An Astrologer’s Day by R. K. Narayan

 

Literature & Adaptation Studies | Academic Blog Post

Screening the Epiphany of Malgudi: A Critical Post-Viewing Inquiry into R.K. Narayan’s An Astrologer’s Day and Its Film Adaptation

Context: Post–Viewing Tasks Worksheet Response for Department of English Academic Blog & Classroom Submission

Subject: Film Adaptation Analysis of R.K. Narayan’s canonical short story "An Astrologer's Day"

This blog task is assigned by Megha Trivedi Ma'am, Department of English, MKBU.

Prologue & Academic Overview: R.K. Narayan remains one of the supreme chroniclers of Indian sensibility, endowed with an uncanny knack for unmasking the sublime ironies of mundane existence in the fictional town of Malgudi. "An Astrologer’s Day" first published in The Hindu and later immortalized as the titular piece of his celebrated 1947 anthology presents a masterclass in psychological suspense, situational irony, and atmospheric density. This extended academic blog presents a comprehensive, multi-dimensional response to the prescribed Post-Viewing questions, dissecting narrative fidelity, cognitive character shifts, aesthetic/Rasa experiences, pedagogical dimensions, directorial craftsmanship, and a transformative cinematic vision for future remakes.

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📄 Academic Task Worksheet -Screening of short film “An Astrologer’s Day” based on R.K.Narayan’s “An Astrologer’s Day”. {View Worksheet}

An Astrologer's Day - Hindi Short Film

Question 1: How faithful is the movie to the original short story?

I. Fidelity in Spatial Geography and the Semiotics of Malgudi

When examining the degree of fidelity between R.K. Narayan’s textual masterpiece "An Astrologer’s Day" and its cinematic short film adaptation, one must distinguish between superficial textual literalism and atmospheric fidelity. Narayan opens his narrative with an indelible, sensory-laden cartography: the astrologer conducts his business punctually at midday beneath the boughs of a spreading tamarind tree flanking a narrow path running through Town Hall Park. The written text thrives on chromatic vividness the paraphernalia of cowrie shells, a square piece of cloth with obscure mystic charts, a notebook, and bundles of palmyra writing, accompanied by forehead smeared with sacred ash and vermilion, eyes sparkling with sharp abnormal gleam, and a deep saffron-colored turban wound around his head.

The cinematic adaptation demonstrates a remarkably high level of fidelity to this visual iconography. The film meticulously translates Narayan's mise-en-scène into lived cinematic space. The camera dwells affectionately on the arrangement of occult props the tactile roughness of the palmyra leaves, the chalk-drawn diagrams, and the ritualistic flick of cowrie shells. The filmmaker preserves the essential socioeconomic ecosystem described by Narayan: a congested marketplace teeming with medicine sellers, hardware peddlers, magicians, and above all, an auctioneer of cheap cloth who creates a din all day. In both media, the astrologer is presented not as an isolated charlatan in an ivory tower, but as an organic parasite feeding off the bustling commerce of the bazaar.

II. The Dramaturgy of Illumination: Translating Textual Darkness into Chiaroscuro

A crucial benchmark of adaptation fidelity lies in how the filmmaker tackles Narayan’s sophisticated use of light and darkness. In the prose text, Narayan stresses that the place was innocent of municipal lighting; the bazaar was lit by shop lights gas flares, naked bulbs on poles, hissing cycle lamps, and the old flare of the groundnut seller. This visual interplay of light and shadow is not merely decorative; it is an epistemological device. It mirrors the astrologer’s own duplicity a precarious twilight where half-truths masquerade as cosmic revelations.

"The half-light of the setting sun and the flickering flare of the groundnut heap created an enchanting, bewildering crisscross of light rays and shadows. This suited the astrologer immensely well, for the simple reason that he had not in the least intended to be an astrologer when he began life; and he knew no more of what was going to happen to others than he knew what was going to happen to himself next minute."
— R.K. Narayan, An Astrologer’s Day

The short film honors this aesthetic mandate with cinematic chiaroscuro. The cinematographer relies on low-key lighting, practical light sources, and intense deep shadows. When the vendors pack their wares and the groundnut flare is extinguished, plunging the lane into murkiness, the film recreates this claustrophobic gloom with fidelity. The pivotal inciting action where the stranger lights a green cheroot (or beedi), producing a fleeting flare of matchlight that reveals his furrowed face is staged with shot-for-shot accuracy. In both text and film, that fraction of a second of illumination acts as the lightning bolt of recognition, sparking visceral panic in the protagonist.

