On Turning 28

It’s a badly concealed secret that I go semi-hysterical every year on the days leading up to July 19. I know that the world and its grandmother hope that some day I will finally get that doze of maturity which will prevent the following accidents from happening every year without fail:
1. Friends being reminded from a month in advance that my “happy birthday to me” is coming and so they should abandon everything else to just hold their breath and stare at the calendar and
2. The dilution of the twin feelings of impatience and loathsomeness towards July 18 and 20 that I undergo persistently and without remorse.

But trust me, there is a reason behind even this madness. You see, I have a list. As I am sure a lot of you do. Of “Things to Do in this Lifetime”. And I ponder over my list only at this time of the year. Somehow new year’s eve does not have that effect on me… my life didn’t start from 31st December, did it? It started six months ago! So every year as I manage to strike off things that are done, things that still need to be done, or things that should be added to the list because like a fool I didn’t think of them before…there is a sense of purpose and satisfaction. Although I must confess that there is also a parallel sense of frustration and loss…maybe over relationships weakened or lost forever or the job that I eyed and pursued and did not get or something totally different. But since I am “the cup is more full than empty” sort of a person, that sense almost always gets subjugated.

I remind myself nearly once every day that I have always been exceptionally lucky when it comes to friends. And that good fortune has tagged me from India to the US as well. So I have had three different birthday parties on three different evenings. And I am told there is one more in the pipeline. One of the parties was thrown by my friends Annie and Brittney. The venue was Annie’s house and she went berserk decorating the house, baking me a German chocolate cake, making an elaborate dinner, taking me out for a movie, getting me thoughtful gifts, and planting surprises in which she was helped by her three extremely good-looking and incredibly well-mannered sons of ages 12, 10, and 8. Another friend, Parul ,slaved a night away because she baked a gigantic chocolate cake and the world’s most sinful and delicious baklava and was the real in- charge of the party that took place in my house. A third set of friends made even July 20th appear beautiful and gorgeous and not merely “the day that comes after my birthday is over!” Some others took time out from their exceptionally busy schedules to sit and write conventional letters just because I love receiving them so much. Another friend, Andres, employed himself and his sister to bake a tall order of a cake, a traditional one from their native place Oaxaca, Mexico. Dan came, saw, and single handedly took over the entertainment factor for one of the parties. Jeff brought crates of iced tea and of a kind of beer called India Ale in order to “get into the mood of the birthday”. My closest friend for the last twenty-three years, Sas, called and we had a long chat except that this was the first time in our joint lives when I couldn’t tell her, “Achha total kitne gifts bhej rahi hain?” Even I couldn’t be that cruel. The funniest call I received was from Richa because for the first time I was struck by our role reversal...by the fact that it was she who was in the office and I who was at home, enjoying my summer vacations. But what made all these celebrations even more perfect was the work of three people who are physically far away from me right now yet their words boosted my spirit in a way that I cannot describe. My fellow bloggers Rohit, Aritro, and Sinjini, all wrote beautiful, exquisite and enormously personal posts on me or on our relationship and I cannot explain how much that meant.

To all of them and everyone else who wished -- through Orkut, Facebook, email, ecards, phone calls etc., a very big thank you. And who knows, I might just learn how to behave myself from next year.