On the other side, of twenty five

In the last one month, more people have called me 'poet' than in the past twenty six years and eleven months of my existence. Though there is a charming rhyming two liner in Konkani which my parents ascribe to me as a kid (Keed maam, keed maam tu ashi kashi? Amgele ghara tu ailo kashi. The English translation, though not doing justice to the original, he he, goes like this: Insect uncle, insect uncle, you are like this, but how? You did come to our house, but came you how? ), that solitary piece of brilliance had been more or less ascribed to fluke.

So, being called a poet can quite get to your head. For instance I was tempted to write a poem, today, beginning 'Its quite lonely, on the other side, of twenty five'. Quite silly. Firstly, I have been on the other side the whole of last year. And then, its not lonely. There are a few people, among my friends, who are older than me - and I thank them for that.

I have never liked birthdays. I hate the attention. In school they made you wear colour dress and go and stand up there with the prayer-gang in front of the whole assembly - I love the anonymity of the uniform. And now, people come to my cubicle, discuss my white hair (yeah there are a few) and my singleton status. Don't get me wrong here. I really appreciate the consideration shown to me, but I would rather it were spaced out a bit. For instance, one could say in July, 'Hey Anant, your birthday is a month from now, happy birthday in advance, so when are you getting married?' and treat my actual birthday as a normal day. Someone else could say the same thing in September. The rest could use the months October through June. But spare August the 22nd please.

I wish I was born on 29th February. Though I quite like the personality traits that astrology ascribes to people belonging to the Leo-Virgo cusp.

He he.

But what the hell, happy birthday to me!