Handwriting Analysis Is a Separate Service
One line. One scam. One astrologer who really should've predicted this.
“My head is stuck,” I said, my eyes on the message on my phone—the same phone that had been buzzing for two days straight with the same question from everyone I knew.
The pretty astrologer, busy on her mobile since I arrived, looked up, then at my head. She threw the mobile aside, its screen scratched raw from her own pointed nails, and touched her own head. “You mean your head is stuck with the hair?”
“No, no. I mean my mind is stuck somewhere.”
She wrinkled her brows and kept staring, waiting to know more. I looked at her pretty feet, then at the crawling lizard on the wall, and everywhere else except at her.
“We don’t have all day. Kindly speak or leave,” the astrologer raised her voice. “Where’s your mind stuck?”
Well, that was a rhetorical question, if you ask me. Everyone had been asking me the same thing for the last two days. My parents. Her parents. His parents. His husband’s parents. Her husband’s parents. God, I didn’t even know so many people were still alive in my circle.
“Hello?” The astrologer waved her hands to wake me up from my thoughts.
“I am sorry but I..I..I—” I stammered, my eyes on the phone in my hand. “I..I can’t tell you.”
The astrologer looked at the clock on the wall, shook her head in anger, and threw a notepad at me. “Write then. But it will cost you more. Handwriting analysis is a separate service.”
The astrologer was lucky. If she had said the same thing to me, or to any other person, even to a stranger, I would have ensured she closed her business. But that day, my mind was elsewhere. Stuck.
I picked the notepad up, but my hands trembled as I took the pen to write. I lifted my eyes and found the astrologer staring at me. For a moment, my mind was stuck on her beauty. But better sense prevailed. Who would risk his life with an astrologer who could predict your next move before you even thought about it? She was an astrologer, for heaven’s sake, an ambassador of God with access to his plans. Powerful, undoubtedly, considering the unpredictability of today’s world, and Mr. President in particular.
“Write,” she motioned towards the notepad with a look that said she’d light me on fire if I didn’t.
My phone buzzed. Ready when you are, it said. Not yet, I typed back. I picked up the notepad, quickly wrote on the paper, and handed it to her.
For the next few moments, no one spoke — or I’d gone deaf. She kept staring at me. I kept staring at the lizard making its move towards its target. But I could hear her heavy breathing as she controlled what looked like an intention to kill me.
Well, why blame me? It was her profession to predict. That’s what I had written on the notepad. “Predict and tell me what my mind is stuck on.”
We check the efficiency of doctors by their medicines, the plumber by his repair, so I thought—why just believe hearsay about the astrologer? Why not check her talent with a live demonstration itself? Only then could I trust her to tell me where my mind was stuck.
When she didn’t speak for a while and kept staring, I motioned her toward the notepad. “You just said we don’t have all day,” I said. Her breathing got faster, more intense. But I knew I had a point, so I stuck my feet to my place.
“Attendant!” the astrologer shouted. Within moments, two attendants came running into the room as if to save a drowning world-class swimmer.
“Yes, madam,” both said in unison.
“Take this idiot away,” she said, pointing towards the door as if I didn’t know where the exit was.
I pulled the chair toward me and sat down. “Not going until I have my answer,” I smiled. “I have also paid for your time, and these two assured me they will not ask me to leave until I get my answer.” I looked at the two attendants to confirm. They looked horrified. “Isn’t it, girls?”
The attendants avoided looking at their boss.
The astrologer was about to say something, but I interrupted. “And they’ve signed on your company’s behalf, on your official claim note. The one you give when a customer pays for your services.” I pulled the paper from my shirt pocket to show her. The astrologer gritted her teeth, clenched her hands against the chair. Looking at her in that moment, even I could predict she would pounce and kill me. But I am not an astrologer, and she was a sane one—for she did nothing of that sort. At least, not for a while.
“The paper also claims you will return double the amount if the customer doesn’t find his solution,” I read the line to remind her. “My mind is stuck. So find me a solution.”
The astrologer rubbed her face with her hands, then drank the glass of water before her, motioning the attendants to leave. I leaned back in my chair, watching the devils disappear.
“Well,” the astrologer smiled. “I will help you. But you have to be ready to be helped.”
That sent a chill down my spine. Not the fact that I was going to be helped, but the way she said it. “Oh, I am ready,” I said, faking confidence, but I could hear my heartbeat running like it was on a treadmill.
The pretty astrologer-cum-handwriting-analyst rose, smiled, and went to the table nearby. She pulled open a drawer and hid something in her palms.
“Open your palms,” she said, showing me how it had to be done with her other hand.
I swear I hated only silly questions till that moment. But since then, I hate silly gestures like opening palms even more.
“What is it?” I stammered, hiding my palms under my arms.
“You will know. Don’t worry,” she smiled, tilting her head.
I looked at the wall to see the lizard, avoiding her orders. The lizard was as close to its target as the astrologer was to me. “Take it,” she said, standing before me.
“I don’t like snakes.” I pushed the chair away with my legs.
She laughed. The twinkle in her eyes made me feel like kissing her for a moment. But then she stopped, as if she’d predicted the thought in my head. I immediately tried thinking of something else. But the picture stuck to my mind, and I imagined kissing the snake instead. Thank heavens I hate French kissing, or that would’ve been weird.
“Take it. It’s not a snake,” she said, positioning her hands over my palm.
I swallowed, closed my eyes, and opened my palms. Paper?
I opened my eyes to confirm. Yes, it was a small paper with some mantra scribbled on it.
“Read it in your mind, right now,” she said.
“My mind is not stuck,” I said aloud.
Her jaw tightened, but she smiled anyway. “In your mind. Say it every day, a hundred times.”
