Life, in general, may have been difficult for our forefathers, but they were lucky in at least one way. They had very few, if any, dates to remember.  These days every day of the year has been marked as something or other, and that is in addition to the birthdays, anniversaries, and the special days that we have to remember. All hell breaks loose if we forget the birthday, or an anniversary of someone very close to us.

I, for some weird reason, have always found it very difficult to remember dates. The only birthday that I manage to remember is my own, and that is only because of the narcissist in me. My forgetting dates is in sharp contrast to my brother, who is very good with dates, and, as if to rub this fact in, he not only never forgets to call any of our relatives on their birthdays, he even calls up some of my friends to wish them on their Birthday.

So, one day I decided that the past was history, and from that day onwards I was going to remember all birthdays and anniversaries. A very close friend’s birthday was falling on 7th June, I remembered, and I thought it would make for a good start if I managed to remember that.  I told myself that come what may, I was not going to forget 7th June.

When the day arrived, however, I completely forgot about it. It was weird in a way because every day before that day, I had remembered 7th June, but on 7th June, I forgot.  And as soon as it was 8th June, I remembered again.

Weighed down by guilt and embarrassment, I thought of an elaborate excuse for why I had not wished him. I would tell him that I was out of town for three days.  I would only call him when I “got back” on the 10th. It was a lame excuse, but it was better than nothing, I thought.

I called him on the 10th, and said “Hello” timidly, expecting him to burst into a tirade about how I had forgotten his birthday, again.

Instead, what I heard was a very cheerful “Hi”, with absolutely no trace of blame or anger, or any feeling of that kind. We talked for a bit, and I was expecting him to raise the matter of his birthday any moment. But, he did not bring it up.

Playing the “feigning ignorance” game, I thought. I decided to play along.

In a few minutes, however, the pressure became too much for me to handle, and I said, “I am sorry, I didn’t call you on 7th, but you know I was out of town.”

“Why would you call me on the 7th,” he said, sounding genuinely surprised.

Now, I was completely convinced that he was really mad at me, and was taking the “feigning ignorance” game to the “I really don’t care if you call me” level. I had never played the game on that level.  I accepted defeat.

“It was your Birthday, and I missed it like I always do,” I said in a voice that sounded sorrier than I actually felt.

It was truly a day for surprises.

My sorry voice was met with a big roar of laughter, and, to top it all, the laughter sounded genuine.

I began to think that maybe, just maybe, my friend had a bigger heart than I gave him credit for, and he hadn’t really minded my missing his Birthday.

“What is it?” I managed to say sheepishly.

“You really can’t remember dates, can you?” he said, “My birthday is on 7th August, and not 7th June.”  You, I am sure, can very well imagine how foolish I felt when I heard that, so I am not going to describe how the conversation went from this point on. Suffice it to say that it did not last very long.

When 7th August came I successfully managed to forget his birthday again, but how that happened is an entirely different story.

(This write-up has been written on the occasion of The MAG completing three years of it’s online existence. Thank you for being a part of  The MAG.)