Party Tricks

On birthdays, inspired by Revolio Mag's piece, "An ode to birthday parties"

I always got a respectable cake for my birthday. Neatly trimmed, frosting along the edges – nothing too wack like a cake dress for a naked Barbie, God no. My requests were respectable too. No chocolate, butterscotch would be great, fruit flavours would also work. Despite there being two birthdays on the same day, my father and I have always been fated to share one cake. Friends will bring over extra cakes, but somehow at the time we’re both kneeling over and everyone’s staring down and singing in cult-like fashion, there’s always one.

That’s how it’s always been, never a birthday apart. Now whether you would call it design or fate, I will leave it up to your beliefs. I have a picture of my third birthday invitation card, for 13^th October 2002, signed off by my parents and brother. My poor brother, with his 9-year-old sensibilities, was often an unwilling carry-on. I assume he wanted to do big boy things like play gully cricket instead of a sugar-addled 3^rd birthday. These yearly affairs were interesting. Though the invite said it was my birthday, it wasn’t only my friends who filled the house. Very honestly, I had probably three friends by that age, one of whom was Shanta, the lady who took care of me. It was mostly my parents’ big people friends and their kids in tow. I didn’t ask for the company of snotty kids with ugly coconut tree ponytails, but these nepotism invites were sadly my only party pals. I don’t want to share my toys with you, bro. I remember this one time one of them mixed my Play-Doh to form a repulsive vomit green, and I was so furious I started crying. I wish it were still acceptable to throw such tantrums.

Birthdays brought out the creative best in my parents. Even if they were having a bad day, arguments abound, they came together to blow balloons, and coordinate with the Monginis guys – it’s E-e-s-h-a, not Isha. What do you mean you only have chocolate cake available? Please just give us an assortment of butterscotch pastries then, sigh. I imagine my mother sitting at her office desk, crowdsourcing ideas for games while she attended to insurance policyholders. Her coworkers, much like her, were young parents in their thirties. Dipping into whatever youthful creativity they had left in them, they would come up with the most ridiculous games I’ve played at birthdays. On my sixth birthday, we did a blindfold bindi sticking contest. The idea was to sit innocent boys and make girls in blindfolds stick as many bindis on the boys’ faces, making them question early ideas of stereotypical masculinity while also making them look like measles survivors. We did pin the tail to the donkey, except it was a chalk-drawn Lion King Simba figure that looked like a mangled cow. When the gourmet games were over, we did the vanilla ones – passing the parcel and musical chairs. My house was a strictly no soft drinks zone, so we gave little frooti juice boxes and samosas and my favourite of all – tiny chutney sandwiches. These Goan home cooks really knew their chutney sandwiches, the chutney creamy and sweeter than the dosa fare; tart but just so. We gave return gifts, which my mom called “takeaways” – and the older and more “English” I became, I would say “We’re not giving them food! Call it a return gift or something.”

Because my father and I share the same birthday, around the time I was in my over-the-top birthday celebration phase, it was assumed that he too would partake in juvenile festivities. No daaru-shaaru for him and his pals, but they were free to do karaoke. I loved seeing him at his childish best. The gregarious man that he is, he spends every birthday answering 300 phone calls. So do I, by association. That’s carried on, despite celebrations being a lot less communal now. Carrot cake with cream cheese frosting now marks the day for me in a different city, and the celebration is the night before somehow. That’s always been absurd to me, these 12 o’clock celebrations. At home we’d always wake up at 7, get ready for school, and impishly wish each other happy birthday first thing in the morning – I have the privilege of saying “wish you the same” without it being an awkward mistake, you see.

I celebrated my 24^th in the warm company of my friends and amber lighting. We did a games night, a sophisticated version of all the make-believe my parents came up with. You could say I channelled my childhood competitiveness into Pictionary and Taboo and what have you. I send out cute invites too, but none as close to the ones from home.

You’re invited.