“And?” I looked at her.
“And your mind won’t be stuck anymore.” She walked to her chair and leaned back.
“But you didn’t tell me why my mind is stuck,” I rebelled.
The astrologer leaned toward me. “You are here for the solution, not for the problem, isn’t it?” she forced a smile.
I looked at my phone in my lap. There was a message. “Not yet,” I typed back.
As I looked at the lizard on the wall, I realized it had swallowed its target. I swallowed my helplessness and looked at the astrologer. She was back to killing the screen with her pointed fingers.
“Anything else?” she said, without taking her eyes off it.
“What if the mantra doesn’t work? What if my mind is still stuck?”
“I told you—you have to be ready to be helped. You have to believe in it. It will work,” she said.
“Okay, I believe you. I will even recite this thing two hundred times if need be.” I cleared my throat. “But if it still doesn’t work, will you pay me double the amount I paid? As promised in your claim note.”
The astrologer typed something on her phone. Then looked at me and smiled. “No,” she shook her head, pinching her lips. “But we will try to find another remedy for your problem.”
Before I could say anything more, she said, “Time’s up.” I looked at the clock on the wall.
“Next,” she shouted, and another person walked in with his problems.
We crossed paths, smiled, and nodded to acknowledge each other’s presence. Not that I had met him before, but at that moment, there was one thing common between us. We both needed a solution to our problems.
My phone buzzed. There was a message again. Ok, I typed back.
As I turned, I saw the man sitting in the chair I had just vacated. I walked over and pulled up a chair to sit beside him.
The astrologer’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“Yes, madam,” I said.
“What do you want now? We are discussing his problems now,” she said, pointing at the man beside me.
“Yes, right, I know. We three are discussing his problems now,” I said. “He doesn’t mind a second opinion. Do you, friend?” I tapped his back. “We take second opinions even for doctors, so why not astrologers, right?”
The man didn’t seem to know what to say. The astrologer’s mouth fell open, clearly unsure what to say next. But she found something. “What makes you think you’re a qualified astrologer yourself?”
I pinched my lips, thinking about what felt like a baseless question. I hadn’t questioned her qualifications, but she’d questioned mine. Wow, what a world.
She leaned back as I thought about it. The man next to me stared at me, wanting the answer to her question more than the solution to his own problem.
I picked up the notepad, scribbled something on it, tore it off, and handed it to the astrologer.
“What the hell is this? I can’t even read it.” She wrinkled her eyes and nose, hoping to make sense of it.
“Well, I can tell you that, but it’ll cost you more. Handwriting analysis is a separate service,” I winked and leaned back.
The astrologer’s eyes widened. The man beside me smiled, thinking he was lucky to meet two handwriting-analyst-cum-astrologers in one room.
“But since you’re my first client, I won’t charge,” I smiled and took the note back from her.
“I am a qualified astrologer,” I read the note aloud. “I am a qualified astrologer,” I said it again. “See, I told you I was a qualified astrologer. It’s written right here.” I showed her the note again. “You should read it a hundred times too. And believe it. That’s how it works, isn’t it?”
The astrologer breathed heavily. “What makes you think I’ll believe this nonsense?”
“Read it every day, a hundred times, and most importantly”—I paused—”believe it,” I smiled.
Her hands went still on the desk. Her breath turned ragged. For one long second nobody moved—not her, not the man beside me, not even the lizard on the wall. Then she thumped the desk with all her might and lunged across it towards me, her chair clattering back against the wall. Her fingers closed around my neck, nails digging in like she meant every mark they left. The man scrambled back, his chair screeching against the floor. “Help! Help!” he shouted.
Doors banged open. Attendants poured in, and right behind them, two more women, all grabbing at the astrologer’s arms, prying her fingers off my throat one at a time. For a few seconds it was just noise—shouting, chairs scraping, her nails raking one last line down my collar before they finally pulled her back.
One of the women, with strong, heavy arms, slapped the astrologer. The other held her back.
“Thank you for coming on time, officers,” I said, taking breaths to fill my empty lungs. “This pretty astrologer tried to kill me like the lizard ate that insect on the wall.”
The women wrinkled their noses and glanced at the wall.
“This gentleman saw it happen himself,” I said, pointing at the man. He nodded hesitantly, not knowing what else to do.
One of the two women slapped the astrologer again. “Now she’ll spend her life in prison.” She slapped her once more. “Go on—predict the other inmates’ futures now.”
I laughed, but since nobody joined in, I stopped. “She must be ready for it, considering she should have predicted her own future well in advance,” I said.
The two women smiled and began pulling the astrologer away, while she begged to be let go.
“One piece of advice,” I said to the astrologer. “Write on a piece of paper that you didn’t try to kill me, and give it to the judge.” I smiled. “But he has to believe it, else it won’t work.” I winked.
The women took the astrologer away.
“Thank you for sending them on time,” I messaged my friend, who had been messaging me ever since I’d entered the astrologer’s office. No badge, no uniform, no station address on any paper — just two women I paid better than she ever paid her attendants, and a claim note I’d read so many times I could recite it in my sleep. It wasn’t the first astrologer’s office I’d walked into that month. It wouldn’t be the last.
The attendants looked horrified at the course of events. I walked towards them. “Don’t worry. You won’t go to prison—unless you return double my money. My problem isn’t solved yet, you know,” I shrugged.
The attendants swallowed hard and rushed to bring me the money.
See, I told you my mind was stuck… on getting rich by trapping gullible people.
But one thing I couldn’t understand, even today: why couldn’t the astrologer predict she would land in prison and lose double her money?
Gosh, my mind is stuck again.
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