Birth

It’s your birthday.

Nine years it’s been, since we got to know each other. A lot has changed since those heady days, time having extracted the inevitable tax that is its right. Gone is the lazing around after school gave out, the “hanging out” in the Coffee Days, the voracious appetite whetted by Ginger Chicken. How we sat around and laughed at inane comedies, how we all debated the latest color screen mobiles. How we made plans to go watch movies on slow Saturdays, looking out at every instant for the the school principal and his ever-faithful spy. And how we viciously bitched and complained, with the conviction of youth and the still largeness of time on our sides.

Making new friends, hosting others from out of town. Crowding fourteen people to (what now seems) a small Hyundai Accent, etching indelible memories to be looked back at fondly. The seriousness with which we took the intrigues of the day, the heated manner in which we involved ourselves in matters of the heart and the mind – both ours and others’. The visits to the bowling alleys, the improptu games of air hockey that stretched on forever. And how we roamed around “shopping malls”, doing nothing in particular but spending moments that we little knew would be the only tangible takeaway years later. The charcoal sketch of us all together, as if looking out to an unknown but unavoidable future.

Those moments have passed. And now you’re a mother yourself, with someone to guide and care for, someone whose very existence you shape. And for that, all I ask if that when you get to the point (and you will know it just as we knew when the principal was around the corner on his rounds) where you must impart learnings of your own, that you talk about these times. And underscore the importance not of what she does, but that she do it and remember the people that she shared those times with.

Happy Birthday, C.