The other day I was invited to my manager’s daughter’s birthday party. As all of my colleagues were attending, so, I also decided to make my esteemed presence. The party hall was decorated with balloons hanging really low. Though in different colors, each had only one particular hue. They were either fully blue or wholly red or completely pink. These were not like the balloons of our childhood. Colored balloons then were always spotted by other tints in ink-drop sizes. In those days, balloons were always taped close to the ceiling, well beyond the reach of our eager, grasping hands. Hopeful, we stood below them waiting for the string to loosen its grip and let them go. Often when the elders were busy clapping for the birthday child, we pulled the nearest chair, climbed furtively and then in small bursts of energy tried to pull the balloons down. On good days, the risk paid off. On bad, of which there were many, the chair creaked loudly, called a grown-up’s attention leading to the inevitable tongue-lash. The color of a twisted, temporarily misshapen ear often matched the blotchy hues on the balloons. It worked both as a remembrance of the deed, and a warning of the punishment to come. As the balloons fell petal-softly, I was the only one watching their descent. The urge surfaced. Get to them before others do. Then hold them close for the rest of the evening lest they escape and float into other outstretched arms.
But there was no mindless scramble for the falling balloons. The adults, and now yours truly was one of them, were intent on the food piled on their plate. The kids had other things to beguile them — a clown and a swimming pool. What did — or didn’t — we have that made these things so dear to us? We didn’t have the clowns at our birthday parties. With luck, we would get to see those at the annual visit to the circus. Our party meal was served in paper plates, one helping, no more. A slice of plum cake, five-six wafers, a samosa, an orange-colored drink. Maybe that is why at this party, all who were seven in 1988 and before chose to dwell on the food. I turned and took one last look at the bereft balloons before leaving. I clutched my childhood close and left the balloons fallen behind.Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Birthday Party
The other day I was invited to my manager’s daughter’s birthday party. As all of my colleagues were attending, so, I also decided to make my esteemed presence. The party hall was decorated with balloons hanging really low. Though in different colors, each had only one particular hue. They were either fully blue or wholly red or completely pink. These were not like the balloons of our childhood. Colored balloons then were always spotted by other tints in ink-drop sizes. In those days, balloons were always taped close to the ceiling, well beyond the reach of our eager, grasping hands. Hopeful, we stood below them waiting for the string to loosen its grip and let them go. Often when the elders were busy clapping for the birthday child, we pulled the nearest chair, climbed furtively and then in small bursts of energy tried to pull the balloons down. On good days, the risk paid off. On bad, of which there were many, the chair creaked loudly, called a grown-up’s attention leading to the inevitable tongue-lash. The color of a twisted, temporarily misshapen ear often matched the blotchy hues on the balloons. It worked both as a remembrance of the deed, and a warning of the punishment to come. As the balloons fell petal-softly, I was the only one watching their descent. The urge surfaced. Get to them before others do. Then hold them close for the rest of the evening lest they escape and float into other outstretched arms.
But there was no mindless scramble for the falling balloons. The adults, and now yours truly was one of them, were intent on the food piled on their plate. The kids had other things to beguile them — a clown and a swimming pool. What did — or didn’t — we have that made these things so dear to us? We didn’t have the clowns at our birthday parties. With luck, we would get to see those at the annual visit to the circus. Our party meal was served in paper plates, one helping, no more. A slice of plum cake, five-six wafers, a samosa, an orange-colored drink. Maybe that is why at this party, all who were seven in 1988 and before chose to dwell on the food. I turned and took one last look at the bereft balloons before leaving. I clutched my childhood close and left the balloons fallen behind.
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3 comments:
hmm those where the days :) but as a kid never had all the fancy party n all.. i think i was 3 or 4 when i had my last bday party... well u guys are always welcome to throw a BIG bday party for me:D
eeeeeeeeeee
Well described. And very well put. You know I love writing about the past myself and if you read my blog, 80% of my posts are nostalgic ones. And this post of yours I could totally connect to. Once again, very well written.
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