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| No, it was not a 50 shades themed party. |
As a child, I was a
super excited, high-on-sugar kid waiting to be allotted/warned for something so
I can constantly be on my toes. And it felt so right; after all how many times
exactly do you get to live? Why waste it! And so, birthdays naturally looked
like harmless, hearty occasions where you could dance and celebrate the
bejeezus for you being born… until I realized getting old was a thing.
At four, I remember
my paa buying me a blue shirt and red pants (Picture Hritik Roshan from his Koi
Mil Gaya Item number, only groovier) and a big birthday cap and threw a party
where all my friends and cousins were running around, awaiting the cake cutting
impatiently. He always thought of me as his son, and so, short hair and
trousers soon became my signature style. At one point, I remember Saturday
being my favourite day of the week so I could wear my white shirt/pants with
plum coloured suspenders to school. I was encouraged to do everything I can do
(and be good at it) and it only helped that I detested anything that screamed
girly. Until one summer, boobs sprung out and I took a liking to cricket. I was
told to ‘drop the ball’ since cricket was only meant for boys. That birthday I
learnt that accomplishments too have a gender.
At six, I learnt a
new habit (that was sulking, btw!) that hit new heights at my brothers' first birthday party. Suddenly after a little short of five
years, them entering my life (together) came as a rather big deal to me. ‘Why
they needed more time from my mom’, ‘why their birthday parties were a much
bigger affair’, ‘why everyone suddenly found them cute and me weird in a boy
cut and a rather new party frock’, my list was endless. That birthday party
seemed like the worst day of my life. And yet, as I watched the grown-ups
around playing the game of perspective, arguing if my drawing was of a boa
constrictor or a hat, there was a rather sweet release in finally understanding
the cause of it all. That birthday party, I learnt subjectivity is a thing best
left for lovers.
At 16, coming to
college felt like coming of age. Well, at least, the teenage part of me felt
so. People are super nostalgic about their school life and what not, but for me
college was the place where I found my core and learnt to celebrate it too. But one thing in college I particularly enjoyed was observing people, witnessing
them as they come to their true self for a flip second, only to get behind
their garb of what they think of themselves again. And birthday parties were the
best place to do that- The day your vanity submerges into your ego.
This was the year I
learnt the concept behind birthdays- that these son of a bitch days are not
just for showing your happiness on that person being born but also to mend ways
with a friend you haven’t been talking to for ages, to get an excuse to call
and check on your ex you promised you won’t ever call again and sometimes, that obligations come packed in all kind of beautiful wrapping papers, and sometimes, just to
live up to others’ expectations more than yours out of a birthday. And amidst all of
this, I was proud of my sense of objectivity. But as a consequence, love
became difficult to hold and another birthday later, I cried my eyes out when
empathy and not love was all I could offer to someone’s honest, overwhelming
love.
Turning 18 is hugely
overrated. So we won’t talk about that. Instead, at 19, I got what was the best
surprise of my life- An understanding on the concept of love in the shape of a
series of surprise birthday gifts, each telling a story as I found them.
Sometimes, a feeling dies, but a moment continues to live and be passed on with
stories. No wonder people fall in love with stories so easy.
At 22, life was
giving lemons (sans the soda so I couldn’t even make lemonade out of it) and I
found solace in running away from time to time that people called travelling.
Finding my own sweet spot only to wonder what’s next. It was in the midst of
skepticism and impulsive hope then that I decided to celebrate my third and
last birthday of the year away from home and all things familiar.
I picked a city where
the lost is never intended to be found, told my office I was getting engaged,
and left with little to no expectations for a five-day trip. It was messy, I
won’t lie. It had its hiccups and I have never been a very good planner anyway.
But there was something very comforting about spending your birthday with
strangers who had no idea it were your birthday and cutting an upside down
pineapple pastry for a birthday cake with a stranger who didn’t really seem
strange after all. And so, on my 23rd birthday, I learnt the gift of
loving thyself, and eventually that charming mess of a city I’ll later have an
affair with.
I now
live in the same charming mess of a city. Few days before, I
celebrated my 27th birthday. There was nothing remarkable about the
day, not that I wanted it to have any. But at night, I slept happily in the
awareness of the fact that there are people on earth who are capable of feeling
unconditional love and they happen to love me. And with the hope of someday
getting comfortable with that, I found my peace.
And for those who couldn't believe my innate sense of groovy fashion was there right from childhood, here you go:
