I hate my birthday

Today is my birthday. My mother already lit a butter lamp on the altar, and praying for me. I can see her lips shuddering as if like a criminal trembling amidst authoritative jury. But, her strange shudder plainly proves that each of her prayers and wishes are genuine. I know that she wanted me to be a happiest person in this world. The shrine is already clouded with thick smoke of incense, but her prayers are endless. 

By now, the entire room is filled with sweet aroma of saintly burn. With much devotion, I entered the shrine, prostrated three times, and then start praying. I silently requested my god to bless us with pleased and prosperous life. ‘We will celebrate the day’, Ama said in her weak tone. ‘Your father must be ready with the arrangement’. I remained quiet for the reason that I never support the culture of birthday celebration. 

My stance on the birthday celebration has always been a little critical. My abhorrence on such well-known mores has no concrete reasons, but purely based on my own sentiment. It is a day when our dearly loved mother shed tears of blood, unable to endure the pain. Who would like to celebrate the torment of our own mother in such an exciting way? Absolutely preposterous! My repugnance grows even more, when I listen to the depressing story of my own birth delivery… (to be continued) 

PS: Please don't wish me. This is fiction!