I was seven years old in 1982 when my father—an engineer by profession who retired as a Divisional Engineer from Mumbai Telephones (MTNL), and an amateur astrologer known among friends and relatives for his startlingly accurate predictions—looked at my palm and said,
“You will have a career that requires a lot of signing of documents.”
At that age, I had no idea what he meant. But for reasons I can’t explain, those words etched themselves permanently into my memory.
I grew up a science enthusiast. I did well in science exams without spending too much time mugging up textbooks. I wasn’t a prodigy or a rank-holder, but I almost always scored better than I expected. My handwriting was terrible, yet I could write extremely fast. Something curious followed me throughout my academic life: I often remembered things taught in class that I never studied later, and sometimes I understood concepts only while writing them down.
By God’s grace, I completed my graduation in Chemistry without a single arrear.
During those three years in college, there was one department that stood out prominently on campus—Communications. I never really knew what it was about. I assumed it had something to do with telecommunications and was certain I had nothing to do with it.
After graduation, my father wanted me to pursue an MBA, just like my sister. I cleared the written exam but failed miserably in the group discussion. I didn’t know that “group discussion” actually meant shouting the moment the clock started—without checking if anyone was listening. I also didn’t know that the loudest mouth usually wins.
A fellow named Biju got selected. I still remember his name. Later, my sister told me he quit within six months. One MBA seat wasted.
It was my sister again who suggested,
“Why don’t you do the Mass Communication course in our college?”
“What is that?” I asked.
“They teach journalism and filmmaking.”
The word filmmaking lit something inside me. I imagined myself walking straight into National Geographic after completing the course. I joined without a second thought. Even today, I don’t know why the department was called Communications instead of Mass Communication.
I loved the course. I completed my Master’s with a first class.
As part of the curriculum, we had to undergo three professional trainings—print, audio-visual, or radio. I did one stint at The Statesman, New Delhi, and two in audio-visual media—AVRC Chennai and Zee TV Mumbai. Ironically, the one I found most boring was print media.
After my Master’s, I moved to Mumbai hoping for a break in television. I applied to almost every channel that existed in the mid-90s. Nothing worked.
My first job turned out to be at Jetwings, the inflight magazine of Jet Airways. Three months later, I landed an offer from The Indian Express, Mumbai—its internet edition. I worked as a sub-editor for nearly three years.
That’s when my father’s words returned to me.
Signing documents.
Was he talking about a career rooted in written communication—fifteen years before it actually unfolded?
The internet industry was booming. I moved to Chennai to work with Sify as a Channel Manager. Though the title sounded managerial, my work was still deeply writing-oriented—and I didn’t enjoy it much. My dream of cinema never left me.
Ironically, I spent a good part of my time editing junk astrology content sent by various astrologers. The channel I built—Sify Astrology—performed exceptionally well in terms of page views. One astrologer even published a book using content I had edited and practically rewritten, without crediting me. It didn’t bother me. I still believed movies were my destiny.
Blogging began to take off in the early 2000s. I dismissed it.
Why would anyone want to tell the world about their personal lives?
Who would read them—unless they were celebrities?
Then a colleague said something that changed everything:
“Kennedi, most idiots are blogging without contributing anything of value. You know spirituality, astrology, and philosophy. Why don’t you write?”
I gave it a shot.
My early blogs went viral. The views poured in. Unfortunately, Sify’s management wasn’t amused. Topics like Why Women Wear Heels, Why Women Wear Lipsticks, Why Women Wear Bras, The Benefits of Watching Porn, and How Women Manipulate Men didn’t sit well with corporate morality.
My boss gave me a choice:
“Your job—or your blog.”
“I choose my blog,” I said.
I quit.
In 2004, I launched Askenni.com. Twenty-two years later, I’m still writing—and you are reading this very blog. Most readers come for my writing, stay to know me, and eventually consult me for astrology. Writing, ironically, became my gateway to astrology—not the other way around.
Astrology became my sole source of income from 2004 onward.
A reputed publisher once approached me to write a book on Numerology. I signed the agreement. It still sits unread in my inbox. I wrote a few pages and stopped. Why?
Thousands of numerology books already existed. Why would anyone read mine?
More importantly—I still wanted cinema.
In 2007, on a relative’s insistence, I met a Nadi astrologer. After the routine questions, he said:
“You will write a book.”
I was 32. I had no interest in becoming an author.
Yet my life continued to revolve around writing—typed reports, chats, consultations. Even today, 99% of my astrological work happens through written communication. I had been signing documents all along—just not on paper.
Movies eventually happened. I acted in four films and wrote dialogues for one. I’m currently working on a feature script and even shot a teaser with three-time National Award–winning cinematographer Madhu Ambat. Yet, inexplicably, the project drags on.
The teaser is here – ‘Dwesha’ @ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DT9tobGNFoE
And in the meantime, my first book—
‘Lucky Chicken with a Fifth Toe’—got published on Amazon. (You can buy it here – https://amzn.in/d/1GGcsXX)
And people love it.
Looking back, I can’t help but wonder:
Was I wrestling with my destiny all along?
While I chased cinema relentlessly, was destiny quietly nudging me—through my father’s words, my sister’s advice, missed opportunities, unexpected turns, writing jobs, blogging, astrology, and finally… a book?
Maybe destiny doesn’t shout.
Maybe it whispers—again and again—until you finally listen.