“Happy Birthday!”, what does that even mean?
A ‘wish’. A wish?
A wish for my birthday girdled in happiness. With no trace of sorrow and misery and all things making life what it truly is.
Sometimes I feel that the wish had enough, and rebelled to be an order. A commandment for happiness. Required. Or demanded, of course.
And what’s with happiness anyhow? Is happiness really the one truth?
Can one not wrap themselves up with unhappiness on their birthday? The lone thing which they know can keep them warm and safe.
Can one not feel lonely?, or grief?. Can one not celebrate sorrow?, heartache? And anguish?
No. It is my birthday. I must be happy. I must shake off my depression and attempt to enjoy and revel in the astronomical splendor of the day; or at the very least, pretend to.
And what is it, which I’m being asked to celebrate? What is so exceptional about a birthday?
A day I cannot even remember. A day with no memorable significance. A day of ‘what’ and ‘how’, but no ‘why’. A day, stripped of its conventional festivity, holds no sense, and no memory which I can take to my grave. What should I celebrate then?
Is it the celebration of the culmination of nine months, and more, of struggle which my parents braved?; the sacrifices they made and the pain my mother endured?; the ‘happiness’ which ‘they’ felt when they heard me cry for the first time?; The only time my tears brought a smile to their face.
Then why am ‘I’ being celebrated?
My adolescent birthday plans have rarely included them. The wishes, the gifts, the celebrations, the fiesta; it has always been about me. When it never was, and never will be.
On the last occasion, I spent the day locking myself up in my room. Distancing myself from all calls and refusing every opportunity of merriment. The next day I had my board examination. When I returned from that chemistry exam, I spent the remainder of the day helping my mother in the kitchen.
“Jonmodin e kichu nibi nah?”, “Nah, icche korche nah...” I’ve never felt more liberated.
The lingering emotion of my mother is something I haven’t been able to decipher. And it is my assumption that it will be some time, before I’m able to. Till the roles have changed further down the years.
It’s a curious fact that I always manage to consign my parents’ birthdays to oblivion while they never forget mine. Perhaps that is how love works. My son and daughter will forget mine and I’ll remember theirs, always.
Perhaps that is how love works.