NEW YORK From India comes the news that the erstwhile chief minister of Tamil Nadu state, the former actress Jayalalitha, has decided to add an extra "a" to the end of her name because a numerologically minded astrologer told her that the new spelling would be more propitious for her turbulent political career.

This is the kind of Indian story that foreigners find difficult to believe. In no other society would a leading public figure change the spelling of her name in such a manner, and for a reason that most non-Indians would find frivolous. Yet Indians take it cheerfully in their stride, because they manage to live in that rare combination of modernity and superstition that defines them as a breed apart from the other peoples.

Where else, after all, is so much made of an individual's astrological chart, that mysterious database which determines opportunities in life, marital prospects, and willingness to undertake certain risks? I once wrote that an Indian without a horoscope is like an American without a credit card. The truth of that observation shows no signs of fading away in the 21st century.

It seems particularly entrenched in our political world. As a believing Hindu, I make no claims to pure rationalism myself, but I am still bemused to read of the swearing-in of a minister that was delayed because a politician's astrologer told him the time was not auspicious to take the oath, or of a candidate's nomination papers being filed at the last possible minute to avoid the malign influences of the stars at other times of the day. Both are frequent occurrences in Indian political life.

My favorite story is of the chief minister who refused to move into his official residence because a pundit claimed it was not built according to the correct spiritual principles and that he would not fare well in it. The bungalow was accordingly redone, at great public expense, with new doorways being made and windows realigned to satisfy the pundit. At last the chief minister moved in - only to lose his job, and his new home, the next day.

Why on earth do otherwise intelligent, educated people put themselves in thrall to such superstition? I am all in favor of the innate human desire to propitiate the heavens. I am even prepared to entertain the notion that the cosmos might be sending us signals in every planetary realignment. But what makes us so credulous as to believe that soothsayers understand the code?

I suppose it is entirely possible that Ms. Jayalalithaa will attain political successes that a mere Ms. Jayalalitha might not have, but on what possible basis can it be argued that the addition of a superfluous vowel made all the difference? One can scarcely believe that the heavens dispense their favors according to the number of vowels in mortals' names.

The inconsistent English transliteration of Indian names makes the superstition even more bizarre. Do Naidus, Nayudus and Naidoos enjoy different kinds of divine benediction, though they bear the same name in the Telugu language?

With such whimsicality rampant in Indian orthography, one would have thought the ubiquitous astrologers would be hard pressed to read celestial signals into our spellings. And yet the number of letters in names and titles is a peculiarly Indian obsession.

When I was about to publish the book I had brashly decided to call "The Great Indian Novel," a friend's guru advised me solemnly that all that was lacking was an extra vowel in the title. Put in another "a," he advised, and success was certain.

Was he suggesting that a retelling of the Mahabharata would work better as "The Great Indiana Novel," nor that a 432-page tome could get away with calling itself "The Great Indian Novella." I ignored the advice.

I am glad to say the novel is currently in its 11th printing in India. The soothsayer, having been arrested a couple of years later under Section 420 of the Indian Penal Code, is now spending his 11th year in prison.

Shashi Tharoor's most recent novel is "Riot." He contributed this comment to the International Herald Tribune.

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