Ayan's fortieth birthday.
From the morning, the house was full of celebration.
His mother had made rice pudding that morning. His wife had brought back some of Ayan's favourite food from the market. His daughter made a little card with her own hands and handed it to her father, saying,
— “Happy birthday, Baba!”
Ayan pulled his daughter into a hug.
Wishes kept arriving on his phone all day.
Messages from friends.
Greetings from colleagues.
One post after another on social media.
All in all, the day passed happily.
The cake arrived in the evening.
The lights in the room were dimmed a little.
Forty candles sat on top of the cake.
Everyone said together—
“Happy birthday!”
Ayan stared at the candles for a moment.
Then, one by one, he blew them out.
Everyone clapped.
His daughter asked,
— “Baba, what happened? Why are you so quiet?”
Ayan smiled and said,
— “Nothing.”
But was it really nothing?
That night, once everyone had gone to sleep, Ayan sat alone.
The last piece of birthday cake lay on the table.
Beside it, those candles.
He picked one up.
Suddenly it occurred to him—
Had another year really been added to his life today?
Or—
Had another year, instead, been taken away from it?
The question wouldn't leave his mind.
He took out a notebook.
At the top of the page, he wrote—
“My Past Year”
Then, below it, a few questions.
What have I learned?
His pen paused for a while.
A new skill?
No.
A new book?
One or two.
Did I finish any unfinished work?
Some.
Did I give my family time?
Yes, but I could have given more.
Time for myself?
Very little.
Anything for society?
Barely anything.
Ayan stared at the notebook for a long time.
Then he wrote a second question—
“Where did my year go?”
This time, the answer came more easily.
The busyness of office.
Unnecessary calls.
Social media.
Pointless videos.
Aimless hours spent after exhaustion.
Adding it all up, an uncomfortable truth stood before him.
The year had passed.
But how much had he actually used of it?
The answer wasn't clear to him.
Ayan rose from his chair and walked to the window.
Night outside.
The streetlights glowing.
The sound of a television still playing somewhere in the distance.
Everything, ordinary.
Only something inside Ayan seemed to have shifted.
He thought—
In childhood, a single day used to mean such a vast stretch of time.
An hour of class at school never seemed to want to end.
Two hours on the playground would slip by, and you'd never even notice.
And now?
A week goes by.
A month goes by.
A year goes by.
It's as if the pages of the calendar turn themselves.
Ayan came back to his desk and wrote one more question beneath the notebook—
“What answer do I want to give on my next birthday?”
This time, he didn't write very much.
Just three sentences—
I will learn one new skill.
I will build one good habit.
I will put a part of my time to use for others.
Before closing the notebook, Ayan sat still for a while.
It occurred to him that he had received the biggest gift of his birthday that very day.
No one had given it to him.
He had given it to himself—
the courage to take account of his own time.
The clock had passed midnight by then.
His fortieth birthday was over.
The first day of his forty-first year had begun.
Looking out of the window, Ayan said slowly to himself—
“This time, I won't just let the year pass. I'll put it to use.”
The hands of the clock kept moving.
But for the first time, Ayan heard the sound of them walking.