Illustration/Uday Mohite

Last week, it was my birthday. A friend asked if there was a party. I mournfully said, "No, I'm sick. So it's just my mother, sister, uncle, niece, brother-in-law and two friends. Well, maybe three." "That's a party in my book!" said my friend. In my book it's a sober family dinner. When it comes to birthdays there are two kinds of people: those who love it, remind people it is coming up, revel in the wishes, the presents, the love, the new clothes. They throw parties. They call up anyone who forgot their birthday and berate them. And, well, those whose feelings are on the spectrum from ambivalence to hate. Like Garbo, they vaant to be alone. They switch off their phones and feel depressed or pretend they believe in the lunar calendar and something called adulthood.