It is written in the stars

Let me get one thing straight off my chest. I do not understand the art or science of predicting the future. Do I believe in it? Do I repose blind faith in its mysterious and arcane ways? I do, when the predictions go in my favour. Else, I am dismissive. This is not to suggest that I am scornful of it, it simply means I haven’t quite got my head round how someone could possibly predict that a particular horse would gallop home in a canter, at handsome odds of 20 to 1 and make me a very rich man. Provided, of course, on a reckless dare I decide to plonk my hard-earned money on said horse.

I am aware that there are experts who study form, past results on the turf and all that kind of equine sporting stuff. There is science and reasoning involved. That being the case, I can understand plumping for the favourite at pretty low odds. That is how the form book is meant to operate and how racing experts provide odds. However, when some oily geezer sidles up to you and hoarsely whispers, ‘Put everything you’ve got on Break a Leg. You will clean up,’ it gives a man pause. ‘But that horse has a broken leg,’ you expostulate, ‘how do you figure?’ The geezer smiles enigmatically and vanishes. So, you do exactly what he said, assuming there are factors at play that are beyond your ken, and promptly lose all your money. A sucker is born every minute.

Betting on the horses is just one of many illogical things we human beings indulge in, in the fond hope that we can get something for nothing. In many countries, not in India of course, you can legally bet on just about anything your heart takes a fancy to. Just walk into a betting shop in London, and they will give you odds on sporting events of every description, election results, a political leader being assassinated within a week, an impending divorce in the royal family (at very low odds) – you name it, they have the odds. Why, you can even open your own book at the shop and provide odds on the next chap entering the shop being bald, of Oriental origin, walking with a limp and wearing a charcoal grey three-piece suit. If, however, it is discovered that the said bald, Oriental chap and you had conspired to arrange that extraordinary coincidence, you may find you are literally minus an arm and a leg and rushed to Emergency, if you are lucky.

Let me move away from horse racing or come to that, dog racing, another lucrative pastime in the western hemisphere. Here in India, we set much store by predictions of a different kind altogether. Indians are big on such predictive hobbies as astrology, astronomy, the spirit world, Extra Sensory Perception (ESP), palmistry and other related mumbo-jumbo activities. Did I say hobbies? It is for some, but for many others it is a highly profitable business. From the richest to the poorest in the land, pretty much everyone wants to know what the stars foretell this coming week, month, year. The newspapers unfailingly carry a column every Sunday, where all the signs of the Zodiac are given the full treatment. American astrologer Linda Goodman became a worldwide celebrity with her books on astrology rivalling J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter novels on the sales charts.

We in India have had our own Bejan Daruwalla, now residing among the stars, and his ilk filling our heads regularly with things to ‘watch out for’ in the near future. Even the cynics among us (‘I don’t believe in all this nonsense’) take a sly peek at what the experts and charlatans have to say about our Zodiacal sign when nobody is looking. It is a kind of addiction, perhaps an innocent pastime. Let me quickly check on Gemini, my sign of the Zodiac. ‘Your dual personality could get you into trouble this week with a lady you will meet for the first time.’ Ominous, but tantalising. I spend the entire week looking at any strange lady who may or may not have smiled at me, wondering if there is more to this than meets the eye. However, nothing happens, the week passes, and next Sunday, it is a man from my dim past who is set to haunt me. I will say this for astrology. It keeps you involved and curious, but since you are a non-believer, you keep mum and anticipate silently.

I touched briefly on election results earlier. No general election in India is ever complete without some pundit or the other displaying his punditry with incisive predictions on which party is likely to win how many seats, cross his heart and hope to die, or whatever that expression’s Indian equivalent is. All this in mainline dailies and national television, watched avidly by politicians, psephologists and voters alike.

When I lived with my parents in Calcutta during my university days, every once in a while, a spooky looking man from deep down south in Tamil Nadu, would show up at our doorstep, his forehead liberally caked with sacred ash and some prominent scarlet powder. Unannounced. If memory serves, his name was Tirumalai (or Tirupathi) or some such. Why and how he should turn up in Calcutta with a list of addresses of many prominent Tamilians working in the city, was an unfathomable mystery. Nevertheless, when the doorbell rang, and the formidable Tirupathi (or Tirumalai) stood there, grinning from ear to ear, I was surprised to see him being warmly welcomed by my pater and mater.

When I came to learn that his visit was by appointment, I became fidgety. He was treated with great respect (filter coffee at the ready) and was asked to consult his moth-eaten books, strange-looking shells and some dried leaves bearing barely legible inscriptions in Tamil, along with horoscopes, to predict what was going to happen to each one of our family members. He could also read palms. He was versatile. My mother was dead keen that my future, including marital prospects (particularly that), should be laid bare. That is when I made my excuses and bolted for the great open spaces. My mother could have been yelling after a deaf mute. Damned if that put the brakes on this Tirumalai (or Tirupathi) character from providing chapter and verse of my future career prospects and my life partner in sickness and in health. To say nothing of evil omens I should watch out for. A black cat did cross my path as I scarpered from the scene, but I merely stopped to scratch its chin and move on. The cat purred in satisfaction.

There are also a couple of fortune tellers who live in some remote village or the other, possibly in a mud hut, who are regularly visited by all kinds of people from far and near, some of them extremely well-heeled. Apparently, this soothsayer asks precisely one question. ‘What time of the day or night were you born?’ No date, place or any other detail asked for. Most of us haven’t a clue what time we were born, unless the clock struck midnight as you emerged mewling and puking, in which case you are very special. Was it 2.17 am, 3.24 pm or perhaps, 8.31 pm? When I asked my mother the time of my birth she replied, with sturdy common sense, that she was in too much pain to recall. And yet, thousands of people approach these magic men with ‘My daughter was born at precisely 6.18 am. Please tell me, oh all-knowing savant, when will she get married?’ The savant casually pulls out a leaf from a crevice in his hut and declares, ‘In precisely 11 months your wish will be granted, and she will bear two sons and a daughter.’ Elated, the parents stuff some undisclosed currency notes into an earthen pot, and go away beaming with joy.

I can go on. In our country we have our own version of tarot cards that can divine the past, present or future. If tarot cards won’t do it for you, there’s always parrot cards. Haven’t you seen an old Indian pot-boiler film lately? The local astrologer sits under a peepul tree armed with a stack of portentous cards, unlocks his cage, and Polly the parrot goes hop, hop, hop and pulls out a card that has, metaphorically or perhaps even literally, your name on it. In any event, the parrot’s red beak ensures your goose is cooked, in a nice way, if you will excuse the avian mixed metaphor. Invariably, the parrot unfailingly predicts good things in the offing, that keeps the revenues flowing for its master and everyone happy.

Ah well, the westerners and the Chinese have their fortune cookies, we have our parrots and palmists. To each his own. As someone whose name escapes me once said, ‘The future can be changed. The psychic reads the map, but free will decides the path we take.’ Hear, hear!