No Cakes, No Balloons — Just Love: Remembering My Childhood Birthdays

“Some birthdays stay with us not because of gifts, but because of the love that shaped them.”

Yesterday was my birthday. I turned 72.

And since I am a man, I suppose I enjoy the rare freedom of stating my age plainly and proudly!

In the morning, while chit-chatting with my wife, I found myself drifting back to the way my mother celebrated birthdays. Those were simpler times — sometimes painfully simple. We managed to gather enough for meals, and that was that. Savings were not part of our vocabulary. But I never blamed my parents for the absence of comfort. How could I? They provided us with whatever they could at the time, and I have no regrets.

We were seven in our Hindu Indian family — two brothers, two sisters, my parents, and me. Love had to be stretched across all of us, and my parents stretched it with grace.

The Rituals That Made My Birthday Sacred

On birthdays, my mother would rise before dawn.

She would light the coal oven (chulha) and begin cooking breakfast. Then she would prepare the special items — mutton (non-negotiable on birthdays), rice, dal (lentils), a sabzi (some vegetable dish), some bhaji (fritters), and finally payesh, the sweet porridge that marked the day as sacred.

Only after feeding us through her labour would she bathe and dress.

I still remember the crisp white saree with red borders — worn for auspicious occasions. A red bindi, a streak of vermillion on the parting of her hair. Her hair tied back into a bun and flowers adorning it. She looked radiant, dignified, and extraordinarily beautiful.

Then began the rituals.

She would spread a small carpet before the framed photos of our Gods and Goddesses. Fresh marigolds, dhan (paddy), durbo (type of grass), Chandan (sandalwood) paste (freshly ground by my elder sister), a lamp, and incense sticks were arranged neatly on a shining brass plate.

I would sit beside her. My siblings surrounded us.

My sister would apply a dot of Chandan on my forehead. When dry, the colour was like off white with fragrance all round. I would wear the new clothes my parents had managed to buy for me. Ma would chant a few mantras and then rest her hand on my head, blessing me with dhan and durbo. I would touch her feet, as is our tradition, then my elder sister’s, and kiss my younger siblings on their foreheads.

That was the ceremony.

No cake, no balloons, no smearing cake & icing on faces.

Not wrong — but just not ours.Our culture had its own quiet dignity, shaped over thousands of years.

A Birthday Without Distractions

After the rituals, we ran out to play. At the time, there were no televisions, no mobile phones, no digital noise. A birthday meant something magical: we didn’t have to go to school.

In the afternoon, my father would return from the office on his bicycle. I would touch his feet too.

Then came the grand moment — the birthday lunch.

We would sit on a folded carpet shaped like a U. As my mother decorated the birthday boy's plate, the food was arranged by her beautifully along the edges, with a perfect mound of white rice in the centre of the brass plate, which had a slightly raised rim. With incense drifting through the room, we laughed, cracked jokes, and enjoyed each other’s company while savouring the most delectable food I had ever had.

The same story every year.

Looking Back at 72

At 72, I don’t remember the gifts — there were hardly any.

But I remember the smell of coal fire, the sound of my siblings laughing, the crispness of my mother’s saree, and the warmth in my father’s tired smile.

Those memories are richer than any elaborate celebration today.

Growing older gives us the gift of seeing how deeply we were loved — often without knowing it at the time.