There were monsoon birthdays covered in photo collages. There were books in paper bags. There were cards and letters; my handwriting jumping off the pages in reds and greens. Midnight was a special time – the waiting by the phone and feverishly dialling the number only to scream Happy Birthday and other festive things.

Then the day dissolved into nothingness soon enough. It wasn’t just another day but it definitely wasn’t noteworthy. It came down to just phone calls, even text messages.  It was an insipid two-minute phone call, where we discussed new cities and dinner prices. I don’t remember too much else and that’s saying something because I am not one to forget. I do however remember the feeling of just being two people, very far away, making small talk because that’s the norm. The birthday wishes were a burden and from what came next everything else was too.

The monsoon birthday is unimportant now. It passes me by without the slightest hint. Days later, when I am reminded of it because of a Facebook update or some such, I realize how this was only inevitable. The people involved now exist miles outside my scheme of things.

This is something that I just write about now and every time I do, I smile as the metaphoric dodged bullet whizzes past me.