I’ve lost count of the number of times someone’s whispered to me, “But isn’t tarot… you know… against religion?” It usually happens after I’ve done a reading at a family get-together or over chai with friends in Borivali. People lower their voices like we’re talking about smuggling gold biscuits, not flipping over illustrated cards.

The short answer? Tarot isn’t tied to any one religion. It’s not a sacred text. It’s not a holy rite. It’s a deck of 78 cards—Major Arcana and Minor Arcana—that’s been used for centuries in different ways. Historically, tarot started in 15th-century Europe as a playing card game called “tarocchi.” The mystical, fortune-telling layer came much later, woven in by occultists in the 18th and 19th centuries.

And yet… tarot feels spiritual. Not religious, but spiritual. There’s a difference. Religion usually comes with a defined set of doctrines, rituals, and an overarching institution—like a temple, church, mosque, or gurdwara. Spirituality is more fluid. It’s the personal search for meaning, connection, and understanding beyond the purely physical. Tarot fits neatly into that space because it invites reflection and intuition rather than preaching commandments.

A few years ago, I was doing a reading for my sister Jini in our Salt Lake flat. She’d been going through a rough time—work stress, health worries, the usual cocktail of adult life. We weren’t talking about gods or prayers, but when she pulled The Star, she teared up. “This feels like hope,” she said. And that’s the thing: tarot can evoke the same deep emotional resonance people sometimes find in prayer, without being linked to any religious institution.

Of course, some people do integrate tarot into their religious practice. I know a woman in Kankurgachi who keeps her tarot deck on the same altar as her Lakshmi idol. She says she pulls a card after lighting her diya, asking for guidance in the same breath she offers a mantra. On the flip side, I’ve met practicing Christians who use tarot purely as a self-reflection tool, avoiding anything they perceive as “occult” language. The cards themselves are neutral—what you bring to them shapes the experience.

But there’s also a misconception that tarot is inherently anti-religion or “dark.” I blame part of that on movie tropes—shadowy figures in candlelit rooms telling you about doom and death. In reality, a Death card in tarot is rarely about physical death. More often it’s about transformation, endings that make way for beginnings. Yet the imagery can spook people, especially if their religious background has taught them to avoid anything symbolic of the occult.

Sometimes I compare tarot to music. You can sing a hymn in a church, chant in a temple, or hum a tune in your kitchen—music itself isn’t religious, but it can be used in religious contexts. Tarot is similar. It can be framed through the lens of a specific faith, or it can be entirely secular, just a set of symbols you use to spark insight.

One of my favourite things about tarot is its adaptability. I’ve read for agnostics, atheists, devout Hindus, practicing Muslims, and people who couldn’t care less about labels. The cards don’t discriminate—they’ll mirror back whatever energy, question, or intention you bring to them.

So, is tarot religious? No. Is it spiritual? It can be—if you want it to be. Or it can simply be a tool, like a journal or a conversation with a wise friend. The meaning isn’t baked into the cards—it’s in how you choose to engage with them.

And maybe that’s why tarot survives across cultures and centuries. It doesn’t demand belief in a particular god or creed. It just asks that you sit with yourself for a moment, shuffle the deck, and see what comes up. Sometimes, that’s spiritual enough.