Tomorrow, Kymaia turns eleven, and I turn fifty-three. A coincidence of dates, but also a reminder that while she steps into her teens, I am, by all appearances, expected to be stepping into the territory of creaking knees, sore backs, and laments about how quickly the years have slipped away. Misbahji will have none of it. Each time I mutter something about age, or groan about a niggle in my knee, she grows indignant, insisting that she did not spend years waiting to find me only for me to start ageing just when life has finally become so full, so colourful, so worth savouring.
And she has been at it for days now, pouring herself into the preparations for the party, orchestrating everything from the welcome board to the catering, from the carefully designed activity kits that each child will receive to the smallest knick-knacks that show just how much thought she invests in every detail. Today was the first day I managed to step in and lend a hand, though my contribution was less efficiency and more mischief. Some embroidery rings were lying on the table, and instead of treating them with the seriousness she expected, I picked them up to clown around, as I often do. The older I get, the more juvenile my pranks seem to become, and when I realised she was filming me, I played it up shamelessly until she broke into the kind of giggles (after the camera was switched off and a tense second passed where I wondered if I’d crossed a line) that make the whole room lighter. She shook her head and said, “Yes, that’s the Kedar I want. Young and full of mischief. Not the other one, old and grumpy.”
And she is right. Because in this little bubble we are in, laughter matters far more than calendars. Maryam has thrown herself into the thick of it, even begging us to let her skip school tomorrow so that she can stand proudly as part of the welcome team, shoulder to shoulder with her mother and me, claiming her place in this family celebration. The three of us have been buzzing with energy, teasing, decorating, planning, sometimes tired but mostly joyful, while Kymaia remains happily unaware at her mother’s place, and my own mother tends to her Ganpati with health, grace, and serenity.
This is my family. This is my life. This is what I live for. And as long as this circle of laughter and love surrounds me, I don’t think I will ever truly grow old. It strikes me that on the very day Kymaia attains her majority, on 28 August 2032, I will step into my own sixtieth year as a senior citizen, as though passing the baton forward, one generation ready to step into the world even as another prepares to sit back a little. But that is still a long way off, and from the vantage point of fifty-three, sixty feels like a lifetime away, especially considering how many lives I have already managed to live in these fifty-three years.
For today, it is enough to be here, to laugh, to prank, to prepare for surprises, to love and be loved. And as Rajesh Khanna said in Anand:
“Zindagi lambi nahi, badi honi chahiye, Babu Moshai.”
And if this laughter, this love, and this life is what badi feels like, then I could not ask for more.
