“And Here We Go”

– I muttered, in as Joker-esque fashion as possible. Curious eyes, had they been there, would have followed my gaze all the way yonder, expecting an explosion (ala ‘The Dark Knight’), but would have been exasperated to find the gaze ending on a clock having its hours, minutes and seconds hands doing a simultaneous vertical handshake, reminding them of the infamous conspiring clockwork theory all over again.

While I, well, would have stifled a yawn, which I dutifully did.

The statement that birthdays used to be pure, unadulterated fun at one point of time seems to be pure, unadulterated comedy today. Back then, my pretty uncelebrated existence seemed to wait for this day to dawn, in an almost frenzied, nail biting anticipation. There were two very solid reasons for this anticipation in the pre-adolescent times. One, you got a bagful of toffees – the possession of which is a highly coveted, but perennially insatiated (thanks to the prevalent dentist propaganda) desire among kids – which you were supposed to distribute amongst your classmates, with that being the only day in the year when you yearned for more absentees than ever. Two, you got to wear the ‘coloured dress’ - stating colloquially - which, given the mundane dress code of the school, was a pretty refreshing change. That’s it, two reasons to commemorate my arrival on planet Earth – toffees & ‘coloured dresses’. Thankfully, I think now, I wasn’t asked to write an essay on “My Birthday” back then - when writing ones on “My Dog” & “My House” was a commonality. Because of the presence of the above-mentioned reasons and the absence of the usual teacher-friendly rhetoric in the essay, the Parents-Teachers meet would actually have been in a danger of being pre-poned, or worse, extended. Needless to say, few things in this world are more demonic than a PT meet – and this is a fact that would be known by any person who never ever topped in his class, or liked to talk to his friends in the classroom, or preferred a quick peek in the textbook to burning his midnight oil in case of a test, or used to bunk a whole lecture under the pretext of emptying his bowels, etc. Phew, good-possible-riddance!
As I entered into adolescence, the onset of September itself started bringing out the good human being in me, much to my inner chagrin, and much to the amusement of my family. But it was inescapable if you wanted money for that party you wished to throw. Money that bought balloons, cards, return gifts, and, quite importantly – pop music. 90s was an era dominated by the likes of Ace of Base, Aqua, Vengaboys, Backstreet Boys, Dr. Alban, and that song called ‘Macarena’ , all of which were, I must admit, damn good dance instigators. So once we were done doing our bits of being gawky teenagers eyeing each other sheepishly in those parties, some noble soul or the other used to muster up enough diligence to politely usher the elders out, and turn on the music, volume max. And then we used to dance our ‘a double star’ off on those numbers. Thankfully, such parties used to be usually stag; otherwise our already diminished reputation in front of the fairer sex could have suffered a final, beyond repair damage – it being directly proportional to the radius of our gyrations. What we never realized then was the fact that the feared damage had already been done(perhaps due to some other, equally grotesque acts); this being the real reason for the stag nature of those parties, and NOT that widely circulated, albeit fake theory which projected girls as mere irritants to the process of having fun.
Then came college, where the term ‘birthday’ finally came out of the dreamy-anticipation mode into the territory of stark realism, if not fear. There was this realization that there are people in this world who were so damned euphoric at your birthday that they go a step further than the usual, boring old-school handshakes and hugs – they lace your arse with the choicest of assaults. Assaults that started innocently enough with a few harmless pats and kicks, but which soon deteriorated into a full blown attack involving punches, slipper-slaps, leather belts, sticks & what not. The ordeal was stopped when the decibel level of the screams of the birthday boy passed a certain threshold. This crucial data was provided by a person designated specifically for this part; a person who was seemingly non-violent, but derived immense sadistic pleasure out of watching the greetings unfold on the birthday boy’s arse. This was, of course, followed by a gala for the ‘well wishers’ in one of the dhabas located around the city – a treat which they deserved after tiring themselves out by extending their wishes in so unique a manner. For the uninitiated, the greeting affair was called GPL. Its quite amusing, that inspite of not being a masochist, I kind of miss it.
Once you move out of that cocooned existence you enjoyed at college, things change radically. Hairs grey, paunches knock – saying a very unwelcome ‘Hello’, and birthdays become quite an insipid, if not irritating, affairs. It’s a usual day after all, your senile mind reasons. Same climate, same surroundings, same people, same damned brush-to-hush existence. Hell, even after prolonged deliberations on my contribution to the society by the government, its not even a dry day. Perhaps the only thing that looks to be different is that you can strike off one more year from your pending time on Earth. Every other point regarding it induces a yawn – and that includes the cake with the number of candles on it equaling your numeric age.

Perhaps the time, my friends, has come when I should say that I am aged 26 years, or that I’m a 26 year old, hoping that you grasp the obvious emphasis put accross through the emboldenments.