Your Bassaram is a rather useless fellow,” I declared irritably.
“Why? What’s he done now?” my wife asked, without even looking up from scrolling the messages on her phone. “And he isn’t my Bassaram. You hired him, remember? You’re the one who keeps praising his driving skills and initiative.”
“He’s useless in critical matters. An hour ago, I sent him to find a brown cow, and he still hasn’t returned.”
My wife looked up, one eyebrow arched like a question mark. “A cow? At this hour?”
“Not just any cow—a brown cow,” I repeated, emphasising the distinction.
She set her phone aside. “Why on earth do you need a cow?”
I drew a patient breath; the kind one takes before explaining quantum mechanics to an imbecile. “Swami Bhavishyanand said on his astro channel this morning that Rahu is declining and Vrishchik is ascendant. Vishakha, Anuradha, and Jyeshtha are poorly aligned in my seventh house. He warned those of my sign against travelling west today. If unavoidable, one must feed a paan leaf to a brown cow to avert misfortune. You know I intend to go to the club, which is to the west of our home. Now do you understand why I sent Bassaram to find a brown cow?”
“Do you really believe this nonsense? You rise early every day to watch this organic manure?”
“I’m no blind believer,” I replied, “but one can’t argue with results.”
“What results?” she asked, her tone suggesting that I had joined some cult that worshipped plastic chairs.
“Last week he predicted I would find treasure. Sure enough, I discovered a five-rupee coin near the washing machine.”
“Treasure?” She looked scornfully.
“Then he predicted that I would be indisposed and might see a doctor on Saturday. Remember, I sneezed that morning, and while taking out the trash, I met Dr Hari.”
My wife spoke slowly, as if to a child. “Dr Hari is our neighbour, a PhD in Sanskrit poetry, not a physician.”
“Agreed, but he is a doctor, no? The stars sometimes don’t read the fine print.”
Our argument escalated in that special way that only married couples can manage—part philosophy, part petty point-scoring and part non sequiturs.
“How can one prediction apply to one-twelfth of humanity?” she demanded. “Millions sneezing and finding coins simultaneously? The mathematics alone should embarrass you.”
“It works for me. That’s what matters.”
I pressed on with what I considered ironclad logic. “Ten channels air these programmes with soaring TRPs. Millions tune in. They can’t all be delusional. It can’t be all mumbo jumbo.”
Maybe I misheard, but my wife muttered something like: “Mumbo jumbo is exactly what it is.”
As I left for the club, I instructed her to lay out my yellow socks. “Deep yellow is my lucky colour today,” I announced proudly.
She merely grunted. Her grumpiness lingered through the evening. At dinner with the Tomars, she committed what I considered domestic treason: pointing out my yellow socks to Mrs Tomar. The two women kept whispering and sniggering the whole evening.
Provoked, I resolved to convert her. The next morning, I sacrificed my tea ritual and made her watch the astro channel with me. But Bhavishyanand was absent!
A saffron-robed sadhvi named Kaal Kumari appeared in his place, solemnly intoning predictions as if each syllable were a heavy responsibility. The ticker announced: “Bhavishyanand will be off air for a few weeks following an accident.”
I stared, stunned. “He… met with an accident?”
My wife burst into laughter. “So much for your oracle. A seer who couldn’t foresee his own mishap. Probably his scooty broke down and a Nano ran right over him! He should have worn red boxers and fed biscuits to a black dog to avert the misfortune!” she mocked.
The image of the great astrologer in crimson underwear, chasing a stray to feed it biscuits, hovered between us. Even I had to smile.
“Perhaps Bhavishyanand isn’t such a hotshot crystal-gazer as I imagined,” I conceded.
My wife looked triumphant.
Then the channel updated: Bhavishyanand’s Mercedes had crashed after overrunning a pedestrian.
“A Mercedes?” Pity for the scooty victim evaporated. Learning that he was riding a Mercedes incensed me beyond reason. “The guy must be a crook, a fraud and a charlatan!” I declared.
I vowed to abandon stupid astrological stuff and sleep late every morning. A week later, early morning murmurs from the television stirred me. My wife was missing. I found her in the living room, raptly watching the astro channel as Kaal Kumari discoursed on Saturn, Vakrav and Shadvarg.
“To avoid bad luck on Monday, eat two oranges in the morning and carry the peels in your purse till evening.”
“What crap is this? You wake up early every day to watch this organic manure?”
“To avoid health issues on Tuesday, keep a clove of garlic behind your ear while brushing your teeth. On Wednesday….”
“Shush!” hissed the missus. “I need to note it down carefully. I’ve been watching her every morning and the predictions have proved absolutely accurate for me—love, career, moods, profit, loss. I must follow her advice.”
“Don’t tell me you believe in this bunkum?”
“I’m no blind believer,” she replied serenely, “But the stars speak, loudly, and with uncanny precision. One can’t argue with results, can one?”
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com