III. Structural Divergences and Necessary Adaptative Expansions

Nevertheless, adaptation is inevitably an act of translation across semiotic systems, requiring structural adjustments. Narayan’s prose is economical, heavily reliant on internal monologue, authorial omniscience, and retrospective exposition. In the story, the astrologer's youth, his drunkenness, his wild brawl, his stabbing of Guru Nayak, and his frantic flight from his ancestral village are compressed into crisp authorial reflections. In contrast, the cinematic medium requires externalization. The film cannot easily rely on a third-person narrator without breaking dramatic immediacy; thus, it employs subtle sonic motifs, heightened facial micro-expressions, trembling hands, and lingering close-ups to externalize the dread that Narayan summarizes in sentences.

Where the film slightly diverges is in pacing and dialogue rhythm. To sustain tension across running minutes, the encounter between the astrologer and Guru Nayak is dramatized with elongated pregnant pauses and more aggressive verbal sparring than the brisk literary dialogue. While the text allows the astrologer to rapidly compose himself after the match flare, the movie lingers on his physical cowardice and desperate bids to pack his bag and retreat. Despite these temporal elongations, the film remains intensely faithful to the narrative spine, retaining the four essential dramatic movements: (1) the professional routine of deception, (2) the antagonistic challenge and wager, (3) the sudden reversal enabled by the astrologer’s intimate prior knowledge of his assailant, and (4) the nocturnal domestic resolution where the moral and psychological knot is untied.

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Question 2: After watching the movie, have your perception about the short story, characters or situations changed?

I. Humanizing the Impostor: From Cynical Charlatan to Haunted Fugitive

Reading R.K. Narayan on the printed page often cultivates an ironic, mildly detached amusement in the reader. Narayan’s prose operates with gentle comic irony; we perceive the astrologer primarily as a shrewd, worldly-wise psychologist who exploits the credulity of troubled commoners. In the text, his profession is defined with satiric humor: "He had a working analysis of mankind’s troubles: marriage, money, and the tangles of human ties. Long practice had sharpened his perception." As readers, we marvel at his professional craft allowing the client to speak uninterrupted for ten minutes, which invariably supplies him with material for a dozen answers and pieces of advice.

However, the visual screening dramatically alters this intellectual detachment, transforming an ironic caricature into a deeply vulnerable, traumatized human being. Witnessing an actor embodying the astrologer seeing the involuntary spasm of his throat, the bead of cold sweat running down his saffron forehead, and the sheer terror widening his pupils when the match is struck reconfigures our moral judgment. The astrologer ceases to be merely a petty con-artist preying on gullibility; he is revealed as a hunted man who has spent decades living beneath the colossal weight of perceived homicide. His elaborate costume is no longer just a marketing gimmick to lure gullible clients it is a spiritual fortress, a desperate disguise designed to erase his true identity from the world and from himself.

II. Deconstructing Guru Nayak: From Vengeful Nemesis to Broken Wanderer

A parallel transformation occurs in our perception of the antagonist, Guru Nayak. On the page, Guru Nayak is easily imagined as a menacing, vengeful specter a ruthless stalker scouring towns and villages with relentless murderous intent. Narayan describes him thrusting his palm into the astrologer’s face, aggressively demanding answers, and mocking the astrologer’s hesitations with crude wagers.

On screen, however, the visceral presence of Guru Nayak reveals the profound tragedy of monomania. When the camera closes in on his rugged, weathered features, we do not simply see an avenging demon; we see a man consumed and hollowed out by revenge. His quest has frozen his life in amber. He is trapped in the very moment of his trauma the bottom of the well where he was left to die years ago. The film foregrounds the pathetic irony of his existence: he has abandoned home, family, and peace to pursue a phantom. When the astrologer tells him that his enemy died four months ago under the wheels of a lorry in a far-off town, the expression that floods Nayak’s face on screen is not triumphant jubilation, but a profound, deflating void. Watching this makes one realize that revenge, once accomplished or rendered obsolete, leaves the seeker utterly destitute of purpose.

