Is this a good time or what?

Every year on Kukur Tihar, I always make it a point to call some of my closest male friends and wish them happy birthday. I try very hard to suppress any chuckles as they begin to stutter, “but today’s not my birthday yaar,” and then after a few awkward seconds they get the joke, and we both have a good laugh.

Birthdays are always fun, and something to look forward to. When you’re younger, there’s always that secret longing that something fortunate might happen. Like a cash gift from your parents, or friends taking you out for a marathon beer session, or even the miraculous prospect that you might meet someone if you’re still single.

However, as you get older and you make the leap from your twenties to your thirties, and the counting doesn’t stop, some of that birthday magic begins to wear off and is slowly replaced by a sense of alarm. At the prospect of growing older and not having achieved enough or earned enough money, or not having made it as the writer or the business professional or the marketing wizard - that we all thought was so easily attainable while in college or our first entry level jobs.

I believe that the majority among us don’t care, but I’m guessing there’s a small minority among us that begin to panic as the birthday clock comes around.

I will turn 40 this week, and I definitely belong in that second group.

I suddenly realize I don’t get any more birthday cards. Honestly, I haven’t received any in a while. I haven’t met anyone since my eighth grade composition teacher who liked something I’d written. I don’t get any cash presents from my parents. The last time I got a birthday gift from my wife – she was still my girlfriend. And my son is still too young to even attempt a birthday note with crayons.

Now as I try and desperately take stock of what I might have achieved or earned in the three quarters of my life so far, I’m scrounging for anything that might vaguely qualify. (According to Nepali life expectancy rates, which hover around 60 I think, I’m now moving into the last quarter of my life).

I don’t remember a time when any of my younger cousins or siblings has asked me for advice. The last time I helped resolve a dispute was at the local bhatti in my village, when our grandfatherly neighbourhood drunk nearly pissed on the sekuwa grill. That doesn’t qualify because none of the other jolly drinkers would have allowed any insult to befall the old man.

But something has begun to change, although I’m not ready to swear on any holy books yet.

As my 40th birthday looms, I realize I have little cash and many unfulfilled dreams. However, I’m quite relaxed to note that while I’m poor in material, I’m also getting poorer in my portfolio of insecurity, jealousy and cynicism.

Just the other day, I noticed a young man alight from a Range Rover with not one but two pretty girls, and I didn’t wish him dead.

I was at a bank recently and in walked the owner of that bank (I can’t tell you his name). I didn’t make any remarks to my companion about how he must be a smuggler and made his fortune through illegal means. I think I even smiled at him.

At a wedding party at the Radisson some weeks ago, I was in the company of men in sharp suits. I found myself eavesdropping and in fact enjoyed listening to their exploits. I believed what they were saying, without once thinking how conceited they appeared, but impressed with how much they knew.

I was watching a television program a few days earlier, where a popular conservationist was urging imminent action to save the environment. For the first time in my life I didn’t call him a poser, or a phony or a developmental junkie. I thought what he said actually made sense.

Now without sounding too narcissistic, I must confess I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting lately. I now realize how easy it is to say sorry for the wrongs that I’ve done. To my dear wife, my friends, my siblings, and even my cantankerous father. And I mean it.

I don’t feel a wince of pain anymore when I see someone in a type of car that I will probably never own in my life. I have begun to realize that rich people probably made it by working hard, and that successful writers spend more time behind their keyboards than otherwise.

As my 40th birthday looms, I realize I have little cash and many unfulfilled dreams. However, I’m quite relaxed to note that while I’m poor in material, I’m also getting poorer in my portfolio of insecurity, jealousy and cynicism. I’d be lying if I said that this is a life changing moment, but I guess it’s a good time to start thinking anew.

And my biggest wish this year is that my son - who’s presently learning to string words together - might muster up just enough to say “Happy birthday Papa.”

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