B for Birthdays

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 23^rd 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 27^th 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:

Weekend diary by Little Wench

Wardrobe malfunction, anyone?

With the office décor shouting out ‘bored’ in deep blue, the Little Wench takes one look around her desk to find one sign of life, at least one crack in the deep blue bubble!
Sighing, Wench almost talks to her laptop, “Oh what I’ll do to have ONE interesting, straight out-of-fiction thing happening, I swear I’ll not complain even if it turns out less than perfect. Just anything, anything out of the monotonous routine!”

And uttering this, she switches off the laptop and goes to the washroom. For funnily enough, this is her ‘escape place’ in the new city that she’s shifted to. As she gets up, she notices someone sitting next to her turning ever so slightly to look at her before quickly turning back to ‘work’.
“Yes, yes, I know. It’s  my favourite kurta!” said the wench in her head while rolling her eyes. She was happy she was perfecting the art of receiving compliments at least when performed in her head. In her head, in fact, sometimes she came across as cocky as it turned awkward in real life.

Few minutes later, staring at herself in the washroom mirror, she said to herself, “Life couldn’t be more boring! God, what would I give to get a tiny-little excitement in life!” leaving the door behind her to snap shut, as soon as she stepped out of the washroom, she realized she heard something croaking to its loudest. No wait, something shrieked. The front-desk guy sitting right in front  of me, staring me in my face. And then I realized whose shriek it was! It was my kurta, stuck between the door and me, tearing at one side all the way up till just the point where breasts begin.

Horror struck her in one split-second while one part of her brain smirked out loud, “Just what you asked! Entertainment. Entertainment. And Entertainment.”

Bordering on Bibliophile *sighs*

Yawning and indulged in her own little monologue in between, Little wench gradually comes to realize that she’s sitting in a bus with people around, all real and not in Ayemenem with Ammu and Rahel and Estha and of course, the God of small things. Nor is she sitting on a cold bench in winter nights at London with Philip Carey and his crippled foot. Cut to the office-
Sorted Colleague 1: So in short, getting on a plane and getting that hotel booked for a week is a luxury! Reading books and stuff is fine, I can always do that with my kindle and ipad what not, but luxury is this!

Wench: Do you know what real luxury is? It’s to have a book, to hold a book, a hard copy of a real classic in your hands that you can touch and feel, along with the text.  It is to have the time and space to enjoy the other world as you flick it over page by page. An e-version kills the book, no matter how convenient it gets!

A 50 bucks-thief~

It’s ridiculously crowded for an averaged sized bus. You don’t want to exploit the faultless, tired 
guys sitting on ladies’ seat, so you turn towards the other side to create a space to stand, only to realize that this upsets the guys even more somehow, as they get embarrassed looking at you, offer you their seat thinking this must be the only reason why you’re a girl and turn toward the other side. And even before you can explain them the situation, their inexplicable embarrassment makes you awkward too and you just find yourself settling down  eventually.

Now, window seat in buses while commuting from a new place is one of my favourite explorations! As you pass a Rs. 50 note to the fellow passenger for the ticket, you do your usual check-list and a quick scan of the stories (people) around you. Headphones are in place, right playlist is on play, the book is on your lap, and you are looking at every person around you with amusement, curiousity and a little hope The auntie who is tired, busy co-ordinating back home and looks like the last time she got her ‘me-time’ was at the gas-booking queue, the balding uncle with a mellow smile who seemingly doesn’t have a complain against anyone, in his life of odd 65 something years and willingly shares the warmth in his smile with you without expecting anything  in return, or the clean (and cute) guy who has a peculiar way of doing everything and you often find yourself checking him out in a very ‘non-checking out’  manner.

Just then, you realize your ticket hasn’t come  yet. Worried, for the T.C might show up anytime especially when you least expect it, you check with the guy. He explains he passed it long back. A lot of people find my story interesting by now, and tell me someone in the passing chain must have thought Rs. 50 was too big an amount to let go and got away at the nearest bus stop with the money. Amused, I politely refuse to believe it and decide to go check myself with the conductor. People stare at me confused as I pass through the huge rush from my first row-seat towards the other end.

Yes, they were right. And I understood this after getting myself touched/squished/poked through my way to the conductor. Yes, someone thought Rs. 50 was enough an amount to let their conscience go have a smoke a the nearest outlet as they took the money to their pocket. Or maybe, someone thought Rs. 50 was too small an amount to be justified being honest with. Or worse, someone’s life had such abundance of scarcity that it was hugely influenced by the ‘having/not having’ of Rs. 50.

Would i still pass on money next time i am in a bus? Most probably, yes. Would i still be willing to trust people around without thinking once about this incident? Probably no. Not without remembering this. Should i be happy, that i am not one of those unfortunate? Or should i simply feel sad that even  a small 50-rupee note can make you painfully aware of your conscience (or lack of it).