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| 12th January 2015 |
A few minutes ago, I finished cooking my dinner of chow mein and washing the dishes. Thanks to the sweltering summer heat, the food still hadn't cooled off. I was almost heading back to my room to wait it out with a YouTube video or two when I glanced at the kitchen door that leads out into a small grassy lawn in the backyard. A dog barked in the distance, steadily keeping up its tirade against unseen forces. Had it spotted a rat in the yard? Or a neighbour walking their dog? Perhaps it was simply barking in anticipation of its dinner.
I walked over to the screen door, and did something I hadn't done in years. I put my head against the door and closed my eyes, breathing in the metal, dust and the aroma from someone's dinner all at the same time.
I thought of everything and nothing. In a taxi, on the way to visit a relative in Vadodara. A power cut on a monsoon evening, the electricity cut off at the slightest sign of rain. It was as if there was a person employed specifically for this purpose by the Uttar Gujarat Vij Company Limited, someone who scanned the skies all day for that first, elusive drop of rain, only to flip the switch on the power supply to hundreds of homes as soon as the rain started. But most of all, I thought back to the multitude of times I used to stand at the front door back home in India, as a child and a teen and an adult, leaning against the screen and breathing in the fresh air through the fine metal mesh.
I thought back to my birthday yesterday. Over the years, the excitement, the anticipation, the countdowns - all of it faded away. Rust overtook it, chipping away at the edges until there was no lustre left, and the birthday a mere shadow of its original form.
* * *
The most exciting time for birthdays was primary school. Having studied at a private school, we had a strict uniform policy but for one day - your birthday. On your birthday, you could dress up however you pleased. In reds and blues and blacks and greens. In party shirts and jeans and v-neck t-shirts, with hats and caps and sunglasses. And who can forget the chocolates? The school tradition to bring in a bag or two of candy, and to have the annual privilege of not attending your lecture to distribute candy to every class in the grade. The friends eagerly eyeing you, awaiting their appointment as the official helper. For of course you'd need someone to hold the bag of candy while you present it to the teachers, how else could it work? And on the rare occasion when there were two birthdays in a class on the same day, the rest of the students excitedly summing up their net haul in their heads, adding up the Alpenliebes and Mango Bites and Melodys they would get, cursing internally at the sight of Eclairs and Kismis.
On this one special occasion, the teacher engrossed in their math on the blackboard would not frown at the interruption - the coy 'May I come in, ma'am?' from the door, with the hand raised in front of us - and greet us with a smile. Teachers, both familiar and otherwise, would be presented with a toffee, at once a token of respect and a symbol of sharing the joy of the day. The playful ones would make a grab for two or three, just to see the kids panic at the thought of not having enough for the last class on their candy route.
* * *
As the years passed by, the passion for the birthday celebrations slowly waned. The free-dress policy was scrapped once we entered middle school - it was determined that older students, unlike young children, were prone to all sorts of unhealthy emotions if one of their friends dressed up much fancier than they could afford to for their own birthday. And God forbid, what if one of the girls wore something indecent, or sported expensive jewelry? No, it was best to let them celebrate in the school uniform itself.
In high school, the number of students following the candy tradition trickled down to a handful, and they limited spreading their joy and generosity to that one classroom only. More parties were celebrated outside of school at Café Coffee Day than in the school canteen over steaming cups of Maggi, newer friends were made at tuition classes after school than in one's own classroom.
I had a few occasional celebrations with family, but nothing stands out after high school. My 18th birthday was spent feverishly studying for my Boards, my 19th applying for a scholarship at Queen's University which I didn't get. And every other one that followed after I moved abroad feels like a blur - some random details stand out, though most of the day is blurred. On my 20th, I ordered a meal for both myself and my housemate. Last year, I had a nasty fight with my partner. And this year, my 22nd, was the most unceremonious of them all. A full day of work, and then coming home to making calls - to my grandma, cousin, aunt, parents and some extended family. The one bright spot was getting to video call my partner at night and watching trashy TV with him until I fell asleep.
* * *
I turned back from the door. The food had cooled off by now, and dusk was falling outside. Remembering my life's journey until now had made me reflect on the lack of celebration. Why did I stop caring? At what point in life did the busyness overtake the excitement for the special day? When did the rust finally creep past the edges and engulf the day in its entirety?
I believe the reason I stopped caring was because I stopped thinking about my life so far. The simple act of remembering stirs emotions that remind you how far you've come, everything you've lost and gained over the years. After all, isn't that what a birthday celebration is - a way to congratulate yourself on the progress and growth you've made over the past year? Thinking of life simply in terms of the next milestone to reach desensitized me to reflecting and appreciating the past, for all its ups and downs. This is something I wish to change this year.
Much like time, the damage done by rust cannot be reversed. That doesn't mean that you cannot clean it out and apply a fresh coat of paint. For me, this means taking a moment to feel, remember and empty my mind from time to time. Right on cue, the door beckons invitingly as I finish writing and go to the kitchen to wash my plates.
FIN.
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'Let me tell you a secret: there is no such thing as an uninteresting life. One day you must tell me your full and complete story, unabridged and unexpurgated. We will set aside some time for it, and meet. It's very important.'
Maneck smiled. 'Why is it important?'
'It's extremely important because it helps to remind yourself of who you are. Then you can go forward, without fear of losing yourself in this ever-changing world.'
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