The psychology behind nazar and drishti — why envy feels dangerous, and why the ritual response genuinely helps.
Envy is one of the oldest social threats we know
Long before anyone wrote the phrase "evil eye," humans lived in small groups where standing out — having more food, a healthier child, a better harvest — could provoke real resentment from neighbours who depended on the same limited resources. Anthropologists have long noted that evil-eye beliefs cluster most strongly in exactly these kinds of tightly-knit agricultural and village societies, where visible success really could invite social retaliation, gossip, or sabotage. The belief may have started as a way of encoding a very real social risk: don't flaunt your good fortune, or someone might come for it.
The "just world" problem
Psychologists describe a just-world bias — our deep discomfort with good things happening for no clear reason, and bad things happening at random. When a healthy baby suddenly falls ill, or a thriving business suddenly collapses, the human mind resists "it was just chance." Attributing it to someone's envious gaze gives the misfortune a cause, a narrative, and — crucially — a fix. That's arguably more comforting than accepting that bad luck can strike anyone, anytime, for no reason at all.
Why the ritual itself helps, even if you don't fully believe it
This is where the evil eye overlaps with modern psychology's understanding of ritual in general. Researchers who study ritual behaviour — including Harvard's Francesca Gino and Michael Norton — have found that structured, repeated physical actions performed with intent measurably reduce anxiety and grief, regardless of whether the participant is a strict believer. Circling salt three times, watching chillies crackle in a fire, or lighting camphor gives worry a concrete beginning, middle and end. That's the same mechanism behind blowing out birthday candles or knocking on wood: the ritual doesn't have to be provably effective to be genuinely calming.
A social safety valve, too
There's a quieter function evil-eye rituals serve: they give people permission to express real anxiety about a loved one's wellbeing — a new baby, a risky new venture, a recent recovery — without sounding paranoid or superstitious in front of others. "Let me just remove any drishti" is a soft, socially acceptable way of saying "I'm worried about you and I care," dressed in tradition instead of raw anxiety.
So is it "real"?
Whether or not a gaze can literally transmit misfortune, the belief clearly does something real: it names an otherwise formless anxiety, gives it a ritual off-ramp, and lets people express care for each other in a shared cultural language. That's exactly what Put Drishti tries to recreate on screen — not a claim about physics, but a small, shared moment of "there, that's handled."