Birthdays and birthday conversations are interesting. I usually
call my mother once I wake up on my birthday so that she can wish me. Usually,
what follows is an in-depth account of the circumstances under which I was
born. I have heard it so many times that I can repeat it verbatim now. How it
always rains in Shrabon mash (my birthday month coinciding with the monsoons).
How the day before I was born, my mother started complaining of minor
discomfort (possibly she was about to go into labor). On hearing this, my
grandfather immediately left for the fish market to buy the choicest Ilish
maach (Hilsa fish). After a multi-course lunch of fish and patha’r mangsho
(goat meat) and what not, my mother yawned and told my grandma, “I am going to
take a nap now, please wake me up if I go into labor!” Apparently, she was so
naïve that she thought that she might birth me in her sleep.
I have heard this story so many times now. And also the story
about how my father went missing in action when I was born because he got Joy
Bangla (conjunctivitis) and had to be quarantined. And there are other stories
as well, mostly revolving around what they ate once they were home with me, and
how the physician mistook my grandma for my mother because my grandma was
holding me and the nurse started rubbing her arm with alcohol to give her a
shot. Every morning of my birthday, I lip sync as my mother recounts the same
stories while she continues to argue that my birthday should be celebrated as
her birthday (the birth of a mother).
This year was special. I managed to include grandma too in our
conference call. My mother and grandma recounted the same stories again. And
the special part? They did some simple arithmetic and figured out that when
grandma was my current age, she became a grandma. “আর
একে দেখো। হাফ-প্যান্ট পরে বাচ্চা সেজে ঘুরে বেড়াচ্ছে।” – “And look
at her? Prancing around in half-pants, dressed like a juvenile!” they observed.
How elated I was to learn that!
sunshine
