The Momma Clan

A Meaning Beyond Candles and Cakes

“You know, birthdays used to mean something to me, Meera.”

Aarav’s voice was steady, yet there was an undercurrent of something deeper—something unresolved.

Meera, immersed in the finishing strokes of her latest painting, glanced up. Across the studio, Aarav stood before one of his own murals—a stark, satirical piece filled with fragmented faces, each holding up a phone with the words ‘Happy Birthday’ flashing on their screens.

She wiped her hands on a rag and moved closer. “They still do, Aarav.“

He huffed, tilting his head towards the mural. “Do they? Because to me, birthdays are nothing more than automated calendar alerts and social media validation. People remember when an app reminds them. Does that even count?”

Meera studied the mural—people laughing, posing with cakes, yet their eyes hollow, disconnected. His message was loud and clear.

“Not everyone sees it that way,” she countered. “Birthdays can be real, heartfelt. A reminder of love, of the people who shaped us.”

Aarav’s expression faltered. His fingers traced the edge of a worn-out photograph—his parents, beaming beside him, a birthday cake between them.

“Then prove it, Meera.”

She frowned. “Prove what?“

“Show me what birthdays really mean. Not the fake smiles or forced celebrations. The real emotions—joy, nostalgia, even loss. If anyone can turn that into art, it’s you.”

And just like that, Birthday became the theme for Meera’s next painting exhibition.

For months, Meera poured her soul into the collection. Each painting captured a different shade of birthdays—the euphoria of childhood celebrations, the quiet ache of an empty chair at a dinner table, the forgotten souls who spent their special day alone.

Aarav, despite his skepticism, was there throughout—critiquing, offering insights, challenging her interpretations.

One night, she found him staring at a nearly finished piece—a little boy staring at an untouched birthday cake, the candles melted down to waxy puddles.

“This one… it’s familiar,” he murmured.

She hesitated before saying, “It’s yours, Aarav. That day in 2021. The first one without them.”

His eyes darkened, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he exhaled and, for the first time, said, “Maybe… some birthdays do matter.”

Meera didn’t respond. She simply squeezed his hand, knowing that was as close to acceptance as he’d allow himself.

The exhibition launch was a grand success. Critics praised her work, guests marveled at the raw emotion on display, and Meera was swept into an overwhelming tide of applause and conversations.

Amid the chaos, Aarav stood in the background, watching. Waiting.

It wasn’t until later that night, when a friend casually mentioned, “Did you wish Aarav today?” that her heart stopped.

“Wish him?” she echoed, the color draining from her face.

“It’s his birthday, Meera.”

The realization crashed into her like a tidal wave.

She turned, searching the room, and there he was—standing near the exit, unreadable.

She rushed toward him. “Aarav, I—“

“You forgot,” he said, his tone devoid of anger. “Of all the people in the world, you were the one person I thought would remember.”

She reached for his hand, but he stepped back. “I waited, Meera. The whole day. But I guess birthdays are just reminders on a screen, after all.”

And with that, he walked away.

For the first time in her life, Meera understood what a ruined birthday truly felt like.

For weeks, Aarav shut her out. Meera tried everything—calls, messages, even showing up unannounced at his studio. Nothing worked.

Until one night, she found herself staring at his unfinished mural—the one about fake birthdays.

Inspired, she picked up a brush and added something new. A single figure in the corner, holding a candle. A woman—her—waiting, remembering.

Beneath it, she wrote:

“Some birthdays are forgotten. But some are worth fighting for.”

The next morning, her phone buzzed.

Aarav: “Meet me at the bookstore.”

She found him in his usual spot, flipping through an art book. He didn’t look up when she sat beside him.

“You don’t give up, do you?” he murmured.

She smiled. “Not when it comes to you.”

He finally turned to her. “Then don’t forget again.”

It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was a beginning.

Two Years Later,

Now, standing beside him in the sacred space of their wedding mandap—on his birthday—Meera had one last gift to give.

As the priest recited the mantras, she signaled to the attendants. A curtain fell, revealing a new mural—one she had commissioned in secret.

It depicted his birthday two years ago. But instead of solitude, the room was filled with warmth, laughter, and love. And at the center stood them, together.

She turned to Aarav, her voice steady. “I can’t change the past. But I can promise you this—every birthday from now on, I will celebrate you, the way you deserve.”

Aarav exhaled, his fingers brushing against hers. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“You finally got my birthday right, Meera.”

And with that, the day that had once been forgotten became the most unforgettable one of their lives.

-Dr(HC) Prachetan Potadar