Thank You for the Light (And the Wishes)

Born on India’s Republic Day, I’ve always felt a peculiar pride about sharing my birthday with a date of such national importance. It’s as if the entire country decided to throw a parade for me, only they accidentally left me off the guest list and forgot the cake. Growing up, it also meant an extra holiday, which, let’s be honest, is the best possible birthday gift a child could ask for. Patriotism feels very noble in theory but, in practice, it feels suspiciously like sleeping in and not doing homework.

Every 26^th of January, my phone buzzes with wishes of fortune, health, and the usual optimistic forecasts for the year ahead. Some messages are long and thoughtful, some are just an emoji and a “HBD,” and a few are clearly following last year’s trend, but I’m still oddly touched by all of them. Personally, I suspect I’m less “fine wine” and more “antique furniture”: a few scratches here, a wobble there, but still mostly functional if you don’t lean too hard or sit too suddenly. If I came with instructions, they would probably say “Handle with care; joints may creak.”

As I slowly inch towards 50 (not there yet, but not long to go), and as gold flirts with 5,000 dollars an ounce, I am optimistic about many things. There’s something oddly comforting about watching both your age and the gold price climb together; at least one of us is considered a safe haven. I’m not entirely sure where either curve peaks, but for now they make for excellent conversation starters, mild panic on financial news channels, and the occasional family joke about “investing in Sheetal,” usually followed by someone checking my warranty.

Growing up in Kashmir, my birthdays were often quieter, and not by choice. Blackouts arrived without warning, sometimes just as the cake did, and there were years when a curfew or a march turned celebration plans into whispered conversations by candlelight. As a child, I didn’t have language for any of it; I just knew that sometimes the lights went off, adults looked worried, and the icing on the cake developed a mysterious skin. Now, when I think back, those tiny flames on the cake, just a few trembling candles feel like small rebellions of light. I blew them out not because someone told me to, but because I could. That right to control my own little circle of light, my own flicker of freedom, has grown larger in meaning with every passing year, like a metaphor that refused to stay modest.

Through this lovely little corner called ISBUND, I’ve also come to know so many new humans who seem to run on quiet optimism, both for themselves and, somehow, for me. It feels a bit like discovering extra candles at the back of the drawer that you’d forgotten about: suddenly there’s more light than you expected. Together, I hope we manage a bit more magic, one shared story, one honest comment, and one slightly crooked laugh at a time. It’s an odd comfort, realising you’re surrounded by a small crowd of people doing their best, each put together in their own perfectly imperfect way.

These days, it’s not the cake, the gifts, or even the blessed day off that fill me with joy. It’s those candles. Each one stands for another year lived more or less on my own terms, another chance to remind myself that even in the face of darkness; political, personal, or just an overenthusiastic power cut, I still get to choose when to blow out the lights. The timing, at least, is mine.

And somewhere deep down, as the wax drips and the smoke curls into the winter evening, the little girl who grew up in Kashmir smiles quietly to herself: still here, still glowing, still stubbornly, gloriously her own. Slightly dented, occasionally wobbly, but undeniably present.

Thank you to everyone who took the time to wish me, or even just thought of me, on my birthday. And to those who share the day with me; my astro twins, as someone beautifully put it, a very happy birthday to you too. We’re all muddling along, in our own spectacularly imperfect way.