DESTINY

My purpose to work on Astrology was just to discover

the Truth.

Image via Wikipedia

Birth Chart

Image via Wikipedia

Image via Wikipedia

Rare might be the persons among our friends, who are not familiar with the word Destiny irrespective of their belief or disbelief in it.  The moment of birth, the moment of death, the moment of getting married and the moment of getting employed are all predestined.  All of us have descended to this earth as captives. It might sound ludicrous but it is true. I too do not accept destiny but when the storm has abated, I realize that destiny was laughing in my face.  Let me be allowed to notify that I am not now what I was in the days bygone.

Long ago, a friend of mine was waiting for the first child of his wife.  Nine months were going to finish without showing any signs of the advent of the new baby.  He was feeling scared so much that he asked me when he would get the baby.  5p.m. January 23 was my answer – a few weeks to go on the date of prediction.  The baby was received at 4 p.m. January 24.  The astrologer was incorrect by 23 hours, though the rising sign (ascendant) was correct to prediction.

Apart from births, I had to write or speak of at least five deaths, I can recall.  But the memoirs would assign not only me but also several readers to dark shadows of gloom.

My astrology was a blend of inhaling–exhaling system observation (swaroday Vigyan), horary Astrology, Palmistry and intuition etc.  I was never a professional astrologer.

Let us laugh a bit.   One afternoon around 1999, a psychiatrist came to me. I did not demand birth time, birth chart or even a look at her palm.  Having worked my long calculations, at least for an hour I spoke to her, “Who met you in May 1987”.  The curt reply was, “It was my first boyfriend, but you are incorrect by one month”.  “Sorry, the major part of the calculations were made on brain only,” replied I.  You are leaving this country, I added.  She replied that she had never thought of it.  In a month or two when I saw her again, she said, “I am going to the US sooner than later.”

I am giving small parts of each meeting – the whole is neither possible nor acceptable.

On some other day, a woman 25 came to me.  I said, “ Your husband is fond of serving patients”.  She said, “Yes, he is a doctor”.   The stars were telling me that she would marry many times in her life.  How to tell such a prediction?  I said, “Many men would love you?”.  Within a short while she had moved to the third man. I am not getting any info from her.  Even her friends do not talk to me, write to me.  I searched the facebook but to no avail. May be she must have excluded me or included me in the list of who should not see her.  It was my Destiny to lose a friend in this manner.

True Story of a Writer : Without Hypocrisy

True Story of a Writer – without Hypocrisy

The following story depicts the traits not only the of an Indian writer but also of others in other parts of the world.  I have been faced with only a very few of them and not all of them.  Not by any standard does the article aim at casting aspersions on any writer in any manner.  I do not know if the number of such writers is negligibly small.  It is not a problem that calls for any statistical analysis

True Story of a Writer 

If I go deep down into my life when I was a student at a college in Mathura, I am reminded of an interesting story.  My friend was a great admirer of me being a good foreteller, though I believe, I was not and am not.

One friend of my friend requested me to visit his home and just study the birth charts etc. of the members of his family.  Indian families used to comprise of seven to seventeen members and over.  For me it was an honour.  I agreed without any demur or hesitance.  Having got to his home I said to him that I had seen books written by him in at several stores in some big cities of India.  Being a writer of books on Palmistry and Astrology, why did he need a layman to be consulted?  He replied very politely that writing books was one thing and knowing the subject matter is altogether a different thing. 

I asked him without having knowledge, how was it possible to write books?   He replied that he would bring some books from library and would pick up something from one book, something from the other and something from the third —-. A book would be ready.  

I asked him further how many books he had written.  He replied the number might be about sixteen hundred.  “How many days does it take you to prepare one book?” was my last question.  “Just three-four days,” was his reply. I do not remember what I did for him as a foreteller.

I cannot criticize him; I cannot find faults with him in view of all the candour he had to be clean and open hearted to a friend of younger generation.  I have forgotten his face; I have forgotten his name. But his straightforwardness has left an indelible impression on my consciousness. I am virtually moved to tears at his plight, hard work and honesty. Major part of the worth of his hard work went to the publishers.  With all this untiring labour he could just manage to feed his family.  Why would he, if he were a rich man, look for an Astrologer?