I was born on April third. And no, it is not two days too late.
My birthday is approaching…rather quickly, I might add. I am very, very happy and insist that others feel the same. And I’m not talking of damp squib polite ‘Yes, yes, how nice..’ but a rather celebrated sort of bonhomie – like confetti falling out of the mouth when you say ‘Yay! Birthday!’
I want gifts, cards made of handmade paper, and cake. Also, a surprise party but no-one seems to be interested in giving me one. So, I shall organize a party, invite some people I don’t know but have tripped over at German Bakery, get them inside the house and yell ‘Surprise!’ As I see it, it is truly a surprise party because this way, more people are surprised than in the conventional method. Majority wins. If you are going to be surprising only one person, then it’s more of a ‘clueless’ party I think because well, whatever.
And yes, the gifts must be gift-wrapped, and preferably not from a retail store. Supremely great if they are handmade but I’m not too fussy. Also, the message on the cards should be written in fountain pen – royal blue ink or bottle green. There are very few people who know how beautiful smudges of bottle green ink look on coarse stationery. The prettiness is quite astonishing, really. And the nib must be broken after the card is signed.
Now, as for what I want, a copper tea-pot would be nice. Would lend a je ne sais quoi (and I mean it – I don’t know what) to the kitchen. Often times, I have gone to the kitchen and stared at the shelves, my eyes searching for something. Lately I have realized they sought a copper tea pot. No need to give me cups. I have those.
Some books too – ‘A Pale View of the Hills’, ‘Alice in Wonderland’, another coffee-table book on Witchcraft that I saw at Crossword, and a ‘Betty and Veronica’ double digest.
But more than anything else, I want people to wish me at midnight…by the pool, with jasmines tucked behind their ears.
My birthday is a very happy occasion – it doesn’t matter how old I get (that’s just big, smelly nonsense that you stop celebrating birthdays after twenty-five. Why? Rubbish drivel, I call it.)And it doesn’t matter what the pinched nose people say, ‘What have you done in life to be happy about being born?’ Why should I do anything in life? I won’t do. I think it’s commendable that I have not let starched prosaic pedantics inflict purpose on my confused and sweetly worthless existence. And of course, it’s not really worthless because I know many knock knock jokes.
Also, I would like a nice song to be dedicated to me. Hmm. So many choices, but I’m quite partial to the first song that I blushed to, ‘There’s a brown girl in the ring.’
And my birthday is on a Monday, so I would like my friends to put up a little skit for me. In the manner of the Monday night sitcoms that I don’t get to watch because I don’t have cable. ‘Frasier’ would be awesome, but otherwise, anything other than ‘King of Queens’. I don’t like that too much.
What else? I would like to have someone read my palm. My lifeline seems to be forming a circle. That can’t be good. But maybe it is because it’s all good on my birthday.
I did not like ‘Being Cyrus’ too much. I have been watching so many ‘different’ Hindi films now that I want to see a film from which all these other movies want to deviate. Also, if no two films are alike, then how can they be different? If every film is different, then all films are the same. Like that graffiti,’ Remember you are unique, just like everyone else.’
Bottom line: April third, my birthday.