MY CAREER AS A FORTUNE-TELLER

I don’t know what prompted Aarati, a female helper in the emergency ward of our hospital, to come to me with her open palms, but here she was imploring me to look at the lines of her hands and predict her future.

“I don’t know palmistry,” I confessed.

“No, I know that you know, so please tell me if I will get what I want.”

Nobody gets everything what he or she wants, I thought, not even the devotees. Krishna especially takes away what we want. So what should I say?

“Sorry, I don’t know palmistry.”

“No, sir. Please just take a look and tell me.”

I shut my eyes. What would a young girl want?

“Is there a boy?” I asked.

She beamed. I was right.

“Will I get him?” she asked.

Aarati is a simple girl with modest means. Ordinary looking.

“You are sure your guy is fixed up with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just confirm with him. . . if he is really committed to you, there should be no problem, I guess.”

“Thank you, sir.” She rose from the chair.

“And please don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Sure sir.

 The next day Aarati came again.

 “I asked the boy,” she said, “he is committed.”

I was happy to know. “Well, who is the lucky guy?”

“Govind,” she replied coyly.

A dashing male helper who works in the evening shift, Govind seemed a sober guy. “Very good,” I said, “and remember don’t about this to anyone.”

“Sure sir.”

I should have known better.

The next day Rohit, another helper came to me. He had overheard my conversation with Aarati. “Please tell my future.”

“I can’t dear.” I said tersely. But he wouldn’t let go off me.

“Please, sir, please.”

“What is your problem?”

“Money doesn’t stay in our family,” he said. “We earn, but it’s gone.”

It’s the same everywhere, isn’t it? I thought. Only person who gets to keep all the money is the owner of this hospital.

 Then I thought of an idea. “Well,” I said, “you can try one thing.”

He leaned forward.

“Keep Tulasi at your home. Water it daily. Do four rounds around it. Bow your head to it, and if possible offer incense and lamp. Then we will see.”

“Will this work?” his eye brows knotted.

“Try it.”

I thought that was the end. But I was wrong. The next day, Navin, an elderly helper came to me. “I have problem at home. Please tell me some solution.”

I realized that in such crisis, people become very gullible, and with little prompting, they open up and share their personal problems. I felt that they might feel better simply by talking to someone who was willing to listen with empathy, and plus they might also be willing to practice devotional service-at least some ritualistic aspects. Who know this might be the beginning of their Krishna consciousness. Perhaps this is the way Krishna wants me to preach.

Such were my noble thoughts, and I must confess, I also liked the attention and reverence I was getting.

I gave Navin the same formula—worship Tulasi at home. Later I would add—offer food; chant Hare Krishna.

***********

One day, while seriously thinking about learning Palmistry as an aid to preach, I called up a relative who is an astrologer. I told her everything, hoping she would be delighted.

She was furious. “Don’t do this,” she scolded. “You know neither astrology, nor palmistry. You might be successful a couple of times, and people may like you. But the same people will speak ill about you once you go wrong. And you are bound to go wrong. Even I go wrong at times. Leave this at once. Just stick to your devotional practices.”

“Then what should I do when people come to me for help, asking about their future?”

“Tell them that you are a spiritualist, not an astrologer. You can pray for them. You can teach them Gita and mantra-meditation. You can connect them to God. But you can’t predict their future.”

It made sense.

But perhaps Krishna wanted to drive home the point more strongly, as I learnt in the course of the next few days.

**************

“Please tell me, if my uncle will survive.” It was Aarati.

His uncle had gas-gangrene of the leg. I was there during his surgery. The moment the surgeon incised his leg, pus mixed with blood and gas bubbles shot up almost to our heads. Such was the infection. Bacterial were eating up his flesh and spreading virulently all over his body. Surgery had helped, but things were still critical. The skin over his remaining leg had started to blister. A couple of days earlier, I had my doubts, but after two blood transfusion the previous day, his uncle looked in good spirits and his condition seemed stable.

“I think he will make it,” I said. “He looks much better.”

I don’t know why, but she kept on repeating this question for almost six-seven times, and all the time I smilingly said he would.

The next day I came in high spirits and found Aarati sitting near the lift. “How is your uncle?” I breezed past her.

“He expired.”

I froze. “What?”

“There was some reaction to a new antibiotic. Whole evening he was in ICU. He died half-an-hour back.”

I was stunned. She looked at me and the continued talking to her relative. Thankfully, she didn’t complain or put me in an embarrassing situation by referring our conversation the previous day.

As I continued my rounds in the ward, a nurse came in the ward looking for something. She was tearful. She gave me a very short but piercing glance and left sniffing in her kerchief.

I remembered she had met me a couple of days earlier.

“I have heard you tell fortunes,” she had asked me.

“No, it’s just God’s grace.”

I realized that she was a Sikh. “Just go to Golden Temple, and offer pranams there. And I think you will be perfectly fine in your life.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah, everything will be OK with you.” I said emphatically.

Now here she was crying.

“What happened?” I asked the other nurse.

“Somebody stole 7000/-Rs from her cupboard. That was her monthly salary. She has been crying since morning.”

I shook my head and remembered the words of my relative. That was the end of my short career as a Fortune Teller.