English Literature – Memoir ☆ दस्तावेज़ # 48 – Musings on My Birthday under the Harvest Moon  ☆ Shri Jagat Singh Bisht ☆ 

Shri Jagat Singh Bisht

(Master Teacher: Happiness & Well-Being, Laughter Yoga Master Trainer, Author, Blogger, Educator, and Speaker.)

While the present is being recorded on the internet in various forms, stories from earlier times — about our parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, and events from their lifetimes — are gradually fading and being forgotten.

It is our responsibility to document these memories in time. Our generation still has the opportunity to do this. Otherwise, no one will know anything, and everything will be lost to oblivion.

We seek your support in including such historical narratives in this दस्तावेज.

In the next part of this series, we present a memoir by Shri Jagat Singh Bisht Ji “Musings on My Birthday under the Harvest Moon.“

☆ दस्तावेज़ # 48 – Musings on My Birthday under the Harvest Moon💐☆ Shri Jagat Singh Bisht ☆

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Today, ladies and gentlemen, is no ordinary full moon. Oh no—this one is called the Harvest Moon. But lest you think it’s the only lunar celebrity in the firmament, allow me to remind you of her numerous cousins: the Blue Moon, the Blood Moon, the Super Moon, the Wolf Moon, the Snow Moon, the Worm Moon (a personal favourite, as it sounds like something out of a horror novel), the Pink Moon, the Flower Moon, the Strawberry Moon, the Buck Moon, the Sturgeon Moon, the Corn Moon, the Hunter’s Moon, the Beaver Moon, and the Cold Moon. Frankly, the Moon has more aliases than a con artist evading Scotland Yard.

In India, we know this particular one as Sharad Purnima, a luminous occasion drenched in auspiciousness. It was on such a night, the story goes, that I decided to make my dramatic descent upon this planet. If the world seemed a little brighter that night, it wasn’t the moon—it was me.

Now, tradition demands that my wife makes kheer, the Indian porridge that is both humble and heavenly. She lovingly sets it under the full moon, where it is believed to be sprinkled with celestial nectar. By morning, we eat it, half-convinced we are dining on divine ambrosia. On Buddha Purnima she repeats the ritual, as a devout lady once offered kheer to the Buddha under a tree. My wife, however, considers me a “pseudo-Buddha”—a flattering title, though one which obliges me to sit cross-legged with an air of serene detachment when, in truth, I am only calculating how many helpings of kheer I can safely consume without alarming my doctor.

But let me clarify: this is only one of my birthdays. Great men, as you know, are not constrained by such trifles as a single date of birth. We emerge in instalments.

My English calendar birthday falls on the 11th of October. It is the very day when Amitabh Bachchan—the Shahenshah of Bollywood—was born. We share the date, though, alas, I do not share his height, his bank balance, or his acquaintance with Rekha.

My third and most bureaucratic birthday is the 11th of August, courtesy of my dear uncle. When he escorted me for school admission, he got the year right but the month wrong—proof, if ever one needed, that in India even your birthday can be subject to clerical error. Thus, I am blessed with three opportunities to celebrate life, though none have yet resulted in a Swiss bank account.

Birthdays, as you know, acquire different flavours with the years. My daughter-in-law insists I should celebrate in some exotic land—preferably one where they serve cocktails with umbrellas in them. My son, with his customary wit, once remarked: “Arrey yaar, papa, what was the need for your birthday at all? I would have been better off if I was born in the Adani or Ambani family!” A sentiment, I confess, I share when the bills arrive.

Last year, we celebrated in Auckland, at a restaurant charmingly called 1947, right next to the Sky Tower. The restaurant is named after India’s independence, though I noticed the paneer still remained under British rule—charcoal-grilled and helpless. We ate jalebas (a flamboyant cousin of the jalebi), while my young friend Appu and I discussed whether life had improved since 1947. The jury is still out.

But my fondest memory takes me back to my tenth birthday, when I celebrated with just two friends, Mukundan and Jude. The menu was modest—samosas and laddoos—but the joy was unqualified. Mukundan gave me chocolates, Jude presented a shirt piece, and then sang “Happy Birthday to You” with such gusto that the tabla-like pounding on the desk nearly caused structural damage. We were kings for a day, with oil-stained fingers and laughter echoing down the school corridors.

In my childhood, my father always took me to the temple on my birthday. My mother prepared a royal spread—puri, aloo ki sabji, kheerey ka raita, and suji ka halwa. With a tilak on my forehead, I felt not just blessed but positively presidential.

Now, as I sit reflecting in the twilight of my life, with the Harvest Moon glowing outside and a bowl of celestial kheer waiting patiently in the fridge, I cannot predict how my family and friends will remember me when the final curtain falls. Perhaps as a man who could have been great but remained happily ordinary. Perhaps as a pseudo-Buddha with a sweet tooth. Or perhaps just as that fellow who had the rare privilege of three birthdays and the good fortune of always having kheer on at least one of them.

And between you and me, that is greatness enough.