I don’t remember my first birthday.

I was too young.

But somehow, it still feels like a memory.

Not because I remember the cake.

Not because I remember the balloons.

Not because I remember the people who came.

I remember it through the stories my family has told me, the photographs that survived through the years, and the little details that my parents still remember.

And when I put all those pieces together, I realise that my first birthday wasn’t really about me.

It was about the happiness of the people who loved me.

One year ago, I had just arrived.

Our family was living in Modinagar, Uttar Pradesh, where my father was working.

A year earlier, I had entered their lives and changed everything.

And now, somehow, one whole year had already passed.

For my parents, I imagine that first birthday must have felt much bigger than just a celebration.

They had spent an entire year watching me grow.

A year of sleepless nights.

A year of learning how to take care of me.

A year of little smiles, little cries, little worries and countless little moments that probably meant nothing to the outside world but everything to them.

So when my first birthday came, they wanted to celebrate it.

Not just because it was my birthday.

But because one year of their lives as parents had also passed.

The house was getting ready.

My parents started preparing a day before.

The house was decorated with flowers, balloons and colourful streamers.

The drawing room was turned into a little celebration space.

Relatives from both sides of the family were invited.

My parents’ friends came.

People who lived far away and whom we didn’t meet very often made the effort to be there.

And perhaps that’s one of the beautiful things about birthdays.

They give people a reason to come together.

People who otherwise remain busy with their own lives suddenly find themselves sitting in the same room, talking, laughing and creating memories.

And there was someone especially important that day.

My great-grandmother was there.

She had been one of the people who cared for me lovingly after my mother.

From the very beginning, she had a special place in my life.

I obviously don’t remember her taking care of me.

But I have heard about it.

And sometimes, when you hear the same stories enough times, they start feeling like pieces of memories you somehow inherited.

I feel lucky that my first birthday included people from different generations of my family.

My parents.

My grandparents.

My great-grandmother.

Relatives.

Friends.

A whole room full of people who had their own relationship with me.

And I was probably completely unaware of how much love was surrounding me.

Then came the birthday boy.

I was dressed in a suit and a pair of jootis bought by my uncle.

Everyone apparently thought I looked like a little prince.

The cake was waiting on the table.

A big chocolate cake.

Candles on top.

Everyone gathered around.

And then came the moment everyone had been waiting for.

The candles were blown.

The cake was cut.

Everyone sang Happy Birthday.

People clapped.

People smiled.

People took photographs.

And somewhere in the middle of all that excitement was a one-year-old me, probably wondering what was happening.

Apparently, I was also more interested in the cake than in the actual celebration.

I put my fingers into it.

And, as you can imagine, the cake didn’t remain quite as perfect after that.

Then came another birthday tradition that I apparently did not appreciate at all.

People started putting cake on my face.

And I didn’t like it.

Not even a little.

I started crying because my face had become sticky.

Looking back, that might be one of the funniest memories from my first birthday.

Everyone was trying to make me feel special.

And I was basically saying,

“Please stop putting cake on my face.” 😄

Then there were the gifts.

There were many.

Beautifully wrapped gifts from relatives and friends.

But apparently, my favourite was something very simple—

LEGO toys from my uncle.

Even at one year old, I had apparently already made my choice.

Maybe that was the beginning of my relationship with building things.

Who knows?

There were balloons everywhere.

I remember being told about one particular moment when my uncle was holding me and giving me a balloon to hold.

I probably had no idea what a balloon was.

But I imagine that little face looking at something colourful floating above him must have been priceless.

And then the celebration became a family gathering.

More people arrived.

Friends of my mother and father came.

Some of my father’s employees came.

Children played games.

There was music.

There was singing.

There was laughter.

There were games like musical chairs and passing the parcel.

And apparently, my father was having his own moment too.

He danced with his childhood friends to his favourite song.

That detail makes me smile.

Because while everyone had come to celebrate my birthday, my father was busy enjoying a moment with the people who had known him long before I was born.

Maybe that’s what a family celebration really is.

Everyone brings a little bit of their own story into it.

And then came the food.

There was plenty of it.

Malai Chaap.

Paneer Butter Masala.

Malai Kofta.

Sweets.

Snacks.

Soft drinks.

And many other dishes prepared for the guests.

My mother and relatives had spent time preparing everything.

There was even a separate gathering for the adults.

The house must have been full of conversations, laughter, music and the smell of food.

A small child had turned one.

But somehow, the entire house was celebrating.

And then the day ended.

People slowly started leaving.

The music stopped.

The balloons remained.

The decorations stayed for a little longer.

The house became quiet again.

And my first birthday became a memory.

A memory I don’t actually remember.

And yet, I feel connected to it.

Because when I look at the photographs and listen to my parents tell me about that day, I realise something.

My first birthday wasn’t really my celebration.

It was my parents celebrating the fact that one year ago, their lives had changed forever.

It was my grandparents celebrating a new generation.

It was my great-grandmother watching another generation of the family grow.

It was relatives travelling to be together.

It was friends making time to celebrate.

And it was a house full of people who, in one way or another, were saying:

“We are happy that you are here.”

I was too young to understand any of it.

I didn’t know what a birthday was.

I didn’t know why everyone was smiling.

I didn’t know why there were balloons everywhere.

I didn’t know why people were singing.

I didn’t know why there was a giant chocolate cake in front of me.

But today, looking back, I understand something that I couldn’t have understood then.

A child’s first birthday is often more emotional for the family than it is for the child.

Because the child is celebrating one year of life.

But the parents are celebrating one year of parenthood.

And perhaps that’s why my first birthday still matters to me.

I may not remember the day.

But I know I was surrounded by people who loved me.

And sometimes, you don’t need to remember a moment to know that it was special.

You just need to know that you were loved.