What is meaning of birthday and why I use to celebrate it without understanding.
Before I started questioning birthdays, I had never questioned them at all. Birthdays were just something that happened every year. Parents celebrated them, relatives came home, friends cut cakes, schools distributed chocolates, TV serials showed surprise parties, movies made birthdays look magical, social media glorified them. I absorbed everything without asking even one question.
I wanted birthdays too.
I wanted people to remember my date. I wanted calls at midnight. I wanted surprise gifts. I wanted expensive presents. I wanted WhatsApp statuses, Instagram stories, group messages, balloons, photos. Looking honestly now, none of that was love.
It was a cry.
"Please remember me."
"Please don't forget me."
"Please make me feel important."
The ego was saying, "Today at least, let the world revolve around me."
A birthday had become proof that I existed in other people's minds.
If someone forgot, it felt like rejection.
If many people wished me, it felt like I mattered.
Nothing had actually changed inside me. Only the ego had received food.
Now when I sit with the word "birthday," it feels strange.
What exactly is being celebrated?
One year closer to death?
One more year of unconscious living?
One more year of strengthening identities?
I was born on that day. That is simply a biological fact.
Why must that fact become an annual festival?
The body appeared on a particular date. Fine.
But why should the ego celebrate the body's arrival?
The body did not ask to be born.
The child certainly did not ask for balloons, lights, hashtags, decorations and photographers.
Adults create the entire spectacle.
The child only gets conditioned.
I now see birthday parties differently.
The child is crying because of loud music.
Parents keep forcing photographs.
Guests are busy eating.
Everyone is recording videos.
People say,
"Smile!"
"Look here!"
"Cut the cake again."
Nothing is happening for the child.
Everything is happening for the adults.
They are celebrating themselves through the child.
Even the words "Happy Birthday" have started feeling different.
Happy because of what?
Because another year has passed?
Or because another year has been consumed in ambition, comparison, anxiety and endless chasing?
If happiness is absent on ordinary days, how will one sentence suddenly create happiness?
What I find even more symbolic is the ritual of blowing out candles.
A candle represents light.
Across traditions, light has meant awareness, wisdom, intelligence, consciousness.
Whenever we light a lamp in front of a temple or while studying, the meaning is not the flame itself. It points towards awakening.
Yet on birthdays, what do we teach children?
First light the candles.
Then clap.
Then blow the light out.
Everyone cheers when the light disappears.
Nobody questions this strange symbolism.
Perhaps originally this act had no such philosophical meaning. It came from European customs where candles were associated with wishes, celebrations and later birthday cakes. But once the act is repeated without understanding, it becomes conditioning.
Today children eagerly learn to extinguish light before they ever learn why human beings have always worshipped light.
That irony strikes me.
Maybe a more meaningful celebration would be to light one lamp and silently ask,
"Has there been even a little more awareness this year than last year?"
That question feels far more honest than blowing out candles.
I also started wondering where all these birthday customs came from.
Cake cutting.
Candles.
Birthday songs.
Theme parties.
Barbie cakes.
Superhero cakes.
Balloons.
Buffets.
Photo booths.
Professional photographers.
Hashtags.
Midnight countdowns.
None of this belonged to the India my grandparents grew up in.
These practices became widespread largely through European traditions, colonial influence, urban consumer culture, advertising, television, films and later social media. Earlier, many Indian families simply visited a temple, sought blessings from elders, or sometimes didn't observe birthdays at all. The modern birthday industry—with cakes, decorations, gifts, event planners and Instagram aesthetics—is largely imported and commercialized.
Now birthdays have become another market.
Cake companies earn.
Decoration companies earn.
Gift companies earn.
Restaurants earn.
Photographers earn.
Social media earns attention.
Everyone gains something.
Except perhaps the person whose birthday it is.
I don't feel like celebrating birthdays anymore.
Not because birthdays are sinful.
Not because I think I am spiritually superior.
Not because I want to oppose society.
The question has simply become too alive to ignore.
Once I have honestly asked, "Why am I doing this?", I cannot unknow the question.
And I also understand why people feel hurt if I don't wish them.
I used to feel the same.
Because the wish was never about words.
It was asking,
"Do I exist for you?"
"Am I remembered?"
"Do I matter?"
That is a painful place to live from.
Perhaps the deepest birthday wish is not "Happy Birthday."
Perhaps it is:
"May another year not be added merely to age.
May another year be added to awareness."