:: Cyrus Broacha

I grow old, must clip the hair in my nose

Cyrus Broacha

Chinese astrology considers 8.08.08 to be very lucky, Indian astrologers feel it to be a little dangerous. American astrologers say it’ll be good for Paris Hilton but not so good for the other Presidential hopeful John McCain. Roughly this translates into three facts: a) On the 8th of August a large number of Chinese people got married; b) A large number of Indians got divorced; c) To bury the hatchet, when Paris Hilton and John McCain went for a meal together, McCain ordered an Indian which obviously didn’t agree with him. And I don’t mean Manmohan Singh or Pranab Mukherjee here.

Frankly, I’m no expert on the stars (except for my thesis on the sartorial sense of the early Govinda), however, I am an expert on the day before 8.08.08. For those of you who are unfamiliar with that date, the date before 08.08.08 is 07.08.08.

The day also happens to be my birthday, so let’s focus on this day, shall we, for a little while. When you are a child, public knowledge of your birthday is a great thing. A child whose birthday is publicly announced by his school teacher feels exactly the same thing Rafael Nadal felt when he won Wimbledon this year, i.e. sweaty. Sweaty and proud. As a child on our birthday, we had a little swagger, a little sway and we all walked around with our chest out (except probably Pamela Anderson’s children who, for obvious reasons, wouldn’t like to draw attention to their chests.)

Now if you fast forward a couple of years to the mid-30s, the feeling on your birthday is far closer to what that poor weightlifter Monika Devi had to suffer after being disqualified from participating in the Olympics. The feeling is sweaty. Sweaty, but sad, even ashamed. Public knowledge of your birthday leads to the unlocking of that dreaded secret, public knowledge of your age.

So 07.08.08 was a scary day for me. I tried many different ruses. Upon being asked how old I was, I came up with many guarded responses such as "I’m younger than Dharmendra but older than Randhir Kapoor." Or "I’m one year older than last year but one younger than next year" or "after stripping my medication I am 24."

Then comes what Haryanavi scholar Bhaskar B.Tarneja calls the coup the grace — the birthday present.

The birthday present is always a reflection of your perceived age. Except, of course, in the case of my uncle Ardeshir who perennially gave everybody the exact same present (Rs 11 in a crisp white envelope), regardless of their age, bank balance or social status.

This year, the wife gave me a small blue box. I, of course, was hoping against hope that she was returning the wedding ring. Unfortunately, the box only contained a small metal object that looked like a metal finger, that is more metal and less finger. The damn finger turned out to be a razor, but not any old razor, a special razor for trimming nose hair and hair in the ear. A subtle message from the wife and another unpleasant reminder of the Law of Diminishing Attractiveness that accompanies advancing years in a marriage. The wife, of course, couldn’t hold back and pushed the humiliation to its zenith by showing me how to use the infernal finger. Let me tell you there are few humiliations in this world greater than having your wife remove hair from your ear with a small mechanical object in front of your children, parents and staff.

Other presents were to follow — a clock to remind you that time is fading away. A pair of jeans that would fit an ambassador car. A perfume so strong it’ll help reduce even the most unpleasant of odours, namely the birthday...er boy.

A book on the male menopause phenomenon, again the aforementioned birthday person and a box of Ayurvedic pills which I was told would help increase lung power. But box’s reverse contained only two words "vigour" and "vitality". Words associated with reviving body parts found a little lower than the lungs.

There was one ultimate manoeuver still to go — that is when my excited kids wheeled in the cake only to find the cake didn’t have enough space to accommodate all the candles. Too much candle, too little cake.

My point is I am with the Chinese, 08.08.08 may be feared by the Indians, looked on with surprise by the West. However, for me and the Chinese, it’s the day we have been waiting all year for.

N.B. The writer has passed an order forbidding celebrations of future birthdays until further notice.