Chapter XIV: Darling December

As I drifted elsewhere listening to the 1954 collaborative effort of the dulcet Ella Fitzgerald and the ultra-gravelly Louis Armstrong on the prosaically named 'Ella & Louis', I heard two loud bangs on my door. It was a no-brainer that the day had changed. It’s the day when love from family and close friends would overwhelm me and I would miss those who couldn’t be by my side. It was the day I would get flooded with congratulatory messages from well-wishers and from others who are reminded of me from their Facebook news feed, and many who despite the reminder keep themselves from wishing me and get their pretty names engraved on my Wish-A-Rabid-Dog-Tears-You-Apart List forever. Yes, December 13th is here.
 

I opened the door to find two masked girls and both of my flat-mates donning preposterous conical Ben-Ten caps and blowing jolly party horns. I wasn’t entirely taken aback, for I had heard some noises a few minutes ago but had decided to keep my lips pursed about it. So I tried to play along and act surprised.

Now what many don’t know is that besides being a bumbling bastard, I also am quite inept at reacting to situations like the one I was facing then. Oh, I did feel special. I swear! But the reaction I could muster up with all my might was as dull as Art Cinema. It was a mix between 'Looking Stoked Enough to not let my friends down' and 'Oh well, what's fucking surprising about surprising someone on their birthday?'

So feigning superfluous excitement, I had them take me downstairs where there was an already lit scrumptious-looking chocolate truffle cake waiting for me to come and blow its candles out. I had turned twenty two. At least that is what the candles said.

Amidst answering phone call from my parents who happened to wish me at midnight for the first time ever, I made a merciless incision. A customary out-of-tune “Happy Birthday” followed. Now with the cut cake, the four souls knew too well how I detest smearing it anywhere and that the only befitting place for it was through our food-pipes. So I robbed them of the dimmest chance of any fun they'd have been expecting. As a result, we only stuck to eating it and getting meaningless pictures clicked something that would later be dubbed as “Memories” and as “Lousy” with the passage of more time.

Soon everybody dispersed and I climbed up waiting for those precious winks of sleep, depressed. That's my problem! Somebody else my age would be ecstatic, surrounded by scantily clad girls in a discotheque, dancing like the world would end tomorrow and buying rounds of vodka, tequila or gulping Southern Comforts but there I was in my bed that now creaked every time I turned, all depressed! It's a disgrace, isn't it? But that's not why I was sad. I have never been that kind. That was never my idea of fun. But yes, I was sad on the night of my birthday. Wish I had known why. I gave in with a hope that sleep might cure it.

And it did. The morning was unusual, given Hyderabad standards at least. It was a very foggy morning with bad visibility, a fact that immediately transported me to my earlier birthdays in Punjab. That is how it had always been, the sweet taste of reminiscences! After a quick shivery shower, I left for the campus. As I walked in, I witnessed that my wing was pretty much deserted and from afar I could see my cubicle decorated with a giant Happy Birthday poster of Disney characters and birthday notes from friends, all that done very thoughtfully. As I pulled my red chair to sit while reading tiny wishes scribbled on paper stick-ons, I saw two boxes of chocolates seated on it. Elated I thought, “You got yourself two weeks of migraine, Rishi.” And out of emotion then I hugged the girls for whatever they'd done to make me feel special. They had succeeded.

The remnant of my time at office was about giving everyone a hunk of last night's cake, getting even more awkward photographs clicked all with me in the center and a Flipkart delivery along with a beautiful message from a very special friend from Punjab. After office hours died out, on consensus we packed ourselves in an auto-rickshaw to go have pizzas. It wasn't the most comfortable ride but we'd do that for pizzas because pizzas were good as gold for us Pocharam dwellers. Even something so trivial seems like a luxury, it's only a matter of time and circumstances.

The day ended with a few more phone calls. What I needed that day, besides an urgent haircut, was to spend some quiet time with myself. I had lost myself somewhere in the middle of the surprises, reactions, phone calls or going out and taking the mickey out of everyone. I longed for a tiny internal dialogue with myself to be grateful, to thank lord for the things I value. I am a little spiritual, after all. And so goddamn single. [I hope somebody hot is reading this!]

Turning 22 was nothing different from turning 21 except for once in half a dozen years, I was not preparing for an exam. Instead I watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II on the evening of 12th. There I lay in the quilt with lights out, clapping like a teenager at moments when McGonagall asks Fitch to steer the Slytherins to the dungeons or when Mrs. Wealsey goes "Not my daughter, you bitch!" on Bellatrix before taking her life or when Harry frees himself of Hagrid's huge arms while pretending to be dead all the time. There I exclaimed like an overjoyed creepy kid, "In your face, baldy Voldy!"

Birthday Resolutions:

We all become what we once hated, don’t we? The cobwebs of the once-despicable indiscipline have got me all entangled, clearly. I’ve allowed myself to bask in much levity ever since I’ve been back from Punjab. I need to shirk it off me. I wish I had someone gift me a cure for procrastination on my birthday. Alas!

Now that I feel finally past my giddy youth, there's one last thing I need to work on a little: Acting less socially awkward and learning the art to leave a positive impact when meeting people, especially at parties. There are just two things at a family party I fear more than death: insanely loud music and old inebriated uncles! And Punjabi weddings present a lethal combination of both, much to my chagrin! No wonder I was labeled as 'The Shy Guy' when I attended a wedding function back home last month. Some freaks apparently can't digest a young boy sitting and enjoying his snacks. After you obey them with a crinkled nose and a silent curse laced with spite, you can see them gloating behind their umpteenth glass of alcohol as if they've won some mysterious battle.
 
To have everyone looking at me, now that's the sort of attention I can't handle. I get more awkward than when watching Sunny Leone’s condom advertisements on television with parents. Either way, I either turn red as a plum or crack uncomfortable jokes about myself or someone I haven't settled scores with whenever in the limelight. I remember blushing more than a girl who's been upskirted, when in Grade 12 [2008] I had everyone singing a cacophonous ‘Happy Birthday To You’ in the English lecture. That also pretty much answers why I look like a crack addict in all my pictures with a larger group. Physically there, otherwise in Faraway-land.

Perhaps now that I’m going on 23, my rueful self should stop loathing itself. I don’t see it happening anytime soon though. I regret not having a good book to give me company, for example. It’s not as much as a matter of finding time out as it is about shunning my slothful new ways.

I also crib a little because all of my friends are in very mature relationships. But as much as I am apathetic about whatever little they have got to share about their love lives, I hear echoes in the empty spaces of my mind shrieking whether I will ever find what they claim to already have. I notice a silent longing for security and mutual promise for longevity have taken center-place and have replaced all the juvenile stuff rife during college years. You filthy seeds of maturity, burn in hell for snatching my friends away! I fear what if I don’t find anybody? Would it be as harrowing as the falsely prophesied end of the world by the Mayans? I guess not. I have a lot on my platter to get sorted with before taking that plunge in the rosy valley of lovelorn martyrs. Say, my career.

All I thrive for is to find myself first. Everything else must wait. I know that sometimes it hurts like it hurt worldwide Cricket fans after Sachin’s announced his retirement but I allay myself by thinking what any mushy novel would profess, “It isn’t something you go looking out for. It just happens.” Same goes for happiness. I wish it finds its way back.

For now, I put a lid on all the worries thinking that it’s only a matter of time. Time is that unconquerable force. Hoping that it keeps me amongst its favourites, I step in on the 23^rd year of my life with confidence and a vision of the yet-unrealized dreams.