A story that my closest friends know from my life (among my neverending anecdotes) is one from five years ago.
I was travelling around north India with my parents at 18. July in India is usually wet and warm, but Jaipur — where we were — is in a desert and it’s not known to rain much there through the year. The day that this story took place was another mercilessly sunny day in the city till it started pouring out of the blue. We were walking around Jaipur Fort and had to rush to the weapons exhibit for shelter in the rain. As we walked up the stairs to see more weapons wielded by royalty, my eyes met an astrologer’s and his gaze never left me till I was out of sight. I have always been fascinated by astrology and Linda Goodman’s book on sun signs has been one of my favourite books since I was 12. My mother and I exchanged glances and knew we’d be in a session with the astrologer soon enough. I guess that is one of the few things I have in common with my mother — we live in the future more than the present; and any occasion that we could get to have a look at the future without meddling with it, we would grab. On our way out, we sat down with the astrologer amidst giggles and stretched our palms out to be read. It’s as if we knew someone would be able to make sense of the odd lines and hence, make sense of us.
Along with all the details he told me about my present and murky future, he told me that my 23rd year would be extremely important. He said my 17th, 19th, 27th and 31st years were on that list too. I listened with a dismissive fascination that only the truly anxious can replicate. So, typical of myself, I didn’t let go of these numbers.
Reflecting on 17, I realised that it was important because I moved to Bombay and learnt to live alone and fall in love with someone at the wrong time. As 19 passed me, I learnt about being loved, and letting go of people, places and plans. So, I assumed and awaited 23 to see what it would have in store for me.
In the past four months, I have told myself that this is my year just based on one man’s calculations. The fascination for turning 23 wasn’t new, however. In the last four days, I told myself that this number I wanted to be was everything I had wanted to be since I was 10. But, here I was, on the eve of my birthday not knowing what I am doing with my life.
Then, I remembered how 22 was important too. All the pain, all the struggle, all the conflict, standing up for myself, this blog, my writing, losing my friends to distance — everything made me a completely different person than I was last year. So, who tells me 23 is more or less important? What will change this year except for me? And in what degree?
Why does it even matter?
But, if I lived my year — one day at a time — as if it was important to me (and no one else), it would be as great as I want it to be.
Happy birthday to me.
One Day At A Time 