Chapter 6: The Lost Celebration

Birthdays had once meant something to Aarav. When he was younger—maybe six or seven—they had been small but magical. A homemade cake with uneven frosting, a new pencil box, a few paper streamers taped to the wall by his mother, and the rare occasion when his father would come home early, carrying a plastic packet containing a gift he'd never admit to buying himself.

Those days were fleeting, tucked away in the early pages of his memory like photographs that had since lost color. As he grew, birthdays began to blur—reduced to obligations, checklists, a WhatsApp message in the family group, a hasty "Happy Birthday" spoken over breakfast without even looking up from the newspaper.

But deep inside, no matter how many disappointments the years had stacked up, Aarav still carried the tiniest hope that maybe this year would be different. That maybe someone would notice. That someone would see him not as a student or a son or a percentage—but just as a person, deserving of joy.

This year, Aarav turned fifteen.

And like every year, he said nothing about it.

Not to his classmates. Not to his neighbors. Not even to Veer, who always had a way of stealing attention no matter the day. He told himself it didn't matter, that birthdays were meaningless after a certain age. But as he dressed for school that morning, there was a small flutter in his chest, like the wingbeat of a caged bird hoping to be noticed.

His mother remembered, of course. She always did.

Before he left for school, she handed him a warm paratha wrapped in foil and kissed the side of his forehead.

"Happy Birthday, beta," she whispered.

He smiled faintly, nodded, and walked out. The soft kiss lingered for a few seconds, like dew before the sun rises. But he knew that by evening, even that warmth would disappear into the noise of everything else.

At school, the day unfolded as it always did—lessons, bells, chalk dust, whispers. No one said anything as no one knew.

Still, during lunch, when he saw a group of classmates singing loudly for someone else whose birthday it was—a boy named Tanishk—he couldn't help but feel a twinge in his chest. They had brought chocolates, balloons, silly handmade cards. The whole class had clapped, laughed, shouted with joy. The teacher had even smiled and given him a birthday blessing.

Aarav watched from the side, biting into his plain sandwich.

No one noticed that it was his birthday too.

And perhaps that hurt more than anything else—not the absence of a cake or a song, but the absence of acknowledgment. To exist among people and feel unseen—especially on the one day you hoped to be remembered—was a loneliness deeper than silence.

When he returned home, the house was unusually quiet. His father's scooter wasn't parked outside, which was a relief. Veer was in his room, yelling excitedly on a phone call with friends, probably planning his own cricket match or some weekend outing.

Aarav placed his bag in his room and walked into the kitchen. His mother was cooking something—something special.

The smell of ghee, cardamom, and jaggery drifted through the room.

"Halwa?" he asked softly.

She turned, smiled. "Yes. Your favorite. I didn't forget."

He nodded, eyes softening.

For a moment, the house felt gentler, like it used to when he was little—before marks became more important than smiles.

"I'll help you," he said, reaching for the steel plate.

"No, no. Go change. I'll call you when it's ready."

Aarav went back to his room and sat on the bed. He didn't know why, but he kept looking at the door—waiting, expecting something. Maybe Veer would remember. Maybe someone from school had told a friend who would call. Maybe his father would bring home something—anything. A small wrapped pen. A slice of cake from the local shop.

But evening passed.

His father returned at seven. Tired, dusty, and already grumbling about traffic and electricity bills.

No one mentioned the date.

No one brought up anything.

Even Veer was too distracted. He had a match the next day and needed to borrow Aarav's water bottle. That was the only interaction they had.

Dinner was simple. Daal, rice, and a small bowl of halwa for everyone.

No candles. No wishes. No mention of what the day was.

When Aarav sat at the table, his father barely looked up.

"Eat quickly," he said. "You have tuition early tomorrow."

Meena placed the halwa in front of him gently. She touched his shoulder, but didn't speak. Maybe she didn't want to anger Raghav by making the evening feel like a celebration. Maybe she thought the halwa was enough. And in many ways, Aarav knew it was.

He ate quietly.

The sweetness didn't taste like it used to. There was no laughter between bites, no teasing. Just the soft clink of spoons and the occasional buzz of the ceiling fan.

He stared into the bowl, thinking how strange it was that the same dish could taste so different depending on the day, the company, the silence.

After dinner, Aarav went back to his room.

And that's when it hit him—not in a dramatic, crashing way. But slowly, like dusk slipping into night.

He had just turned fifteen.

And no one had truly said it.

No one had seen it.

Even in the one moment that should have been his, he had become invisible.

He opened his sketchbook again. He turned to a blank page and began to draw—not something beautiful or imaginative. Just a table. A steel plate. A bowl of halwa. And beside it, a candle that had melted into itself, never lit.

The drawing was rough. Uneven. But honest.

As he finished, he scrawled two small words beneath the page, barely legible:

"Maybe next year."

But deep down, he knew he didn't believe it.

Hope was a currency he was slowly running out of.

Later that night, as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling again, Aarav tried to convince himself that it didn't matter. That birthdays were just numbers. That celebration was a childish need. That what truly mattered was becoming a better student, a better son.

But no matter how much he tried to reason, he couldn't silence the ache of being overlooked, not being acknowledged and giving up the one day a child is allowed to feel special—and receiving nothing in return.

Even the stars outside his window looked dimmer that night.

He curled under his blanket, turned to the wall, and whispered, just once, "Happy Birthday, Aarav."

There was no reply.

Just silence.

And the sound of a candle that was never lit… quietly melting in the dark.