Why do we celebrate birthdays? Its Dec __, 198_, whatever. You celebrate your 11th birthday and then your 12th and then your 13th and so on. And each year its special. Each year some of us love the thought of having yet another surprise cake (which we know is hiding in the fridge) as soon as the clock strikes 12 am. The flurry of phone calls and the random gifts. The party or two with the people we love.
And then we celebrate our 29th birthday and then 30th and 31st and for some, the fun increases with the number of parties to be thrown increasing – one for the real friends, one for the people at work, one with the family and the one where your 2 yr old cuts the cake for you. And for others the fun decreases. Its is yet another year of going towards the mid-life crises, of unpaid debts, of questions about the direction of our careers, or whether or not ambani school will accept my little one and will I be able to afford the fees.
And then we celebrate our 49th and then the 50th bash. And that’s when we learn to dance at the party, that’s because our children think its ‘hip and happening’. And that’s when we invite those people from school and college whose memories are only of us grumbling when they got a mark or two more than us, and knowing now how foolish we were. Those friends that you shared your lunch boxes with. Those who are balder than you are, some whose hair is whiter than yours and those who still look as dashing as they did during their residencies. That’s also when we want to boast about our children being in this college and taking part in these activities and excelling at those other things. That’s also when we invite our parents to our birthday party and we have to help them walk even when the walking stick is at their aid, who probably don’t realize what all this fuss about a 50th birthday is, because they never had such things in those days. But they are so proud, so proud that the apple of their eye is smiling.
Next, we celebrate our 73rd birthday and then 74th and then 75th. And it’s probably at the extremes of the ages that you don’t have to plan your own party. You have people do it for you. From the plush halls and exotic flowers that you have never seen in your life to the 3 tier-cake, which is a tad too creamy for your taste (when you can’t have too many sweets and you would exchange the cake for gulab jamun any day). That’s when you are the one who needs help to come on to the centre to cut the cake and you would take your cane but flatly refuse to use the wheel chair. And you stand there looking into the crown and wish that A, B and C were here but couldn’t make it through life with you so far. But soon the little grandchildren surround you before the drop of tear which has moistened your eyes even dares to come onto your face and your smile is back as those little things help you cut the cake.
And then one day you have your 80th birthday and the 85th …
But what if I live. I have my 35th birthday and then I live, but I don’t have a birthday anymore.
So now, consider this.
You have your 1st wedding anniversary when you set out for the most romantic meal of your life or even better, an entire vacation for just for the two of you.
Then you have your 8th anniversary, which is when you heave a sigh of relief as the seven-year itch is over and you get the stamp of forever.
Then you have your 15th anniversary, which happens just as you are at the end of your mid-life crises and things are finally looking good.
On the 30th anniversary, you two are all alone and you get calls and messages. But the feeling of being ‘just the two of us’ now is a little depressing.
But what if I live. And only I live. Will I not have that ‘birthday’ anymore?