III. The Domestic Sphere: The Dual Meaning of "A Great Load is Gone"

Finally, the post-viewing experience fundamentally shifts our understanding of the concluding domestic scene. In the text, the closing conversation between the astrologer and his wife has often been read as a lighthearted domestic denouement a domestic vignette where the husband counts his twelve and a half annas, complaints are made about cheating over three pies, and the wife dreams of buying jaggery and coconut for their child.

On screen, the spatial separation of the domestic sanctuary from the dangerous public square amplifies the moral paradox of the ending. As the astrologer reclines on the pyol (the outdoor wooden cot/verandah) and confesses, "Do you know a great load is gone from me today? I thought I had the blood of a man on my hands all these years," the visual composition makes the viewer feel the staggering lightness of moral absolution. Yet, simultaneously, it shocks us with the realization of his ongoing deception. He is completely candid about having tried to murder someone in his youth, yet he deliberately conceals that the very man sat before him hours ago. The film forces us to confront this ambiguity: is the astrologer a redeemed sinner, or the ultimate master of psychological manipulation who has successfully orchestrated the permanent elimination of his pursuer while securing domestic bliss? This duality is far more palpable on screen than on paper.

Question 3: Do you feel ‘aesthetic delight’ while watching the movie? If yes, exactly when did it happen? If no, can you explain with reasons?

I. Theoretical Framework: Rasa Theory and Cinematic Epiphany

Watching the cinematic adaptation indubitably produces a profound sensation of aesthetic delight a state analogous to what Indian classical aesthetics terms Rasa (the distilled emotional bliss experienced by a sensitive spectator or Sahridaya), blended with the Western dramatic concept of catharsis and ironic epiphany. In literary and film criticism, aesthetic delight does not mean mere superficial entertainment; rather, it is the intellectual and emotional thrill derived from witnessing form, thematic revelation, narrative balance, and performative nuance converge harmoniously.

Throughout the screening, this aesthetic satisfaction operates on multiple registers: the visual recreation of South Indian subaltern life, the rhythmic build-up of suspense, and the poetic justice that operates through falsehood. However, the precise zenith of aesthetic delight the sublime instant of transcendent pleasure occurs during a specific, uninterrupted sequence in the climax of the confrontation.

II. The Exact Moment of Aesthetic Culmination: The Utterance of "Guru Nayak"

The Epiphanic Climax: The supreme aesthetic delight crystallizes at the exact second the astrologer, shrouded in darkness after rejecting the client’s coin, leans forward and whispers the stranger’s forbidden name: "Guru Nayak."

To analyze why this precise moment triggers aesthetic ecstasy, one must deconstruct the cinematic staging:

Prior to this utterance, the dynamic between the two characters is defined by extreme friction. Guru Nayak is in absolute control; he is physical, demanding, aggressive, and contemptuous, having gripped the astrologer’s wrist and trapped him in an unyielding wager. The astrologer is visibly trembling, his professional confidence shattered, his voice quivering as he pleads to be allowed to go home. The audience feels an intense spike of Bhayanaka (terror/fear) and Adbhuta (anticipation/wonder). We know that the astrologer recognized Nayak in the matchlight, but we wonder: how can an unarmed, terrified imposter escape a formidable man seeking his blood?

Then comes the turn. The astrologer gathers himself, closes his eyes, draws upon the darkness, and produces the divine trump card. He speaks with sudden, chilling solemnity:

"Guru Nayak, you were left for dead. A knife has passed through you once... And then you were shoved into a well nearby in the field. You were left for dead."
The stranger gasps: "Ah, tell me more!"

The sheer aesthetic delight in this scene stems from the instantaneous inversion of power dynamics. In a single breath, the victim becomes the master; the fraudulent charlatan transforms into an infallible mystic oracle; the hunter becomes the gullible disciple. Because Nayak does not know that the astrologer is the very man who stabbed him, the recitation of these horrifyingly accurate historical details acts as supernatural proof. The spectator experiences an intoxicating rush of dramatic irony: we alone understand the secret mechanism behind the miracle. The tension does not dissolve into violence; instead, it transmutes into poetic intellect. The astrologer wields his intimate knowledge not to wound, but to cast a psychological spell that disarms his enemy forever. Witnessing intellect outmaneuver brute force in the span of three seconds constitutes pure aesthetic perfection.

Question 4: Does screening of movie help you in better understanding of the short story?

