I sometimes doubt myself — am I intimidating?
We recently stayed at a hotel, chosen by my wife after sieving through 50 options. Her reason was practical — it was the only one offering complimentary breakfast. So we did something completely out of character for our family: woke up early, dressed up by 8 AM, and made it down in time before the breakfast ended at 9. At home, we usually have breakfast by 11.
The buffet was laid out in a big hall, one half serving idlis and poha, the other hosting an elaborate Hindu ritual. An NRI couple was performing a Vedic puja with three learned Brahmin priests. As expected, breakfast was strictly vegetarian — perhaps out of reverence for the ritual happening just across the hall.
Now, I’ve noticed this pattern whenever I enter a public space — people turn their heads and stare. I’m used to it. It’s probably the long beard and longer hair. The confusion is visible on their faces. Is he a saint? A yogi? Then why is he wearing jeans and Caterpillar shoes? And who is that young woman with him? His daughter? (For the record, she’s my wife — only four years younger, though most assume she’s a couple of decades behind me.)
And our 6-year-old son? Most assume he’s my grandson. I don’t correct them. I just smile and focus on my food or my child, whichever requires more attention at the moment.
While we munched on upma and watermelon slices, the room echoed with Vedic chants. I love chants — I don’t always understand the words, but the vibrations soothe me. To me, any form of devotional call — be it an Azaan in the UAE or a Sanskrit stotra in an Indian temple — has the power to still the mind.
As breakfast ended, so did the ritual. The NRI couple handed over generous bundles of cash to the priests — everyone looked content. Except one priest. He kept glancing at me throughout the puja. I ignored it.
But once the ritual ended, he walked over.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Bangalore,” I replied.
“What do you do?”
“I’m an astrologer.”
“I guessed so,” he smiled.
We exchanged an awkward silence before he asked, “Is your blood group A positive?”
“No,” I replied, smiling.
He smiled too. Then walked away.
You see, Vedic Astrology was kept within the Brahmin community for centuries. Even today, most Indian astrologers are Brahmins — and most Indians prefer them. The assumptions are layered: they are pious, vegetarian, closer to God, and importantly — won’t charge too much.
But being a non-Brahmin professional astrologer in India? It’s an identity that invites curiosity at best, condescension at worst.
Whenever I mention my profession to a Brahmin, the response is rarely respect — usually unsolicited advice, a mini oral exam, or spiritual ego in disguise.
“You must use astrology to help people.”
“Which method do you follow?”
“Do you know about the so-and-so Raja Yoga?”
Or, in today’s case, “Guessing blood groups.”
It’s never a consultation. Just a competition I never signed up for.
And that’s perhaps why I come off as intimidating. Not because I raise my voice, or challenge people. I just don’t fit into their compartments.
I am a vegetarian-sounding non-vegetarian. A sage-like man in Caterpillar shoes. An astrologer without the caste stamp. A father mistaken for a grandfather. A husband judged as inappropriate based on my wife’s youthful appearance.
I don’t try to intimidate. But I refuse to fit in.
And sometimes, that’s enough to make others uncomfortable.