Stalked By Superstition
FollowI had gotten my first job offer letter and I ran with it into the house, excitement spilling across the red oxide floor. The first person I handed that precious envelope to was my father. He carefully opened it and studied the contents with an intense concentration. His lips began to move in silent calculation. I wondered what he was computing, for the sum was meagre and the terms straight forward. He looked at me and gently asked, ‘Can you postpone the joining date?’ ‘What?’
Apparently, my first day of work fell on a Tuesday, which wasn’t an auspicious day to begin things.
I broke into a nervous sweat as I called my future boss to ask for leave even before I began my gainful employment. She was gracious, ‘Of course, in fact, I wondered why you didn’t mention it at the interview. Nobody joins on a Tuesday.’
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That day marked my conscious entry into the land of superstition. I had always been an honorary resident here without knowing it. Knives were never handed over to anybody as that would make us fight. When my left palm itched I kept an eager look out for the money that was sure to come my way. If someone was leaving, I never, ever asked where they were going as an enquiry would make their trip unsuccessful. When my feet were washed, I made sure the water fell across my heel for a missed spot would give an evil spirit access to enter my body and wreck my life. Tiny, innumerable habits that kept the bad away and invited the good were followed faithfully, ineluctably.
To add to this, my reading of literature brought its fair share of superstition from the other side of the ocean. Do not open and close a pair of scissors without cutting anything. Do not blow out a candle or a sailor will die at sea. Wear clothes inside out for good luck. Hold your breath when you pass a graveyard or you may lose your soul.
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An endless list of behavioural patterns, which if seen together would have gotten me certified as a lunatic. This talisman of habits stopped when I entered my rationalist phase and questioned the very meaning of good and evil. I was so enamoured by logic that I went out of my way to prove superstitions didn’t work. I walked under ladders, opened umbrellas indoors. Every time I saw a black cat, I willed him to cross my path, but the poor thing was so frightened by my maniacal stare, he scooted the other way. Perhaps, he thought it was bad luck to cross me.
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What I have noticed, though, through these experiments is if I don’t follow a superstition, nothing bad happens. The universe doesn’t crack open, I don’t get pulverised into ash, all the good things in my life don’t vanish in seconds. In fact, everything remains quite hunky-dory. Touch wood.
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Still Figuring It Out’ a funny, sad, questioning take on adulthood will appear every Saturday on newsable.com. Arathi Menon is the author of Leaving Home With Half a Fridge, a memoir published by Pan Macmillan. She tweets at https://twitter.com/unopenedbottle. The views expressed here are her own.