I. The Pedagogy of Adaptation: Concretizing the Abstract

The screening of the film unquestionably provides an invaluable interpretive apparatus, significantly enhancing and deepening the comprehension of Narayan’s text. Literature and cinema utilize distinct semiotic toolkits: literature relies on symbolic arbitrary signs (printed words) that demand rigorous imaginative reconstruction from the reader, whereas cinema operates through iconic and indexical audiovisual codes that present tangible space, rhythm, and acoustic texture. For students and literary scholars alike, viewing the screen adaptation bridges several interpretive gaps that often remain elusive during a solitary reading of the text.

II. Spatial Clarity and Subaltern Commercial Ecology

First, the screening decodes the social geography of early-to-mid 20th-century Indian market culture. When modern readers read Narayan’s descriptions of "three pies per question," "palmyra bundles," or "the flare of the groundnut vendor," they frequently process these terms through abstract cultural distance. The film physically situates these elements within a vibrant, chaotic ecology.

On screen, one observes the practical mechanics of how soundscapes overlap: the deafening cries of vendors competing for attention, the hiss of kerosene lamps, the continuous shuffling of bare feet and sandals along dusty pathways. This sensory immersion makes the reader realize why the astrologer’s practice was successful. He was not operating in a quiet consultation room; he was operating in a dizzying sensory crossfire where passers-by were mentally vulnerable, distracted, and easily susceptible to quick psychological comforting. The film renders tangible the exact sociopolitical atmosphere that made charlatanism not merely possible, but inevitable as an economic survival strategy.

III. The Mechanics of "Cold Reading": Visualizing the Unspoken

Second, the screening elucidates the astrologer's psychological tradecraft known in contemporary behavioral psychology as "cold reading" far more dynamically than the text alone. Narayan writes that the astrologer never opened his mouth until the client had spoken for at least ten minutes, which provided him with ample information. In prose, this statement passes in a sentence. On screen, we actually see the silent dramaturgy of this technique:

• The astrologer’s calculating gaze scanning the client’s torn footwear, posture, frayed collar, and the nervous agitation of the fingers.
• The practiced, rhythmic nod of his head, encouraging the client to pour out grievances regarding marriage, finances, and distant in-laws.
• The deliberate pauses, the tactical scattering of holy ash, and the lowered, resonant vocal tone designed to simulate divine inspiration.

By making this subtle interpersonal manipulation visible, the film transforms what seemed like an abstract textual claim into a vivid display of observational genius.

IV. Illuminating the Dual Irony

Finally, the film sharpens the reader’s comprehension of the story's dual structural irony. The first irony is professional: a man who knows nothing of the stars accurately prophesies Guru Nayak’s future (advising him never to travel south again, which is genuinely the only way Nayak will remain safe). The second irony is existential: the criminal escapes retribution by posing as an agent of destiny. By dramatizing the intense vulnerability of both men within a confined cinematic frame, the film ensures that the viewer grasps the profound symmetry connecting their lives two men bound together by a single violent night in their youth, whose destinies collide in the dark only to permanently diverge through an ingenious lie.

Question 5: Was there any particular scene or moment in the story that you think was perfect?

I. The Match-Strike Sequence: The Anatomy of a Cinematographic Marvel

While the narrative boasts several evocative sequences from the vibrant market opening to the domestic denouement there is one singular moment that achieves cinematic and dramatic perfection: The Match-Strike Sequence under the Tamarind Tree.

This scene represents the dramatic fulcrum of the entire work. Everything prior to it is atmospheric preparation; everything following it is tactical consequence. In literary terms, it is the crisis that precipitates the climax; in cinematic terms, it is a tour de force of suspense, visual brevity, and emotional revelation.

Cinematic Element	Dramaturgical Execution in the Match-Strike Scene	Narrative & Psychological Impact
Visual Lighting	Sudden shift from deep ambient pitch-black darkness to an intense, warm, concentrated flare of a sulfur match.	Acts as an externalization of epiphany; visually shocks the viewer while stripping away the astrologer's shield of obscurity.
Camera Framing	Extreme close-up (macro shot) bridging Guru Nayak’s scarred profile and the astrologer’s widening, petrified eyes.	Forces immediate emotional identification; captures the simultaneous recognition of the past and terror of impending retribution.
Sound Design	Sudden drop of bazaar cacophony into dead silence, punctuated only by the scrape of the match and the intake of breath.	Creates visceral temporal suspension freezing time for both the characters and the audience at the threshold of life and death.
Character Acting	The astrologer freezes mid-motion; his hands involuntarily clench his cowrie cloth; Nayak remains oblivious, puffing his cheroot.	Heightens dramatic irony: one character experiences a seismic psychological earthquake while the other is looking for a cigarette light.

