“Don’t shoo it away, Rhea. It brings bad luck” my Mother reminded me for the umpteenth time, as I chased a butterfly across the balcony of our three-roomed apartment on a sweaty, Sunday afternoon.
“Mom, its fun!” I reasoned, gazing wide-eyed at the yellow-winged, gorgeous creature that hovered in the air temptingly just beyond my reach.
“It brings bad luck “repeated my Mother.
Bad luck. How many times has that inevitable phrase popped into our conversations?
Don’t cross the path of a black cat, Rhea-its bad luck. Don’t jump over someone when they are lying down-it’ll ruin their luck. Don’t look at a lone mynah-they are omens of bad luck. Don’t step out of the house when someone sneezes -you'll have bad luck...
Then, when I reached puberty-Don’t touch the idols of worship at that time of the month, Rhea. The Gods’ll take your luck.
Not even my 'modern'-out looked, nuclear family supporting parents dared to defy them.
For two people who religiously questioned every Government Bill ever passed, it was funny how they quietly accepted age-old superstitions without a word. Superstitions, they said, are a minor inconvenience that can be tolerated. These beliefs are far too trivial to lose sleep over, and may as well remain a part of our lives.
What worried me was how big a part they were.