Twenty years ago, I wore a white fairy-princess outfit, complete with a crown, magic wand, and wings with silver stars, to my 5th birthday party. Among the guests were Pink Panther and Goofy, school friends and family, and people who I have probably not seen since. A poor soul struggling to make money and provide for his family was handed a camera and his sole job was to follow me around with it all night as I ran around in my new white shoes. He'd ask me to stop and look up at the camera and smile, while all I wanted to do is stick my tongue out and make goofy faces at him until I got bored and then be chased around some more by other 5 year olds. Between a game of passing-the-parcel and duck-duck-goose, I lost some stars off my wings and my magic wand. By the time I was asked to cut the cake, Pink Panther had wondered off, tired thanks to some of my friends yanking is bright pink tail. I became fierce when it came time to blow out the candles, elbowing away my peers who were inching towards blowing it out before me. After I cut the cake, I made my signature move which always brought out a cry of dismay from my mother every year...I licked the frosting off the knife. It was an unnecessarily lavish party, more for my parents than for me, but it was memorable.
Other birthdays that followed never quite measured up to that one. Sure, we had my 6th birthday where I was Little Red Riding Hood and we had red chairs out in the lawn that matched and caterers and balloons, or my 7th birthday where I was Barbie, covered in pink from my feathered boa to my noisy plastic pink stilettos, bossing around my friends between a game of Simon-says and musical chairs...but nothing as grand as my 5th birthday.
Many people I know don't like to make a fuss about their birthdays. I'm not one of them. It's bad enough I expect to be treated like royalty 364 days of the year, but on my birthday...well, let's just say that it's all about me. And me only. I wonder if there hadn't been such a fuss about my childhood birthdays, would I still grow up expecting a full day of celebration-me?
Twenty-five years ago, I was delivered as the great monsoon of '84 hit the city of Karachi. I sit today many miles away from all that, as a storm takes over this new city of mine, thinking of balloons and bunting, rich white frosting, clapping hands and the never-ending clutter of ribbons and wrapping paper.
