Until the Next Time

Mom and Dad were lucky—they got to travel a lot. Dad was posted in Africa for over 17 years. Mom joined him in 1974 after they got married. We moved back to India in 1984. I was 8 years old then.

The schooling system in Nigeria wasn’t great, you see. So they made the move back—new city, new routines. But one thing didn’t change: the constant shifting. We moved homes 10 times over the next 30 years.

Dad was an avid shopper—anything that caught his eye on his travels would find its way into our lives. Gifts, trinkets, rare collectibles, tapestries, and some wildly unnecessary queens guard dolls. We carried all of it from one house to the next. A treasure trove of memories boxed up and carted along, over and over again.

When Dad passed away, we asked Mom if she’d consider moving closer to us. She agreed—it was an excuse, really, for all of us to start letting go. At least two truckloads of things were given away. But not without pausing to revisit what had once mattered so deeply: the odd little cut glass swans and ducks from London, the tiny Eiffel Tower that doubled as a keychain, and the one thing we always came back to—the briefcase full of printed photographs.

That old briefcase had journeyed with us everywhere. Each time we moved, we opened it, lingered over the memories, and packed it up again. This time was no different. Maybe even more special. Because this time, Dad wasn’t there.

We laughed through tears remembering the long hiatus in London, walking in the biting cold with ice creams in hand. The time we got lost in Paris. The amusement park in Hong Kong that got me grossly sick. The shikara ride in Kashmir. Singapore, Kenya, Amsterdam. A lifetime folded into snapshots.

And then, tucked deep into the back pocket of the briefcase, was a postcard. I don’t remember ever seeing it before.

Neither did Mom.

It was addressed to me. Dated 1972.

I was born in 1976.

It read, “It only gets better, until the next time.”

The handwriting didn’t match Dad’s. The stamp was too faded to make out where it came from. And no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t piece together why it existed. Or how. Or who sent it.

I tried to let it go. But it kept coming up—sometimes in quiet wonder, sometimes in circular conversations filled with wild theories. Some too loose. Some too far-fetched.

A week later, while helping Mom finish packing, we started reminiscing about her wedding to Dad. She mentioned how around that time, Dad was transitioning between jobs. He was back in India, waiting for a formal appointment letter that was delayed. This was the early ’70s—snail mail, telegrams, and truck calls were the norm. And none of them were very reliable.

He’d landed an opportunity with a multinational trading firm in Lagos—managing import and cold storage for food products. But as the days passed, the offer didn’t come. His savings were running low—he’d spent most of it on the wedding and family.

So, unsure and anxious, he went to meet the family astrologer. Let’s call him SG.

SG told him the stars were still aligning. That the delay was temporary. That better things were coming.

A week later, the job came through. Dad flew to Lagos. Mom followed months later. My sister was born the following year. Then I came along.

Mom swears that after I was born, everything changed for the better. Dad’s career took off. Life was good. Stable. Happy. Africa was home for a while. My earliest memories—some of the most vivid ones—are from those years. It’s strange how the mind holds on tighter to the time before the world gets complicated.

Back in the present, as I helped Mom pack away some old paperwork, she handed me a little red cloth bag filled with books. “These are our horoscopes,” she said. “Yours, your sister’s, and one each for Dad and me. SG made them all when you were born.”

Four in total. I had never seen them before.

I opened Dad’s. I expected signs, symbols, charts. And that’s what I found—until I reached the middle.

There, written in the same slanted handwriting as the postcard, was a detailed life prediction. His entire journey—education, work, marriage, children, joy, struggle, personality traits, health, lifespan—all of it laid out.

And now, with the luxury of hindsight, I could see how eerily accurate so much of it was. Not just the years before I was born, but after.

I ran to get the postcard again. Held it side-by-side with the pages.

The handwriting was identical.

And in the tiniest faded script, just below the closing line, was a name: SG.

Was I seeing what I wanted to see? Maybe.

But it made me wonder.

Was this message meant for Dad? A gentle nudge during a time of doubt? A promise that it would all get better?

And if so—why was it addressed to me?

Maybe SG saw something. Maybe it was an anchor he left behind, knowing one day I’d need to hold onto something unexplainable.

Maybe the story isn’t meant to be solved. Just held. Like the best of memories.

I looked at my own horoscope. Thought about reading it.

But my life… it's already in the part where it’s getting better.

So maybe I’ll wait.

Until the next time