Living With Grief- The Tragedy of Number 3 (Part 4)
By Roopa Swaminathan
Author’s Note
Living with Grief is a series of articles on my journey into loss and grief. Life as I knew it upended when I lost two people closest to me in a span of one week in December 2020. As much as those around me – friends and family, art, films, music, and literature – tried to explain the process of grieving, the reality is that the heartbreak I felt was at a level that was/is unimaginable to me.
It was also a time when I had to face some stark realities of life. Time did not lessen my pain. There was/is no end game here – even though many around me want me to ‘suck it up’ and ‘get over it’ and ‘move on’ because my constant grieving affects ‘their mental well-being’. Some 18 months later – I still wake up and go to bed with the same intensity of grief I felt back in December 2020. What has changed, however, is that I’ve learned to live with my loss. I’ve learned to navigate my way through life with grief as a constant.
I wrote this series as a way to handle the many truths that I faced in these past 18 months. I wrote it as a way to heal. But honestly, every single day is still a struggle. But writing has helped. I hope these stark ruminations during the worst week of my life and its aftermath can help you in some small measure.
God Speed.
“Aiyyo… no. Absolutely not. You cannot leave for the US on the 3rd of August. No,” Amma said very categorically.
I knew better than to argue with Amma when she was in that mood – strict, stubborn, and unwilling to listen to anything resembling an argument. I tried anyway. “Ma…come on. How does it matter? It’s not as if I’m starting something brand new. I came to India for my summer break – as I have been doing for the past seven years – and I am going back. That’s it. How bad can returning on the 3rd of August to the US for the eighth time in five years be?” I implored Amma, completely mystified by her insistence, but still hoping for some clarity.
I got none.
She just shook her head repeatedly. I could tell that she was genuinely upset that I’d picked the 3rd as my date of return. “After everything, I’ve told you about number 3 and how unlucky it’s been for our family…how can you even dream of returning to the US on the 3rd?” She demanded even as she teared up.
I understood her fears – rational or not – and quietly gave up. In any case, it wasn’t that big of a deal to move from the 3rd to the 4th – so I went ahead and made the change.
In hindsight – I shouldn’t have been surprised at her insistence.
My entire life…amma hated the number 3. Amma was not a conservative person by any means but she was traditional. Her father-in-law (my appa’s father) was a legendary Astro-palmist and numerologist in Chennai and amma always trusted him and his predictions for her and her family. One of the things he cautioned her about way back was the number 3 and how it was very unlucky for her. She trusted her FIL and while she was no fanatic – she tried to be careful of the number.
So, any iteration of the number was out for us. Whether it was 3 or 12 or 21 or 30 or the corresponding dates with those numbers…we never did anything auspicious on those dates or with those numbers. Nothing life-changing in our lives ever happened with the number 3 because amma didn’t allow it to happen.
I remember asking her about it. And about her fanaticism when it came to the number. “Don’t you think it’s a little too extreme, ma? Just banishing the number 3 from our lives? Shouldn’t you at least give it a chance?”
“I did,” she said surprising me. “Despite your grandfather warning me about the number – I did give it a chance. And I was let down.”
She then narrated the story of the Number 3 house that we lived in during our childhood. Long story short – it was the house of Amma’s dreams. It was the culmination of everything Appa had worked towards in his career. Moving into the 1500-square-foot apartment in a tony Chennai locality meant that all of the potential that Appa had shown when they’d married was finally coming to fruition. That house represented success to Amma.
And despite a few untoward events that occurred in the house (I believe we got robbed a few times there and Amma’s beloved grandfather died in her arms in that house as well) – the few years we spent there (I don’t remember any of it since I was very little at the time) were one step close to the plans that my parents had made in terms of their future.
Till the day my dad quit his job where he was touted to reach the very top and decided to start his own business.
Now, if you know anything about the various communities in India (or the stereotypes that surround different communities) it’s that those from the state of Gujarat are born businessmen while those of us Tam Brams (Tamil Brahmins from the southern state of Tamil Nadu) are brilliant in education and climbing the corporate ladder.
That’s how it was supposed to be and amma believed that wholeheartedly. Also, as I said above – amma was not conservative by any means. But she was a traditionalist and felt strongly that appa starting his own business was a bad idea.
Unfortunately, not for any lack of trying from his end, Appa played right into amma’s fear and his business did not take off as well as he’d hoped. Three years later – he let go of the business and went right back into the world of gainful employment.
In the larger scheme of things, we ended up absolutely OK.
But Amma, like me, was a true-blue Scorpio and she felt things deeply.
Given that her FIL had warned her about how the number 3 would be detrimental to her life – she blamed the house they moved into, the one that was number 3, for all of their travails. “That house was so unlucky for us. And I knew better but I still moved into a number 3 house,” she’d lament over the years.
I asked her repeatedly…Amma, it all turned out OK. Appa did well. Not great but we did fine. We all ended up in a good place. So why can’t you let go? She couldn’t. She said that had my Appa continued on his corporate career trajectory he would’ve become the CEO of the company. While she made her peace with her life afterward, deep down she remained wistful over the possibilities of her life had Appa continued in the same company back then.
So, yeah…number 3 was always a big no-no in our home.
Until it became a big yes-yes for me. Over the past decade – almost every significant event in my life was miraculously connected to the number 3. I tried telling Amma that the number was lucky – for me, at least – but she always freaked out. After a while, I let it go and surreptitiously explored doing auspicious things for myself with the number 3 without telling her about it. Occasionally I’d get caught (like booking my return flight on the 3rd of August)!
And it worked for me.
Unbeknownst to Amma, the number 3 became my lucky charm this past decade.
So – the day that Amma had her heart attack and she was admitted directly to the ICU and I learned that her ICU bed number was 12…I was THRILLED. I felt a sense of peace and calm come over me because 1+2=3 and the number 3 had never let me down. I thought it was the sign I needed to know Amma would be OK.
And over the next two weeks, there were so many other 3s that I felt invincible. I was convinced Amma would be OK. We moved Amma from the first hospital to another on December 12. Her major operation happened on December 21. And when she came back after the same – her ICU bed number was 3.
At every stage, I felt like Amma would be OK. After all, it was MY lucky number. But TBH…deep down I always worried – 3 was lucky for me but unlucky for Amma. So, whose luck would prevail?
The hours after her operation – Amma was not recovering as well as she should have. That’s when the fear and worries started to set in for me. That last day of her life – after she’d had a cardiac arrest for the second time I prayed to God and I kept telling him/her that if he/she listened to me and my number 3 – Amma would live. If he listened to Amma’s number 3…
Well…we know how that turned out.
I HATE the number 3 now.
