Over the years, my birthday has been celebrated in so many varied ways.

As a kid, birthday parties were few and far between; I remember only one proper birthday party when I was 9 or 10 years old. Birthdays were always celebrated in school however. These were the only days when we were allowed to not wear the school uniform and most of us would seize this opportunity of looking different; this also automatically told everyone that we were birthday boys. Most of us would bring a packet of sweets or candies and distribute them among our classmates.

Things have changed so much now. First-year birthdays have become an occasion for major ostentatious celebration and I have been to one where more than 500 people were invited. Many parents celebrate each and every birthday of their children. It is a crazy merry-go-round. If you are not hosting a birthday party, you are attending one with your child, sometimes at the rate of one each week. This can get pretty stressful if both the parents are working, since most parties are held at around 5 or 6 in the evening. Add to this, the need to come up with unique gifts, to remember who has been given what and when so that there is minimal duplication and the concept of return gifts to those who attend your child's birthday parties; it all just keeps adding up.

In college, we used to have a wall-paper, a weekly magazine. One major draw of the wallpaper was the birthday column, where all birthdays for the next week would be listed. This ensured that everyone knew everyone else's birthdays at least two days in advances. Birthdays thus became popularity contests where the number of cards you received and the number of people who wished you determined how popular you were. One year, I remember WFM getting more than 80 birthday cards.

I share my birthday with many people. A cousin sister, who lives in London, a batch-mate who is now married to another colleague of mine and an older orthopedic surgeon who also used to direct our college plays. When the ortho friend and I realized that we shared the same birth-date, we celebrated it together four years in a row, by hosting parties in his apartment at Haji Ali, overlooking the mosque in the sea. Innumerable memories; getting pissed once and crashing before midnight only to wake up in the morning to find that the party was over, bringing WFM there and introducing her to all my friends, alliances made and broken and general chaos.

Ever since WFM and I started going around, we have been celebrating our birthdays together; usually a night out in town with a movie or a play and dinner. This year, for the first time in many years, we celebrated my birthday at home. My three-year old niece directed the proceedings; she wore new clothes, got my sister, her mom, to buy a cake, had one candle put in, lit it, blew it, cut the cake and sang "Happy Birthday". It felt nice. The next day when I was driving back, I finally got around to checking the voice mail on my mobile. There I found a message from an old friend, wishing me, followed by her 2-year old son who sang "Happy Birthday" in his sing-song voice. I couldn't but help smiling throughout the ride back home. It was so ironic; other children were more enthusiastic about celebrating my birthday.

My birthdays though are something to look forward to, simply because a whole lot of people remember me that day. My parents. My maternal grand-parents, my mom's sister, her husband and daughter, her other married daughter and husband, my sister and brother-in-law, my in-laws, my wife's brother and his family and at least five-six friends. Their calling up has become a fixed routine in the last ten years or so. On my part, I call the two people who share my birthday apart from my cousin sister with whom I exchange cards. Wherever in the world they may be, it is understood that they will get a call from me.

On my birthday, WFM gives me a gift and on her birthday I do likewise. Yet, as the years go by, it gets more and more difficult to keep coming up with appropriate gifts. Two years ago, we mutually decided to stop giving each other gifts. On WFM's birthday which followed three months later, I actually did just that. I wished her, gave her a couple of birthday cards and left out the gift. She waited till dinnertime and then blew! Apparently, she never really believed that I would actually not give her a gift and for a year after that she never let me forget the fact that I had "forgotten" to give her a "birthday present". Never again will I fall for that trap again.

Every passing year makes me older, and someone or the other is always around to remind me of this. But the passage of time has always brought with it new experiences and opened up new vistas. I am not sure I want to go back to being a gangly 17-year old teenager killing himself, trying to be "cool" and "with it"; sometimes I think that the combination of peer pressure and the pressure to excel in examinations is worse than the problems we have later in life. The older I grow, the less I need to bother about other peoples' opinions; day-by-day it becomes easier to tell people to go to hell and to ignore what others think about me.

This I think is one of the best parts of growing old.

I'm proud of the fact that I was born into such a fine month. In fact, I've devised an entire way of looking at birth months and the people who populate them. It's a cliché-ridden, old-wive's-tale-infested pile of stereotypical reactions and postulates, entirely dictated, of course, by my position on the globe. My scheme also assumes four distinct seasons, so if you live on the other side of the world from me, you're going to have to flip a few months for my system to work.

In fact, if you live on the other side, I salute you! You've probably come this far with no such set of cobwebby nonsense. But I've created this theory, and in my most limited of case studies, it's sort of accurate. It goes like this:

People born in January are sturdy folk. They have a lot of optimism and they always see the big picture, the long range. They are born beginners, obviously. They will start any project and they will probably even stick around and see it through. Good office mates, January folk are.

February babies are buffeted and beaten by the winter weather, but they are not bowed. They are terribly optimistic, possibly the most optimistic people of all. They see the warm light at the end of the winter tunnel and they focus on that light, letting it lead them through life.

Now, if you're born in March, you are always on the move. You are a busy, busy person. Things are up in the air and plans are always underway. Schemes are sprouting and obstacles are melting just by the sheer persistence that is your breezy, blustery personality.

April people are beautiful beyond words. They are tender and fulsome and delicate and soft. Don't ask them to put up with too many disappointments or they will crumple. They like to smile sweetly and be photographed in a soft half-light. They do not do the heavy lifting.

May creates all the people who make our world creative. Everyone who's born in May has a touch of the artist and not just any artist: May people are extravagant with color and texture and scent. Bright, springy, in your face at every turn in the road ... these May folk are the people who design and erect the billboards in your life.

Ah, June! Hearty farm-country people at their most robust. The days are longest and the feelings are strongest. Very vivid. If you want a physical job done, inside or out, ask a person who is born in June. No job too big.

July. And now we come to the somewhat lazier side of the spectrum. People born in July really don't want to go to any bother. If it's easy, they'll do it; otherwise: fuggeddaboudit. On the other hand, if a party is spontaneously erupting, the July people will find it (as if by magic) and they will make it fun.

August. Those born in August have too much of everything. Too many assignments and not enough time; too many possessions and not enough space. Too many friends, too many dates, too too much! The happiest August people are those who've learned, after great trial and disastrous error, how to budget, how to modulate, how to organize.

September creates people with a touch of melancholy around the edges. They have an air of wistful knowledge and a deep grounding in reality. If you want an honest answer, just ask a person who is September-born.

Whereas, if you're born in October, you are devil-may-care, darkly fun-loving, and the one who always gets everyone else in trouble. Not malicious, but deliciously irreverent.

Those born in November are born to worry. They endlessly plan ahead and then they still worry. Worry is an art form, they will tell you. Somebody's got to do it -- the rest of you are too busy having fun, they will lament. Don't worry -- they really like to lament.

And then finally, the cliché train chugs into December. If you're born in this month, you expect to be spoiled and pampered. Since you expect it, it will happen. The December baby is the luckiest baby in the world.

So? What do you think? Too much time on my hands? Isn't it lucky that I wasn't interested in becoming a scientist or a doctor? Think what I could have done with a few sets of statistics and a tense patient in front of me, ready to believe every word I make up.

But, since I was born in February, I am quite optimistic that the above list will be of some use to you. It is my gift.