Facebook issued me a stern warning: This is the last time you will be able to change your date of birth. OK, I thought. I'm very bad at lying, so I better make it something I can remember. Sigh. Just because I want to use Facebook, why should I share my date of birth? Kaiku, kaiku? Everyone I know has only one birthday in the whole year, poor chaps. Fortunately, my friends have thoda dodgy memories—just like mine—so my birthday celebrations go on for a week, at least. As and when somebody remembers and wishes me, it becomes my birthday—lucky me!

The most precious birthday gift was Amma, Indu Shedde, a senior citizen, playing me "Happy birthday" on the flute. I recently gifted her a flute, and she has been zealously practising the tune for two weeks. I was so moved, I just crumbled like a Glucose biskut in hot chai. Then, we also sang a Hindustani classical song together, Binati suno mori (Hear my plea) in Raag Bageshri. Learning this song now took me back to my childhood days. Amma recently came to live with me, and while it is challenging to look after a senior citizen well, especially in the time of Corona, spending time with my mum has also brought many joys. Speaking in my mother tongue Konkani is one, and resuming learning Hindustani classical vocal music from Amma, is another. Amma, who gave public concerts as a Hindustani classical music vocalist, and sang on All India Radio in her youth, taught my sister Sarayu and me music when we were young. Sarayu sent me "bread roses"—bread rolls with Nutella and cinnamon—in a spectacular baked bouquet, that was like eating spring, and sang me happy birthday in Sanskrit.