-

Before kicking this post off I would like to indulge in some shameless self-promotion (in addition to the very existence of this blog which itself is as shameless as self promotion can get)

1. I am an expert balloon blower: My remarkable lung capacity allows me to blow the most stubborn of balloons at a freakishly quick pace… making it a brilliant career option just in case nothing else works out

2. Besides balloon blowing, my other talents include light-speed-post-regurgitation intervention a.k.a. puke cleaning. I’m known as sort of a legend in this department with the yet unsurpassed ability to eliminate all signs of an unpleasant situation in 15 minutes flat. (all that remains is a faint smell… very faint though)

Having convinced my readers that I am an invaluable asset for any and every kind of party I now proceed…

You know I don’t ever want to grow up. I remember when I was little, apart from alternating between wanting to be a photographer, tourist guide, actor, writer etc. what I really wanted to be was 21 years old. That was my ambition, because back then 21 was a fantastically glamorous number… it entailed wearing grown up clothes, talking grown up talk, grown up freedoms and responsibilities. Being 21 meant being beautiful and successful.

Fast-forward to the eve of my 22nd birthday and the last thing on my mind was the glamour of it all. There were assignments to do and tests to cram for. And the fact that I had completed 22 years of existence and not struck off a single thing on my grandiose ‘things to do list’ was something buried in the deep recesses of my mind under all those mundane everyday details. Birthdays seem more and more to be like a chore, sad considering how eagerly, anticipated they were once upon a time.

[I remember some kids as having the most elaborate countdowns, eg. If your birthday was on the 11th you’d start crossing days off your calendar starting from the first of the month… giving you 11 days of unadulterated anticipation. This unfortunately didn’t work out too well for me. But I compensated by telling everyone that my birthday was “on the 2nd day of the 2nd month” lending it some novelty.]

Which is why last night’s events were such a breath of fresh air. Sug’s birthday and these three got it in their heads to throw a surprise birthday party. So much plotting and hopeless finger crossing later the plan turned out to be a roaring success. I hid under the table, pooch behind it and Raquel under the bed… for a full 5 minutes during which out of me came the most terrific giggle ever. A product of sheer excitement, it shot out straight from my stomach, bypassing lungs and throat… so spontaneous and powerful I thought I’d collapse from breathlessness. It was a five year olds giggle followed subsequently by repeated bouts of hysterical laughter. The 5 of us were barely coherent by the end of it… and I loved every uncomplicated minute of the madness.

Back in college, we’d mastered the art of surprise birthday party throwing. It all started with ponnie’s rooftop party post Mughal-e-Azam. We said it with candles, cake and booze. I got smashed and tried my hand at Malayalam, pai got hammered and retreated to the loo but it was jose who having consumed no alcohol at all, stole the show, intoxicated by our unceasing compliments. Success continued with Liz’s bash, where the star attractions were 50 pastel coloured balloons and two kadhais full of GC’s special pao bhaji that no one ate (I know because I did… for the next two weeks… for breakfast lunch and dinner). But I think our crowning glory was jose’s 19th birthday… furniture draped in every scrap of blue cloth that we could procure from within a 1 mile radius…35 people leaping up from behind a screen of bed-sheets with blue balloons in their hands (all of which were blown by yours truly)… it was beautiful.

The one that I hold closest to my heart was my 20th. You always know something is up, its just hard to pin it down to what it is. An elaborate scheme to keep me out of the house, dinner at my favourite restaurant in Majnu ka Tilla, ‘traffic jam’ at the ganda naala juice bar and when I finally walked in through the front door- a brilliantly engineered tent, made of bed covers, suspended by what was till that morning our clothesline. Inside the wigwam, a feast - grapes with ample quantities of vodka injected in them (using real live medical syringes) with plenty more vodka on the side. And even though that night ended with me having to sweep up Thambi’s vomit before finally sitting down with a micro assignment due the next day (on which I incidentally did really well) it was the most amazing day ever.

Maybe I am still a child… deriving so much joy from these little things and maybe I’m more a child now than I ever was. I sometimes feel I grew up too fast, in the sense that I was deathly serious by the age of 8 and hung up my prank playing and naughtiness gloves while still in gestation. I think that’s why I hate kids so much, because the universe lets them get away with so much that I never allowed myself to.

Or maybe this is growing up. Realising what time is slowly depriving you of and figuring out a way of life in which age and maturity are not irreconcilable with innocent and meaningless fun.