a birthday in a city far from the people who know you

Mine was in January, which was convenient because Delhi in January has a cold that justifies staying home. My actual birthday preference is to stay home. Priya knows this and accommodates it. My mother is hurt by it every year and calls four times instead of once and sends a WhatsApp at midnight that is emoji-heavy in a way that means she couldn't sleep. This year my office organized a small thing. They left a cupcake on my desk with a candle. I was moved by this in a way I didn't expect and had to take a trip to the bathroom to compose myself, which felt excessive for a cupcake. The thing about birthdays in cities where you've made your own life is that the acknowledgements come from people who chose to know you, not people who've always known you. Priya and Rahul and the people at work who thought to organize the cupcake. This is a different kind of being known and I've been learning to receive it without comparing it to the other kind. My mother's midnight WhatsApp has a picture attached, always. Me as a baby. Different picture every year. This year was me at maybe three, in a park somewhere, squinting at the camera in a way that looked extremely skeptical for a three-year-old. I called her back at midnight and she was awake, of course she was awake. We talked for forty minutes. She told me about the park. I didn't know the story. After thirty-one years there are still stories I haven't heard yet. That's something.