Whatever happened to the daily horoscopes?
I don’t believe in horoscopes, but if certain superstitious readers get a kick out of them, I say bring them back
anwer.mooraj@tribune.com.pk
In India and Pakistan, lots of people believe in astrology which, throughout its history, was considered a scholarly tradition that goes back to the second millennium BC. It has been defined as one of the several pseudoscientific systems of divination based on the premise that there is a relationship between astronomical phenomena and events in the human world. There was a time in Karachi when many individuals didn’t step out of their home unless they had consulted the horoscope in their morning paper. This included besides businessmen, politicians, surgeons and sportsmen, and even a former governor of Sindh, who initially insisted in driving to work in his own car. These days, some of the dailies have dropped the forecasts, possibly due to financial constraints, forcing devotees to go on the net, or visit local astrologers, palmists and tarot card readers.
I understand most of the syndicated horoscopes are written by women with exotic names that hint at Romany ancestry, though I never quite understand how, after studying the effect of the sun, the planets, the moon and the stars on human beings, they could guide a Scottish housewife to change her hairdresser. In Europe, the incumbents in the tent at carnivals, dressed in gaudy apparel, their heads wrapped in folds of muslin, staring into huge crystal bowls, are invariably women. I confess that for a time I used to read the horoscopes, even though some of the predictions had the blushing sensibilities of a Jane Austen’s vicar’s widow, though I did have a bit of trouble trying to respond to the vibrations of the planets. And then one day, many years ago, the inevitable happened. In a library I discovered four morning newspapers printed in English which carried horoscopes.
It was February and it happened to be my birthday, and wondered what the league of soothsayers had in store for me. This is what the first paper had to say. “Perhaps you will be feeling quite exhausted now. Certainly you have been pushing yourself extremely hard of late. It would be a good idea to slow down a bit. Postpone any important appointments until the following week.” As I had just returned from a relaxing holiday in the mountains, I tossed the paper aside and turned to the next daily. “Congratulations. Your boss will now grant you your hard-earned leave. You can take that trip into the mountains that you have been dreaming about. Take lots of warm clothes. Beware of foreign tourists who don’t carry cameras.” Paper number three was more specific. “Today is favourable for all creative and imaginative work. If you are currently engaged in the making of motion pictures being shot in the mountains, you will find many new and exciting ideas.” And finally, “unexpected financial gains are certain. Visitors are likely to drop in on Monday. Beware of salesmen selling toasters. You may start a new friendship with someone of the opposite sex. Travel on business may materialise. Avoid wearing blue on Saturday.”
I admire these writers who make a living by churning out 12 terse messages day after day, year after year, with rote-like predictability in an endless variety of permutations offering advice on when to pop the question, when to sell a failing stock or when to visit the doctor for the pimple in the groin. It is a measured caricature perfected over the years, balancing hope with despair, positive statement with innuendo. I don’t believe in horoscopes, but if certain superstitious readers get a kick out of them, I say to the editors, bring them back and stick them in the sports section. Who knows, we might get a tip for the World Cup.
Published in The Express Tribune, February 15th, 2015.
I understand most of the syndicated horoscopes are written by women with exotic names that hint at Romany ancestry, though I never quite understand how, after studying the effect of the sun, the planets, the moon and the stars on human beings, they could guide a Scottish housewife to change her hairdresser. In Europe, the incumbents in the tent at carnivals, dressed in gaudy apparel, their heads wrapped in folds of muslin, staring into huge crystal bowls, are invariably women. I confess that for a time I used to read the horoscopes, even though some of the predictions had the blushing sensibilities of a Jane Austen’s vicar’s widow, though I did have a bit of trouble trying to respond to the vibrations of the planets. And then one day, many years ago, the inevitable happened. In a library I discovered four morning newspapers printed in English which carried horoscopes.
It was February and it happened to be my birthday, and wondered what the league of soothsayers had in store for me. This is what the first paper had to say. “Perhaps you will be feeling quite exhausted now. Certainly you have been pushing yourself extremely hard of late. It would be a good idea to slow down a bit. Postpone any important appointments until the following week.” As I had just returned from a relaxing holiday in the mountains, I tossed the paper aside and turned to the next daily. “Congratulations. Your boss will now grant you your hard-earned leave. You can take that trip into the mountains that you have been dreaming about. Take lots of warm clothes. Beware of foreign tourists who don’t carry cameras.” Paper number three was more specific. “Today is favourable for all creative and imaginative work. If you are currently engaged in the making of motion pictures being shot in the mountains, you will find many new and exciting ideas.” And finally, “unexpected financial gains are certain. Visitors are likely to drop in on Monday. Beware of salesmen selling toasters. You may start a new friendship with someone of the opposite sex. Travel on business may materialise. Avoid wearing blue on Saturday.”
I admire these writers who make a living by churning out 12 terse messages day after day, year after year, with rote-like predictability in an endless variety of permutations offering advice on when to pop the question, when to sell a failing stock or when to visit the doctor for the pimple in the groin. It is a measured caricature perfected over the years, balancing hope with despair, positive statement with innuendo. I don’t believe in horoscopes, but if certain superstitious readers get a kick out of them, I say to the editors, bring them back and stick them in the sports section. Who knows, we might get a tip for the World Cup.
Published in The Express Tribune, February 15th, 2015.