on a personal level, it becomes costly in business. As Kahani has grown, my voice matters—for community, for talent, for partnerships. Consistent visibility isn’t vanity; it’s oxygen. If I let nazar, or the fear of it, keep me off the stage, I’m quietly capping my own ceiling.
Gujarati & Bohri, up close
My lived experience sits at the intersection of Gujarati culture and the Bohri community. As a child, my bracelets and kāla tika were love you could see. Today, when something feels “off,” my mom’s ritual is simple: a dua over water, maybe sadaqa on a specific day. Before big moments, we often celebrate privately first and share publicly later. That “soft-launch” instinct has actually aged well in a hyper-online world. It isn’t secrecy; it’s stewardship—treating a new idea or tender milestone like a seedling that needs warmth before full sun.
A founder’s reframe: from superstition to strategy
I’m not interested in throwing away what my mother taught me. I’m interested in translating it. For me, the translation looks like this: protect what’s tender, publish what’s ready. In practice, that means personal milestones are still shared later—or not at all—while work updates, learnings, and behind-the-scenes get shared more consistently because silence now carries its own risk. It also means choosing safety over secrecy: no live location tags, a little delay between doing the thing and posting about it, and celebrating loudly in “safe rooms” (family chats, team channels) before I celebrate widely. The point isn’t to become smaller. The point is to become steadier.
A simple playbook: nazar-aware, not nazar-afraid
If you’re a founder navigating the same tension, try this as a rhythm rather than a rule. Start with private, then move to proof, and only then go public. In the private stage, celebrate with your inner circle, make your dua, give your sadaqa, do whatever grounds your nervous system. In the proof stage, lock the basics—confirm the inventory, finalize the contract, test the workflow, collect a first testimonial. Then share publicly in phases: a teaser that hints at what’s coming, a fuller story when the scaffolding is set, data when it’s meaningful, and finally a behind-the-scenes that teaches rather than performs. You’re not delaying progress; you’re sequencing visibility. Pair that cadence with practical boundaries—post after you’ve left a location, keep certain numbers private unless you’re prepared to discuss them—and with one small ritual that makes your body feel safe being seen. Some days that’s faith; some days it’s protein first, Solidcore, and Focus Mode.
Where I’m headed
If I’m honest, nazar shows up more in my personal branding than in client work. In the early years I barely posted; later, busyness became the excuse. Now, the business is at a point where my absence online is a liability. I want to celebrate more milestones publicly—even the messy, human ones—and I want to do it on my terms. I won’t dim for nazar; I’ll just be wise. I’ll keep my mother’s rituals, and I’ll keep my commitment to show up as a founder whose story creates opportunity for my team and clients. Belief can be a boundary. It doesn’t have to be a box.
Try this this week
Pick one update you’ve been sitting on—a small win, a lesson, a reel—and run it through private → proof → public. Celebrate it in your safe room first, make sure the facts are firm, then post with context and gratitude instead of grandeur. Notice how it feels to be visible without feeling exposed. And if you’re already working with your own version of this cadence, I’d love to hear it. How do you honor nazar and still build in public?