Four

Right. Left. Left. Right. Left. Right. Right. Left. My index and middle finger move through the even pattern I have made. The patterns keep getting bigger, and the toll of my mind being a slave to my hand weighs heavy. It’s 2:00 a.m., and I need to sleep. But what if a family member died, and what if I have cursed myself because too many good things are happening? I try to tell myself that it is irrational and that tapping my two fingers will not change these events. My therapist told me that I should sit in my own discomfort, but four tells me that it needs to be even, and the bigger the pattern gets, the more likely the problem will be solved. I can’t stop tragedy, but I can prevent it. I am in the 64ths now, repeating again to hit 128. Right Left Left Right Left Right Right Right Left Right Right Left Left Right?…

I ruined the pattern. Things will go badly if I stop now. I restart, taking my right hand and forcing the same pattern I started with. It’s better if you tap on wood, since knocking on wood means things are bound to be luckier. Right. Left. Left. Right. Left. Right. Right. Left.

If you go to Harvard Square, you will see an abundance of buildings in similar patterns. Brick follows brick, making it easy to get lost in the monotony. But the windows distinguish each building. Some windows have 16 panels, arranged four by four, some have 15, five by three, and others have no significant pattern. I find myself distracted by the number of windows I see. In my head, four-by-four windows are good because that is what four is.

Four is the embodiment of good, the embodiment of light, and a way to avoid disaster. A 16-paneled window means that you are going on a good path; anything else means you should be careful. I am sometimes late in my attempts to avoid dangerous paths because prevention is better than incurring the danger of four. Four yells in my ear to continue counting, chaining me to her repetitive rhythms. I don’t know when she started or when she’ll stop.

***

After warm laundry came steaming out of the dryer, I remember a four-year-old me gathering a bunch of comic books and stacking them into makeshift steps. Then, I dove into the pool of warm clothes. My mom sternly told me to get off the stack and “kanni-othi” (touch to your eyes) the books four times to apologize to Saraswathi, the Hindu goddess of knowledge, for mistreating each book and touching them with my dirty feet. Immediately, to not upset Saraswathi, whom I considered a friend, I completed the action using the correct right hand. Afterwards, I burst into tears, as the idea that I had hurt her seemed like an irredeemable crime. Would she ever forgive me? Would she? I needed to make it right. Wiping the tears off my frowning face, I asked my mom a fourth time how I could earn her forgiveness.

My mom replied that she always forgives, especially if you touch the item four times and touch your eyes.

***

I bow to my elders four times out of respect. Most people bow once, but it depends on your family tradition. I bow down to each religious figure four times. If I accidentally hit something with my foot, I touch the object and then my eyes over four times. After the book incident, I began to apologize for, and to, everything. I touched a sheet of paper in class as my peers glared at me for performing the forgiveness ritual. It started to become irrational. Bus rides became tapping zones as I narrowly avoided disaster. Before every dance performance, I would begin my routine in a bathroom before joining my group. Do I feel better? I could never answer that question, because all I felt was guilt for not making more patterns. Right. Right. Right. Right.

Four has followed me from my childhood home to the stack of books to my middle school blacktop, my dance performances, my graduation, all the way home. She leaves sometimes, and then she gets bored and returns for more. Seeing me in a vulnerable state this summer, she drops an anchor in my stomach and carves anxiety in her rhythm. She whispers this time, sickeningly sweet, about how my problems will disappear if I spin to her rhythm. After I finish spinning, my feet lock into place.

As I walk out of Mather, I see the concrete tiles. Each tile is big enough for four steps. It does not affect me every day, but sometimes the same part of me from middle school takes over. I find myself locked in patterns of four or two (since two plus two is four, making it a valid number as well). I stare at each tile, carefully counting each step. When I was a kid, I’d run all the way back to the school’s first tile and restart. Now, if one ends up being three, I need to step in the next tile thrice, and then take two more steps. Why? Because three plus three plus two is eight and eight is a good number. Why? Because four times two is eight. My justifications remain tied together by poorly skewed math, all in the favor of four. One, Two, Three, Four, One Two Three, One Two Three, One Two, One Two Three Four.

***

This math has never made sense. Sometimes, I stare at the ceiling, dazed by my patterns. The strangest part is that I know they aren’t real, that they are just negative thought patterns, but I am still terrified of causing disaster. I know that nothing will change, but four’s grasp on me has become so tight that it is increasingly difficult to shake.

I find myself lost in music because it is my relief. Four doesn’t come knocking there. Triplets and uneven rhythms fight her off, and I find myself listening to music to avoid her constant voice screaming in my ear to take action. I find myself following her movements today, but I have started to realize that her orders don’t need to be followed. Slowly, her hum has started to dull, and although sometimes the bleating anxiety she inflicts causes me to fall at her hands, I realize her power is waning. I can form my own rhythms, uneven, and flowing like an Indian classical dance, even if there is still a four:

Ta-ki-ta Takadimi Ta-ki-ta taka takadimi. 3 + 4 + 5 + 4 = 16.

— Staff writer Neeraja S. Kumar can be reached at neeraja.kumar@thecrimson.com.