Of Numbers, Notions, and a Timely Dosa

Today, after more than a couple of months, our core group of three finally reassembled at our morning headquarters, the Doddakalsandra Lake, with my artist friend, Sridhar, making a guest appearance. 

The artist, as always, operates on a schedule known only to him and possibly a higher creative authority. Our lake features only after he has completed his circuit of other lakes, presumably ensuring that every bird, butterfly, and peacock in South Bangalore has been duly acknowledged before he graces our lake.

Of the remaining three, one, after a long stint in the Middle East, has retired to take up farming recently near Mysore and has been busy with his annual harvest.  The other had been engaged in hospital rounds for a friend. Between crops and care, the quorum had clearly been at the mercy of real life.

As is our long-established protocol, we arrive at different times depending on whether we are feeling athletic, ambitious, or merely present. Yet, almost miraculously, we converge for that half-hour of conversation with a precision that would impress railway timetables, give or take five minutes, of course.

A few younger walkers hovered around as well, having by now identified that the morning’s “panel discussion” could only begin once the three senior panelists were in place.

The topic of the day, without any prior agenda, turned to numerology… and, as is often the case, quietly invited astrology to join in as an equal partner.

One among us took the floor with the confidence of someone who had recently discovered both evidence and purpose. Numbers and planets, we were told, were not mere abstractions. They worked in tandem, dates aligned, stars cooperated, names added up, and life, it seemed, followed instructions like a well-managed enterprise.

Another friend, less convinced and more grounded, asked whether the specific prediction being cited had actually led to any visible progress in the concerned matter.

This, it turned out, was not a question, it was a transgression.

A brief but noticeable discomfort followed. The response came, measured but firm: such questions should not be asked. The enquirer was left wondering which boundary he had crossed, astronomical, numerical, or simply emotional.

I chose silence, a strategy that has served me well in matters where belief travels faster than logic. But silence, in a group such as ours, is quickly treated as suspicious behaviour.

“Why are you so quiet today?” they asked.

I replied that when the subject is not of particular interest to me, I prefer to remain quiet, largely to prevent my curiosity from being mistaken for argument. This explanation was accepted, though not entirely believed.

Undeterred, the combined forces of numerology and astrology gathered pace.  “Have you seen anyone born on the 21st?” came the next question, directed at my artist friend.

“Please don’t say anything alarming,” he said immediately. “I was born on the 21st. I’m already hungry. If you predict something serious, I may collapse right here and save everyone the trouble.”

A young bystander, sensing both drama and opportunity, chimed in to say he too was born on the 21st and was equally vulnerable. Not wanting to be left out of what was clearly becoming a high-risk category, I added that I too belonged to the 21st club.

At this point, the discussion acquired a certain urgency.  We were informed of a fascinating “pattern” observed in obituary columns, that those born up to the 21st seemed to have time until their birth date each month, while beyond the 21st, the pattern reversed, one could depart earlier, without necessarily reaching that date, as though the calendar itself governed the lifespan.

The three of us, all born on the 21st, suddenly found ourselves on what appeared to be a cosmic border checkpoint, cleared for now, but under observation.

Sensing an opportunity to restore balance, I suggested that perhaps only those born on the 32nd or later stood a real chance at immortality. That brought the first collective and much-needed laughter.

But the theory was not done yet.  We were next informed that 13 was an especially unlucky number, and that nothing significant should ever be attempted on the 4th, 13th, or 22nd. Historical references were promptly summoned, birth dates, death dates, and even Bhutto’s execution on the 4th, offered as supporting evidence.

A patriot among us asked, quite reasonably, what exactly was unfortunate about that particular event.

By now, hunger had begun to outweigh belief.  My artist friend, clearly unwilling to have his breakfast dictated by planetary alignments, threatened to abandon us and head straight to his regular hotel near home for the excellent Davangere benne masala dose, before any further revelations could tamper with either his appetite or his lifespan. 

We all pretended to take him very seriously, responded with suitably grave nods, broke into a genuinely heavy laugh, and moved on.

We made our way to our usual darshini, where over dosa and coffee, we seamlessly transitioned to discussing the Iran war, with the same authority, the same confidence, and thankfully, far fewer personal consequences.

And as we dispersed thereafter, it struck me, as it often does, that while beliefs continue to evolve, expand, and occasionally intimidate, reality has a far simpler way of asserting itself.  It arrives without prediction, without calculation, and without planetary clearance, usually on a steel plate, with chutney and sambar, and settles the matter far more convincingly than numbers or stars ever can.

After getting home, my artist friend messaged to say that his wife’s birthday is  on the 4th. As if on cue, and perhaps to lift his spirits, I told him my sister shares the exact same date and we shared a smiley 😊

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.