Ahardened cynic I know defines a birthday as one of those days when people make much of you—only to forget you for the next 12 months. Yet each birthday marks a milestone in one’s life, justifying a celebration no matter how small. Perhaps nothing brings people together as readily as a birthday does. A birthday party I once attended turned out to be hilarious.
The birthday boy, an ingenuous youngster in his early 20s, turned up and breezily announced, “I’ll join all of you as soon as I’ve changed into my birthday suit!” “For heaven’s sake, don’t!,” almost everyone chorused in mock horror, leaving him completely baffled. It turned out that the naïve guy had got a new suit specially tailored for the occasion—and was blissfully unaware of the negative connotations of appearing in one’s birthday suit! Forgetting a loved one’s birthday is a common human failure.
I sometimes forget my wife’s birthday, triggering much acrimony. And trying to make amends only sours her disposition further, bringing forth stinging accusations like “You never forget your brothers’ birthdays!” I usually cut a sorry figure conceding that she does have a valid point there. As Ogden Nash pertinently observed, “Marriage is the alliance of two people, one of whom never remembers birthdays and the other never forgets them.”
It was Robert Frost who defined a diplomat as one who always remembers a woman’s birthday but never her age. Sadly, I’m no diplomat and sometimes tend to blurt out indiscreetly, “As far as I can remember, you turned 37 last year.”
This gaffe is usually enough to make the flustered lady blush a shade of red seldom seen—and drop me like a hot potato from her list of future birthday party invitees! While in service, I used to wish my Scottish boss unfailingly on his birthday. Then one day he surprised me with his perspicacity. “Tell me,” he remarked shrewdly, “Is there any link between my birthday and your annual confidential report that’s due around the same time? Smirking, I left it to him to draw his own conclusions!
It must be said, to his credit, that after retiring from India he thoughtfully gifted me a three-year subscription to The Writer on my thirtieth birthday. This London-based monthly for aspiring writers proved to be a real boon. I still treasure the old yellowing issues. Talking of birthday gifts, a friend once confided that a clever wife is one who knows how to re-tie the birthday gift her husband has hidden from her!