II. Why This Moment Represents Unassailable Perfection

What makes this moment intrinsically perfect is its ruthless economy. In a split second, without a single line of dialogue, the entire narrative reality undergoes a tectonic shift:

1. The Collapse of Time: Decades of flight, geographical exile, assumed disguises, and buried memories are violently compressed into the duration of a burning sulfur match. The past invades the present with zero warning.
2. The Dramatic Irony Asymmetry: The asymmetry of vision in this exact second is exquisite. The match illuminates Nayak’s face, meaning the astrologer clearly identifies his near-murder victim. But the flare casts the astrologer’s own face in partial shadow beneath his large turban, preventing Nayak from recognizing his youthful attacker in the guise of an ascetic holy man. This visual imbalance gives the astrologer the narrowest sliver of opportunity to formulate an escape plan.
3. The Pure Cinema Principle: It exemplifies Alfred Hitchcock’s definition of pure cinema telling a profound narrative shift purely through picture, light, and reaction shots, without relying on verbal exposition. The match burns down, flickers, and dies, plunging the scene back into darkness, but both the protagonist and the audience have been permanently altered.

Question 6: If you are director, what changes would you like to make in the remaking of the movie based on the short story “An Astrologer’s Day” by R.K. Narayan?

I. Directorial Vision: Transitioning from Realistic Parable to Neo-Noir Psychological Drama

If tasked with directing a contemporary cinematic remake of R.K. Narayan’s "An Astrologer’s Day," my directorial philosophy would be rooted in elevated Indian Neo-Noir. While traditional adaptations lean towards conventional period realism or folksy television aesthetics (reminiscent of the beloved 1980s Malgudi Days series directed by Shankar Nag), a modern cinematic reimagining must plunge into the deep psychological, existential, and sociopolitical depths latent in Narayan’s prose.

Narayan’s story is, at its core, a tale of trauma, disguised identity, guilt-induced alienation, and the desperate instinct of human self-preservation. To elevate this into a contemporary short feature or festival-grade film, I would implement several strategic, artistic modifications across narrative structure, visual grammar, sound design, and character interiority.

II. Concrete Directorial Alterations for the Remake

1. Structural Innovation: Fractured Non-Linear Flashbacks (The Well Sequence)
In Narayan’s text and previous screen adaptations, the fateful village brawl where the astrologer stabbed Guru Nayak is either described verbally at the very end or omitted from visual depiction entirely. In my directorial vision, this event would not remain an abstract memory. I would construct visceral, subjective memory fragments:

• Throughout the first two acts, whenever the astrologer stares into a brass bowl of water or into the darkness of the banyan tree, the film cuts for mere milliseconds to jagged, disorienting flashes: muddy water rippling in the dark depths of an agricultural stone well, the glint of a bloodied farming blade, the sound of heavy gasping, and two drunken youths wrestling on monsoon soil.
• These micro-flashbacks would be shot on grainy 16mm stock with high contrast and desaturated earthy tones, contrasting sharply with the warm amber and deep shadows of the Malgudi marketplace. This non-linear visual motif establishes the astrologer's internal agony from the opening minute, making the climactic confrontation feel like the inevitable return of a ghost.

2. Auditory Landscape and Subjective Sound Design
Sound is the most direct conduit to psychological interiority. Rather than utilizing a generic Indian classical score or passive background music, the remake would employ an immersive, expressionist sound design:

• The Sonic Shell: When the astrologer performs his cold readings on ordinary customers, the soundscape is rich with bustling bazaar noise cries of peanut vendors, temple bells, bicycle chains, and train whistles in the distance.
• The Panic Vacuum: The instant Guru Nayak strikes the match, all external bazaar ambiance abruptly cuts out. In its place, the audience hears only the amplified, deafening sound of the astrologer’s thumping heartbeat, the wheezing rasp of his lungs, and the dry crackle of tobacco burning in Nayak’s cheroot. This subjective acoustic vacuum forces the audience to physically experience the astrologer’s suffocation and mortal panic.
• The Subterranean Drone: As the astrologer recites Guru Nayak’s name and past, a low, unsettling drone composed of bowing traditional bowed instruments (such as the Dilruba or Sarangi) manipulated into dissonant frequencies rises steadily beneath his voice, giving his fabricated "prophecy" the terrifying weight of an ancient curse.

