happy birthday
Forty years ago, in a moment of unguarded passion, my parents brought me into this wild, beautiful, and often repulsive place we call the world. The family scrapbook, now lost to time and memory, tells me my first birthday was a grand affair, though none of the evidence remains. When my mother was diagnosed with her second brain tumor, she destroyed all the photos—an act of sorrow best saved for another story.
Since then, birthdays haven’t been a grand event in my life. My parents didn’t buy cakes or throw parties. But if my mother remembered, she’d make my favorite dish. My first birthday memory doesn’t surface until I was about 6 or 7, a blurry recollection involving my Aunt Monu gifting me a plate (for reasons lost to me) and a t-shirt, which became a cherished item, its grey and blue colors etched into my young mind. The tradition of receiving birthday cards from cousins and classmates started in secondary school and lingered for years.
I’ve always made friends easily. In university, when I was 19 or 20, my friends insisted I treat them to lunch for my birthday. Penniless from spending my Eid Salami, I asked my father for pocket money—a first for me, and in hindsight, perhaps a foolish move. I skipped university that day, spent hours wandering the city, and returned home with the heavy realization of how alone one could feel in a bustling metropolis. A few months later, with the help of my university friend Sadia, I landed a job at a school, slowly learning that freedom requires financial independence. Sadia and Bobby always remembered my birthday; they never let it pass uncelebrated.
In Cyprus, during 2007 and 2008, I had the most extravagant birthday parties of my life. Friends, colleagues, and even strangers threw surprise parties—two or three in one night! It was a bizarre, exhilarating time, and I was young, wild, in love, and full of… well, everything!
One year, my brother Roney baked me a birthday cake, probably around 2015. It’s one of those sweet memories I hold dear. On another birthday, Roney, Jubo, and I took a day trip to Manikganj, and my little brother Raad, along with his friend Shamim, went out of their way to make me feel special. Their kindness moved me deeply.
I was floored when Minaal organized a surprise birthday celebration in 2018—she’s not exactly known for keeping secrets! She poured her heart into it, and I’ll never forget her effort, even though we’re no longer friends. Life is strange that way.
Every year, my birthdays are marked by phone calls from my aunts, whether they’re here or in Canada. They wouldn’t miss it for the world, not even if the world were ending. The same goes for Ginka, my best friend of 15 years, whose birthday call from Bulgaria is a tradition I cherish.
My 24- or 25-year friendship with Shumon is another blessing. He insists on getting me gifts even at this age! I am incredibly fortunate. And then there’s Sadaf Saaz, my employer, and Lina Apa, the sister I never had, who make heartfelt efforts to celebrate my birthday every year. Their gestures last year left me teary-eyed.
Birthdays make me uncomfortable. Compliments, gifts, and the recognition of my existence feel like challenges I’m still learning to navigate, remnants of childhood traumas I’m trying to unlearn. I used to escape on my birthday, retreating to places where no one could reach me, but COVID kept me grounded for the past two years. This year, I’m buried under work and unable to flee, stuck in the city to receive birthday calls and messages.
I don’t mind people celebrating their birthdays; I’m just not particularly excited about my own. But what is celebration, really? A quiet lunch with family, exploring a new place, or reflecting on your life alone with a cup of tea in a room full of strangers—these are all valid ways to celebrate, aren’t they? Perhaps we should all learn to celebrate differently, beyond the ritual of cutting cakes and hosting parties. Let’s learn to love our existence and strive to find meaning in it.
~ September 7, 2022