ANNUM TO A QUARTER

There is a favorite home video of mine, from my 7th birthday. It looks like any Indian kid’s birthday – all the bacchas of various sizes and ages from the apartment building are there. They look bored, they don’t know what purpose my father is achieving by asking them to sit and listen to music from the film Yuva as he captures the scenery on a borrowed handycam. There are paper plates with samosas, cutlets, fried rice and gulab jamuns being assembled in the kitchen, with plastic cups of Rasna or Fanta. The only adults are my parents – the other parents have taken good advantage of this break from their super jumpy kids. The only kid who seemed unbothered by this Bigg-Boss style recording of their antics is my little sister, two years at the time and enjoying her one-day reign over the balloons.

Finally, my dad announces the cake cutting ceremony.

See, this is the thing about having siblings. You have to share everything. The first piece of cake I cut has to go to my sister, my birthday gift is given to me by her- even though she had no role to play in choosing or buying it. Like the team member who takes the credit but does bare minimum. I might have shared this story way too many times, for yesterday, my friends put up the exact same party. I think these B-school students saw a fully sober birthday in a long time, “kiddie party” was the word used for a 24-year-old. I barely felt like I had grown a year older when I was handed yet another paper plate with chips and an orangey soda. Quite the spoilt brat, yes.

How do birthdays go? There is the whole shebang – with number balloons, customized cakes, multiple gifts and a whole photoshoot. You could skip wearing the uniform at school and distribute Eclairs, Melodies and Candymans. I remember my school would call the birthday kids and make them stand on stage throughout the morning assembly. Some kids felt like stars (like yours truly) and some shy ones would stand with one foot bent behind the other in a pretty Bharatanatyam pose waiting for the torture to get over soon.

It always surprises me that most people don’t like attention, or more accurately, being the center of attention. There are so many brilliant minds that aren’t heard because they don’t want the spotlight that comes with raising your voice. I wear my love for the limelight like a medal, and I feel palpable discomfort in awkward group silences. Yet, in a place filled with future leaders – there is quite the social anxiety that hits before you can be a loud class participator.

Back to birthdays, they evolved to rambunctious parties in hostels and dorm rooms as we grew older. The whole “plastering cake on your face” is a ritual I saw in the last decade, not before. “Cakes might have toothpicks in them to maintain their structure, this waste of food is immature and dangerous” claims my father. Have you noticed how your parents seem to keep track of every possible dangerous thing that can happen in the world and tell you about it? Once I called my mother in a slightly unusual time, and she assumed I was in the ICU – all because of a 30 min deviation. Another birthday custom that might get you in an ICU is the birthday bumps, or whatever “half-jokingly” beating the birthday kid up is called. Again, a very new practice for me – I don’t remember ever seeing that happen down south. I really wonder who started these, and what hidden agenda they had that they carefully refabricated it as a fun ritual.

Of course, you have the “treat”-lunches or dinners fully funded by the person who made the mistake of being born. There are so many cultural events that revolve around birthdays – we Konkanis have jasmine flower filled hairdos for all kids, regardless of gender, on the 5th birthday. There is the Latin American quinceanera and the Korean custom of seaweed soup. I was asked to go to a temple every year, and I chose Iskcon Ahmedabad this time. As I stood in line for the free hot meal, for some reason I kept remembering Steve Jobs instead of the Hindu gods (he relied on these Iskcon meals at some point)– the server volunteer gave me a stern “Hare Krishna” to bring me back to reality. The old man quickly realized that I am not capable of handling a bowl of hot khichdi and gave me a second bowl for temperature control; so much for turning older. Just like how my mother doesn’t trust me to hold the thirty rupees auto fare, knowing full well that I am about to work in a bank.

All in all, it was a good day. I cycled along the Sabarmati riverfront, “Mausam ka haal lene” as they say. I was fully vibing, listening to a curated playlist, with recently cut hair blowing in the wind, ignoring the not so bashful couples all around - being super main character - until I made the mistake of opening my mouth to sing along. Turns out riverbanks tend to have insects that fly straight into your mouth. Local immersion and all is okay, but I must have come way too close to a proper Amdavadi as I tried to spit the insect-paan out, much to the amusement of the general public about the banks. But yes, the ombre orange and pink skyline reminded me why we celebrate making it through yet one more revolution around the sun. I look forward to the next quarter and thank god that I haven’t hit a crisis. Yet.

PS: Self shot Ahmedabad skyline pic :)