A month ago, I celebrated my thirty-fifth birthday. On that day, I published an essay that distils years of thoughts and feelings about the place called home. I considered slipping in a reference to my birthday, but promptly decided against it. At thirty-five, one is believably old enough to be indifferent to one’s birthday. Despite my best efforts, I find myself unable to remain wholly indifferent to the occasion.
This post is particularly about birthdays; mine, specifically, but perhaps about yours, too. I have written extensively about the phenomenon of ageing, the politics of being asked your age, and the pursuit of physical beauty, so I’ll spare you a repetition of those thoughts.
The birthday, in its unique essence, is a day of exemptions and exceptions. It is a sweet pause in the relentlessness of the everyday, the quintessential “day off” from life, when you’re entitled to a little bit of entitlement, when even Indian parents give in to overt displays of affection.
This year on my birthday, I found myself looking back on every birthday growing up. My last birthday party was when I was eleven, a milestone that, in many ways, marked the end of my childhood. Exactly three months later, I got my first period, and I was told that I had grown into a “woman”. Perhaps my desire to be older, to be taken seriously, allowed me to look past the discomfort that that sentiment should have evoked.
Are You Old Enough For This?
This is how you grow old; not one birthday after another, but in the one minute of the microwave oven, in the four minutes of the french press, and in the hour point five of the dishwasher. For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be older. On my thirteenth birthday, I trotted round the house, triumphant that I had transitioned into something that wasn’t a child.
I was eleven when I started reading literary fiction. The grown-ups were visibly discomforted by what they imagined I was reading. Are you old enough for this? They recommended the likes of Carolyn Keene and R.L. Stine, but those books never did strike my fancy. This race wasn’t against time; I was watching from the stands, cheering time on. I would count the years before I could grab the wheel, cast my vote, enter a nightclub, get a drink. On the day I turned eighteen, I, queen of procrastination, enrolled in driving school. Eighteen is the legal age to drive in India, lest you think I waited two years. To want to be older was a cry to be taken seriously, which I would later find out is not a privilege dispensed in accordance with age.
On my twelfth birthday, I went out to dinner with my parents, my brother, and two of my friends. From then on, that remained the extent of my birthday celebrations. From then on, at the end of the day every year on my birthday, I would break into an inconsolable sob, unable to point to the source of my angst. To collapse into this state of inexplicable grief had become my birthday ritual. No one quite understood what it was that made this supposedly joyful occasion so difficult for me.
As I got older, birthdays became increasingly dreadful. The excitement I once felt for birthday traditions, like receiving phone calls from "everyone," was replaced with aversion. I couldn’t bear the thought of talking to the people I otherwise spoke to only once (maybe twice—their birthday and mine) a year. Each phone call, with its forced joviality and the inevitable, drawn-out rendition of the birthday song, had me cringing invisibly on the other side of the line.
Unlike on most other years, I was happy on my twenty-first birthday. I hosted two “house parties” with two different sets of friends. At the time, binge drinking was shockingly normalised and conflated with the idea of “fun”, so that’s what we did.
After spending a few years being satisfactorily indifferent to my birthday, I had mixed feelings this year.
Thirty-five was my second birthday (ever!) outside of Delhi, my first time spending it in Bangalore. I have never known my birthday outside of the winter season. My only wish for my birthday was to feel at home, and to be able to write. But my loved ones believed that the day calls for something “special”, something out of the ordinary. While I delight in the eventfulness of the ordinary, I am not particularly at ease with the pomp of events such as birthdays (and weddings, but that’s a topic for another time). Even as we went about doing things around the city, my partner and I, commemorating the day as understatedly as we would have liked to, I couldn’t help but ruefully reflect on the evolution of my birthdays.
My childhood wasn't exactly carefree, but my birthdays were often the bright spots—perhaps some of the happiest days I had. I recall the years just after I had acquired my first cell phone, when it would buzz nonstop with calls right at midnight. I'd juggle the calls, putting one friend on hold to answer another, as everyone patiently waited for their turn to greet me. This year, my phone made no impatient demands on my attention, creating an unexpected void. Most people who matter chose to greet me by text, which is my preferred method of communication anyway, so what was I sad about?
At thirty-five, I’m sad because even as I shed people from my life, a part of me still waits for their phone call. At thirty-five, I realise that there are no days off from life.
Feb 2, 2024. It’s the stroke of midnight. I’m in the midst of editing the essay that is to be published later that day. My partner has stayed up well past his usual bedtime to mark the occasion. My phone rings shortly after. If my family were to be equally indifferent to my birthday, I would quietly continue to iron out the kinks in my essay. Some occasions, birthdays being a prime example, defy our attempts at indifference. And, so, with some reluctance, I’m drawn into acknowledging my birthday.
