Readers Write In #831: Kintsugi – A Birth Story

By Ponc

‘Tis the season of prequels in the glitzy world of movies.

Who am I to break that trend?

And when you can’t beat them, you write one.

This is the chapter before *When Love Passes By*—a love letter to birthdays, golden math, and the art of adjusting.

***

I’ve always loved birthdays. Always. They’re the one day you’re celebrated just for being born. You don’t have to win a Nobel Prize. You don’t have to pass an exam—or even shower. You’re celebrated because you exist.

Growing up as a girl in Chennai, India, I was taught two mantras early: 1. Never walk anywhere alone. 2. Always learn to adjust.

In our house, birthdays weren’t exactly festive. Amma made kesari in the morning, and dinner ended with the usual curd rice. No cake. No candles. But always cards—Appa was adamant about that.

My first-ever birthday cake appeared in Room 511 of Meera Bhawan, my hostel room in colle. My roommates—bleary-eyed and avoiding finals prep—crowded in as I cut the cake. For the next few years, birthdays became a celebration: with my wingees, my drama troupe, my best friends. I was falling in love—with the idea of being celebrated.

Then I moved to the U.S. and discovered something fascinating: the golden birthday—when your age matches your birth date. I was born on the 6th, so mine would have been when I turned six. No memory of that, of course.

But if there’s one thing we Indians do well, it’s improvising. So I created a new rule: your golden birthday is when the digits of your age add up to your birth date. Mine is 6. So 2+4=6, 3+3=6, and 4+2=6. Voilà! New golden birthdays at 24, 33, and 42.

Technically, there was one more: 15. But that birthday came and went with little fanfare—just a heaping serving of board exam anxiety. I hadn’t invented golden math yet. I was still learning to adjust.

At 24, I hadn’t discovered my invention yet. I was too busy adjusting to something else.

Two months after I turned 24, my marriage was arranged. I met my husband for twenty minutes before the families decided it was enough. “Why just twenty minutes?” I asked. “That’s twenty more than I got,” someone replied. So I adjusted.

Four months later, we were married. I flew across continents to the United States with a layover in Paris. The romantic in me knew the Eiffel Tower was out there, just beyond the terminal. But visa issues kept us inside. So I walked up and down the terminal, pretending every steel beam or blinking light was Paris.

My husband was a good man—fun, hardworking. But God bless him, he couldn’t spell “romance” to save his life. Still, we made it work. I poured myself into his and our children’s birthdays: treasure hunts, custom playlists, themed breakfasts. They did their best to stay interested in mine—for 24 hours.

At 33, my fourth golden birthday, the marriage looked calm but had undercurrents I was beginning to feel. That year, my child also had their golden birthday, and mine followed. I celebrated by buying my own cake and my own flowers. But I still got cards. I was happy. But deep down, I longed for something more.

Three years later, the undercurrents rose into tsunami-sized waves.

My 37th birthday was the last time my husband really showed up.

The next five years were blurry—me adjusting, hoping all that mudslinging might seal the cracks. But shattered mirrors don’t make for pretty reflections.

I was turning 42—my next golden birthday. And any self-respecting Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy fan knows: 42 is the answer to life, the universe, and everything.

My actual birth date—the 6th—adds up to 9. According to Amma, 9 symbolizes completion. I’d spent 18 years in that marriage. 1 + 8 = 9. A cycle had closed. Another was beginning.

My marriage had begun at a golden birthday. It ended at another. And on the 6th, as I stood before the Eiffel Tower—alone—I realized something:

For once, I wasn’t the one adjusting. It was the world’s turn.