Of Cakes and Kurtas

Many Unhappy Reruns

I had a birthday last month. And I know what everyone was thinking: “Ho hum, do we have to get him a present just to listen to the same corny jokes this year?”

They really should have considered the question: “Does he want another nice kurta?”
Didn’t they notice that I never wear kurtas in spite of the fact that I’m a retiree? I own 25 kurtas and I only ever wore only two of them, tucked into my pants because I’m vertically- challenged (short) and, if I wear them normally like Amitabh Bachchan I could get arrested for impersonating a Catholic priest. And I changed only when the other one developed a food-stain that wouldn’t go away. Did they honestly believe that I was thinking : “Darn, I wish I had another kurta so that I can’t wear it”?

Well of course not. I thought...
... aaah, never mind what I thought. Most of the time nobody really knows what I’m thinking, including, Me. But trust me; I did not want a kurta.

In my entire life, I have met only two persons who were genuinely interested in kurtas. Both of these persons were in the kurta industry.

''But,'' everyone thought, ‘‘When we gave him a kurta last year, he was overjoyed!''
Of course I was. Like all hoteliers, I have learned to simulate zealous appreciation for gifts that I have absolutely no use for.

That's why I always responded so positively when they gave me -- and I hope they no longer do this, although I understand it still happens, even in 21st-century IT enabled, casual-Fridays India – a tie, hand- painted with an ethnic design. Although Nadia keeps nagging me to wear one, preferably with a matching jacket so she can see how ridiculous I really look.
''Oh! Thank you!'' I would gush. ''A beautifully painted tie to wrap around my neck, strikingly similar to the numerous other nooses crumpled together at the bottom of my clothes hamper!

I am so good at faking appreciation that I was able, years ago, to pretend great joy in receiving pens. This was back in the hoary days of pen-gifting, which mercifully came to an end after the horrible Y2K tragedy in Meerut wherein a 64-year-old school teacher’s house collapsed under the weight of the estimated 50,000 unused pens and unopened bottles of ink that she had stored in her loft.

''OK,'' you are saying, 'then what SHOULD I get for you? If I ask you what you want, you always say, 'I don’t need anything.' ''
That's because I know that if I told you what I rrreeeeeaaahllly, really want, you wouldn't give it to me.

For example, let's take garments. The nicest surprise of all for me would be if you handed me a box, and I unwrapped it, and there, inside, sitting in their pristine clear plastic pouches, were 6 new boxer shorts, allowing me finally to throw away my present Y-fronts (or use them as dusters without telling anybody) because they have reached the stage where they are 10 percent underwear and 90 percent holes. I will miss them but they seem to have lost some of their capacity for containment, if you get my drift.
But rightfully by now they should be buried in the same landfill somewhere, along with my unused kurtas like my “Osibisa” T-shirt, which I bought and wore at their 1979 gig during which I stood on my seat and sang 'Sunshine Day', and danced to the "Gong Gong song.'' (Yes! I did this!) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mXajaZermHw –( Yes Nadia they WERE from Seattle, you're right as usual.) Somebody threw the shirt away two years ago (without asking me) because it had a bunch of stains, which happened to have great sentimental value, because ...
... OK, never mind about the stains. The point is that you cannot give me these things on my birthday. But you know what you CAN give me? You can give me what I always tell you I want: Nothing. I mean it. (Well maybe a Honda Civic )

For me, the quintessential birthday would be one in which I didn't even realize that it WAS the 20th of May, (my birthday, you retard! D UH!) because nobody was making me express joy over presents I never want, or read greeting cards filled with lame verse (''You don’t look a day over 40, but your flirting is perverted not naughty ; and, “Just hope it’s from the shrimps you ate, but most likely it’s your prostate'').

There would be none of this on the perfect birthday. There would be just me, wearing my oldest surviving underwear, free of pressure, maybe just sitting in front of the TV, watching the IPL matches.

There would be no conversation, other than my periodical observations on cricket like: What’s with Krish Shrikanth commenting about “ the wicket not coming onto the bat” ? that’s like an oenophile saying “ this wine is soft on the nose”. As far as I’m concerned: “the BALL should come onto the bat” and “wine should be smooth on the PALATE”.

Looks like cricket may be developing its’ own “Hall of Fame for Pretentious Phrases” like those of Oenology. That apart these cricketers today can carry a crowd across the Indian sub-continent the way “Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi” never could. So next year that’s how you can give me the perfect birthday.

Of course, that's not all. You can also make a reservation for the latest blockbuster Hindi movie and at the end of the day, you dress up, go out, have a nice dinner, during which you propose a toast to yours truly. Who will be back home, in front of the TV, happily asleep in my ancient underwear. That would be UTOPIA.

But you're going to get me a kurta.