HAPPY BIRTHDAY

By Arjun Beri

A day in life of a jobless youth can solve the riddle of life or death, laughter or terror, and black or white. This is a story of one such boy who has given up on life, or so it seems on the morning of a dark cloudy day in Mumbai where he wakes up to the thud of the daily newspaper thrown into his room through the only window there is. The torn curtain, fluttering to the perpetual breeze of Mumbai which blows with such sameness that it can sometimes be depressing, is barely giving privacy to him.
He wakes up to shove his head into this daily ritual of surfing the news hoping to find something different than the day before. But alas except the date nothing changes, the news as usual is about terrorist attacks, increasing oil prices, stock prices nose diving, job cuts, earthquakes, drought, strikes, murder, rape and kidnapping (in order of significance). Death is the reality that everyone around the world wakes to every morning and yet goes on with life. It is worse for him, he has nothing to do, no office to attend, no deadlines to meet, nothing to be elated for and nothing to be sad for. The newspaper, he believes, is his best friend as it talks to him, tells him about the world and what day of the week it is.
He walks up to his window and stares at the road under his room on the first floor of a chaul in Mumbai. As he looks at the people walking on the road his eyes move to a trail of ants on the window of his room. His eyes move back and forth from road to the window from people to the trail of ants and he is bewildered at the similarities with which both forms of life look from a distance. The people seem to be walking in the same manner as the ants walked colliding with each other, giving way to some and blocking others. Suddenly the words his mother used to tell him are ringing clearly in his ears “Work hard if you want to walk ahead of the herd”.
He walks to the kitchenette in his room and looks for food. He checks all boxes, jars but fails to find any. At last he does find a piece of Parle G, a cookie that has kept all the jobless people alive. But he does not want to snatch it away from a bunch of ants that are so happily biting it off. He walks around his room that has a dirty rickety bed and a chair. He pulls out a trunk from under his bed and opens it. He sees his college degree but pushes it aside and from under his clothes he pulls out two halves of a picture and stares at them. That is the picture of his beloved and her words ring in his mind “Don’t forget me after going to the big city”.
A sudden heavy knock on his door on this dreary morning startles and pulls him out of his day dreaming. It takes a moment for him to realize that he is supposed to open the door for this visitor. He dresses up himself and walks to the door. He opens the door and looks around but doesn’t find anyone, just an empty flight of stairs down to the courtyard. A bit confused he shuts the door, gets back to his chair and looks at the picture holding the two pieces together. Before he can get too comfortable, there comes a second attack on his door. This time the knock is so loud that it makes him jump in his seat and he walks to the door, a little irritably. On opening the door the scene is the same except there is a black kitten running off the stairs and a pigeon woken up from its slumber. He steps out of his room looking around for his guests but still finds no cause for the knock.
He is completely taken aback by this strange incident and can think of no reason for it. He shuts the door behind his back and walks around the room like a feather off a flying bird. He can not think of who it could be and while his brain scanned his memory his eyes fall upon the obituaries section in the paper. He knows he is over reacting but he still picks it up and reads about a dead old man whose address has the room number next to his. He fears he may be going crazy and throws the paper on the floor. The door is knocked at again and it is so loud that even the dead man would have turned in his grave. A little nervous, a little scared with beads of sweat down his temple he walks towards the door. As he opens the door after a seemingly long walk to it, he again sees nobody. Determined to solve the mystery he steps out and walks down the stairs. All he sees is a busy street with a lot of hustle and bustle but not a single familiar face. He decides to wait there for his visitor.
After few minutes when no one comes to him he walks back. Climbing the stairs reluctantly and looking behind every now and then he reaches his door. He pushes it to go inside but it does not budge. He runs through his pockets to see if he locked it but to his astonishment it’s not even latched from outside. He frantically pushes at the door again and knocks at it. There is no response, the door has been mysteriously locked from inside. He steps to the next chaul and through its open window he sees a familiar face on a garlanded frame hung on the wall. As his eyes adjust to the light he realizes that it is the same old man whose obituary he had just read. This sends a shiver down his spine. He staggers to his door and not knowing what to do next he walks down around the courtyard to the rear of his chaul only to find his window locked with the torn curtain still fluttering to the breeze.
Desperate to get help he looks around but has no energy to stop the strangers walking in a hurry. He walks back to his chaul frightened and knocks softly on the door. It gently opens and abracadabra he sees his mother standing with open arms. She lovingly says,” so my boy have you forgotten your mother after coming to Mumbai. Don’t you want to have anything to do with your little town now that you are a busy man”? As if this surprise is not enough his father walks out of the dark room and hugs. And then pop out the balloons with his niece and nephew as the lights are switched on and the whole mystery comes to light. From one corner walks his elder brother with his wife and from the other side his little sister. They are all beaming with joy singing the birthday song for him.
Heavy dose of sudden joy clouds his eyes and there are tears rolling down his cheeks. He has no control over his actions and just drifts with the birthday celebrations. He cuts the cake to the cheers of the kids bursting balloons and drowns himself in the moment. His eyes gleam like a school boy as his mother puts a piece of cake into his mouth and tells him that it is time he took a vacation and came back home.
The raindrops on his roof and the flutter of the curtain on his window are music to his ears now.
A glass is half full or half empty-the choice is ours. Life is indeed a riddle.