Turmeric Tainted Tumor

I was caught in a tug-of-war between staying in Toronto, where life was comfortable but suffocating and escaping to Hamburg, a city that promised liberation. Toronto had grown soulless, and I was desperate for clarity, so I found myself seeking guidance from a peculiar source: a psychic hidden at the back of a College Street convenience store, where the scent of garam masala mingled with deceit and despair. I asked about the enigmatic Psychic Raju from the cashier, followed the path of dusty Desi food, and settled into a weathered cantilever chair, anticipating enlightenment.

A Caribbean woman with a fat ass emerged, carrying a bag of red powder. It was my turn. Entering the cramped room, I heard malevolent-sounding mantras that made me want to cry out to the God of Abraham. Ayurvedic charts plastered the walls and ceiling tiles, while the heady aroma of incense clung to the air. A tattered, ornate rug covered the floor, and inexplicably, plastic bags lay strewn about. Raju, the psychic, gestured me to a seat, a peculiar figure with a squat frame, a bowl cut, and eyes that darted in opposite directions like a chameleon trying to track multiple prey.

I knew this was a load of bullshit, but I was doing it anyway.

"Welcome," he greeted, "What brings you here?"

"I'm here to decide whether to stay or go," I replied, my query hanging in the air.

"Stay or go where?" he probed.

"My only question is: should I stay or should I go?" I repeated.

"Ah, a matter of love," Raju deduced, his eyes askew, sweeping me from head to toe.

"Um, yes," I confessed, "So, should I stay or should I go?"

But Raju, rather than answering, requested, "Give me your palm."

I extended my hand.

"Your parents, highly educated; you, medium educated," he continued, scanning me up and down with those restless eyes, "A long life line, three kids, and a strong money line. You'll be successful."

"Really?" Raju guessed my background correctly, but I attributed it to his keen observation of my attire and demeanor, "So, will those kids be with my current husband?"

He dodged my question, "You'll be more than fine regardless of your choice."

"That's hardly an answer," I quipped, somewhat petulant, "Even my perverted therapist told me that. Anyone can say that."

"You'll be fine," he reiterated.

"Alright, alright," I needled, "So I'll be fine, blah, blah, blah, no matter where I go. But where will I be finer: here in Toronto or in Germany? Should I stay with my husband or go with the other guy?"

"If you stay, you'll be ninety percent happy," Raju claimed, "If you go, eighty percent. But why ask the question of how happy you'll be?"

"What on earth does that mean?" I scoffed.

Raju waved his stubby arms about, the chanting growing eerier, "There's a dark cloud clouding your aura. I must perform rituals to break the bad energy….. Just give me five hundred dollars."

"What?!" I exclaimed, "I don't have that kind of money."

A subcontinental scammer. A turmeric-tainted tumor. I regret that my time in Toronto led me to pass judgment on at least a billion people. It’s not right.

"We can work out a payment plan," he suggested, attempting to soothe me, "Pay in installments as you get more money."

"What the fuck man?" I protested, "This isn't like buying a fridge or a car—zero percent financing, paying in installments. Besides, I'm trying to get out of here sooner rather than later."

Raju realized I wasn't biting, and we settled on one hundred dollars for a single session. I stood up, and he brandished a feather duster, swirling it over my head, a comical sight given his stature. I left the convenience store with no answers, but looking back, perhaps those were the only answers I needed after all.