It was not until this year that I had ever considered writing about birthdays. Once the day had passed, the urge to explain how I had felt also faded, and the events of the everyday took over. Another crippling episode of health anxiety, a holiday in the snow-clad mountains, a surprisingly persistent stomach bug contracted on said holiday, not-so-new work prospects, more than some house guests, the customary Delhi-Bangalore-Delhi circuit, visits to my city’s celebrated book fair and its beauteous monuments; it feels like a lifetime has elapsed in the month since I turned thirty-five.
Now that the daily routine has regained its contours, I am ready to be a year older, or perhaps, more fittingly, a month wiser.
Birthday gift to myself:
As a chronic health anxiety sufferer, I faced an insurmountable fear this year. I had my blood drawn, and signed up for a reasonably extensive medical exam after years (many, many years!) of having procrastinated. The results haven’t been the most reassuring, so it might just be time to stop subscribing to adages like “age is just a number”.
Now, let’s hear about your perspective on birthdays:
What do birthdays mean to you?
What do you desire on your birthday? (materially and/or experientially)
Yes, absolutely beautiful. My mom made a big deal out of birthdays 🎂. When I was 24, two years after graduating UC Berkeley, I started preparing a business out of my being a Birthday Princess. I was living in Washington DC and doing lots of parties around the entire Metro area. When my dad realized I had no intention of following him into insurance, he promptly started having heart incidents and insisted I move back to California.
A reporter from the Washington Post called to write an article about me. He'd heard about me. Once I shared I was moving back to California he immediately let his interest wane.
I spent another year performing in California but had opposition from my dad.
I still believe birthdays are our sacred personal New Years. I studied and gathered quite a treasure trove about birthdays around the world from the Library of Congress. I had the dress, the wand, made one of a kind cards for my celebrants, many of them keeping these one-of-a-kind's for a really long time. I still have my wand in a wooden box especially made for it by someone who believed in my mission.
There is an adorable Chinese Korean girl in my building about to turn 7 on May 15th (515 is one of the numbers for angels). I have a 99 Cent (a fun store we have here, now everything starts at $1.49) tiara and pair of sunglasses with Birthday Princess emblazoned on each, sitting over on the bookshelf across from me which I will give to her on her day. She seems to like what I give her on her birthday. I have a grandnephew turning 7, 20 blocks from here, on 3/16 and I'm trying to prepare something for him as well.
I am now 64. None of my elders can call me on the phone anymore. Surprisingly, I still get lots of love round the year from those who used to call me on that day. I wanted to mention also, that I knew I needed more solitude. I knew when my mom stopped calling 6 or 7 times a day (some days) I'd be relieved yet miss her. I miss my elders but feel they are still with me. I never feel alone. I have a number of special friends with sacred missions. It's just a path I chose and regret not a minute of it.
I wish we could sit down in person.
I still cherish my birthday, and yes, it has changed. I'm a quadruple Sagittarius. Foot-in-mouth times four. I'm very honest and don't make tons of small talk. I no longer get obligatory calls and I have an answering machine, if I do. I still know and choose exactly how I most want to live MY DAY. I've given it away many times in the past. I believe each year we can use it to get closer to our vision of ourself we most want to be and breathe! Big hug for you. Love your honesty and your deep thinking and ability to pull all your writing together, and your readers along with you!
PS I also believe those who love us can still pay homage to us throughout our birthday week, and month! Plus, it's also kind of cool to recognize your day every month! Many believe around the world that the week before your birthday your soul leaves your body on the earth plane and goes up to check on where you are in the Akashic records... and how to navigate the road ahead. Many also believe the year is split up into 7 52-day periods. The 7th cycle, starting 52 days before your birthday, one moves into the most contemplative zone of the year.
I'm sorry I wrote so much but birthdays are big in my book and you writing this reminded me just how big.
Birthdays have been a source of quiet, gloomy dread for me since at least my mid-20s. Unfortunately, I'm having another one in two days. I'm a sworn enemy of Time in general, never feeling there are enough hours in the day or days in the month, and birthdays are just another reminder of all the potential I still haven't followed through on and experiences I still haven't had. I think a lot of some people's fear of aging stems from a feeling that they've wasted their youth and will never get another chance, and while I wouldn't go nearly as far as 'wasted', I can't help feeling I grew up too quickly in some ways and too slowly in others, and have often let fear hold me back from pursuing my desires. Birthdays, then, are just another reminder that I have to completely accept myself as I both am now and have been. I wouldn't have any of the stuff I like without the stuff I struggle to like.