3. Visual Aesthetics: Chiaroscuro, Smoke, and Shadow Puppetry (Shadow Play)
Drawing inspiration from German Expressionism and Caravaggio’s lighting techniques, the visual language would make light and darkness active characters in the drama:

• The astrologer’s face would be perpetually bifurcated by shadow one half illuminated by the trembling golden flame of a groundnut lamp, the other half swallowed by the encroaching blackness of the night. This serves as a continuous visual metaphor for his fractured identity: the revered seer versus the terrified fugitive.
• I would incorporate an evocative visual metaphor using the traditional Indian art of Tolpavakoothu (shadow puppetry) or natural silhouetted projections. As the market packs up, the shadows of pedestrians cast upon the white cloth walls of adjacent stalls stretch and distort into grotesque shapes, externalizing the monsters of memory that haunt the protagonist’s conscience.

4. Deepening the Domestic Denouement: Complicity and Moral Nuance
The ending of the short story contains immense psychological intrigue that previous films treat with superficial haste. In my version, the final interaction with his wife would be transformed into an intimate masterclass in unspoken tension:

• Instead of a casual bedtime exchange, the scene would be staged in the claustrophobic confines of their modest earthen hut, illuminated solely by a small brass oil diya. As the astrologer counts the coins running his fingers over the copper annas that his mortal enemy surrendered to him his hands begin to shake violently.
• When his wife notices his agitation and asks if he is unwell, the camera lingers on an intense two-shot. When he confesses, "Do you know a great load is gone from me today? I thought I had killed a man...", the camera slowly tracks in on the wife’s face. In my remake, the wife would not be a mere passive recipient of news; her eyes would reveal that she has always known her husband was harboring a dark, unnamed fugitive secret. Her silence and slow, tender touching of his trembling hand signify an unspoken complicity a poignant testament to the moral compromises ordinary subaltern families make to survive in an indifferent world.

5. The Ambivalent Final Shot
The film would not conclude with a simple fade-out of the astrologer sleeping peacefully. The final shot would mirror the opening: the astrologer lies on the wooden cot, his eyes wide open in the dark. Outside, a lone train whistle wails into the South Indian night signifying the southern train that Guru Nayak will board to return to his village. The astrologer closes his eyes, exhales a long, trembling breath of relief, but then a distant rustle of dry leaves causes his eyes to snap open again, darting into the shadows. The ending thus preserves Narayan’s signature ambiguity: even when our enemies are banished and our guilt is eased, can a man who has reinvented himself through blood and deceit ever be truly free?

Conclusion: The Enduring Resonance of Narayan's Vision

Through this comprehensive post-viewing analysis, it becomes evident that R.K. Narayan’s "An Astrologer’s Day" is not merely an entertaining trick-ending tale in the vein of O. Henry or Guy de Maupassant; it is a profound philosophical meditation on fate, guilt, survival, and the fluid masks of human identity. Whether experienced through the crisp irony of the printed page or the evocative chiaroscuro of cinema, the narrative retains an enduring aesthetic power. By critically evaluating its fidelity, psychological shifts, climactic perfection, and untapped cinematic potential, we honor Narayan's timeless legacy as the supreme chronicler of the human soul in the enchanting realm of Malgudi.

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Work Cited:

• "An Astrologer's Day - Hindi Short Film." YouTube, uploaded by Pocket Films, 17 June 2017, youtu.be/TkfrjYFQozA. Accessed 12 Sept. 2026.
• Hariyani, Vaidehi. "Worksheet :- Screening of Short Film 'An Astrologer's Day' Based on R.K. Narayan's 'An Astrologer's Day'." Vaidehi Hariyani, 7 Sept. 2021, vaidehi09.blogspot.com/2021/09/worksheet-screening-of-short-film.html. Accessed 12 Sept. 2026. 
• Narayan, R. K. An Astrologer’s Day and Other Stories. Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1947. Internet Archive, archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.76639. Accessed 12 Sept. 2026.
• Narayan, R. K. "An Astrologer's Day." Syllable, June 2017, syllableblog.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/an-astrologers-day-text.pdf.