The Great Birthday Caper: When Love (and Strangers) Came to Call Sham Misri

 The Great Birthday Caper: When Love (and Strangers) Came to Call Sham Misri

Today, the universe decided to remind me that I’m an octogenarian. Yes, it was my birthday. Now, in our household, this day isn’t just a date on the calendar; it’s a high-octane, multi-course culinary event. My wife, Sarla, operates under the ancient and unshakable Kashmiri wife’s decree that her husband’s birthday is the most important day of the year. And let me tell you, at her age, she hasn't lost an ounce of that stamina. The woman can still out-cook a five-star hotel. To add to the pomp and circumstance, it was also Ashtami – a goddess’s day – so the universe itself seemed to be in on the secret. The menu was set: a vegetarian festival was about to begin. My first task? A noble quest to the market for vegetables and paneer, the essential building blocks of this edible love letter.

We had kept the guest list small and exclusive, mainly because most of our relatives live in places like "Outside Jammu" – a far-off land that requires a passport and a week's notice. But as I was to discover, the best-laid plans of mice and men are no match for the mischief of a beloved nephew, Er. Suneel Ganju.

I was out on my errand, chauffeured in my car (because at eighty, even heroes deserve a ride), blissfully unaware of the storm of surprises brewing in my living room. I had been dispatched for the critical mission of procuring curd. I returned home, a humble container of yoghurt my only trophy, and walked into my drawing room to find... chaos. Two utterly unknown faces were beaming at me from my sofa. Before I could ask, "Have you come to read the meter?", the room erupted.

"Happy birthday! Happy birthday!" The walls echoed, the ceiling reverberated, and I’m pretty sure a picture frame wobbled in surprise. For a solid, confused moment, I thought old age had finally short-circuited my brain, and I was hallucinating friendly strangers. But then, from behind this dashing couple, popped my beloved nephew, Suneel Ganju, with a grin as wide as the Chenab River.

The mystery was afoot! It turned out the unknown couple were not friendly ghosts, but Anil Kak and Neelam (Thusoo) Kak. As Neelam introduced herself, the fog cleared. "I'm Neelam Thusoo," she said, "your neighbour from Dadikadal, Tankipora!" And just like that, a lifetime of memories came flooding back. In one go, I could see our old lane, the chatter, the familiar faces from a life we left behind in Srinagar. This unknown couple had brought with them a suitcase full of nostalgia.

But the surprises were just getting started. The Kaks, it transpired, were not just chance visitors. They were part of a full-blown conspiracy. My nephew Suneel, desperate to be here, couldn't get a flight from Noida. So, he did what any self-respecting engineer with a flair for drama would do: he roped in his friend Anil Kak, who had just flown in from Canada for a wedding, to be the advance party. The plot? To give their "Mammaji" (that's me!) the surprise of his life. It was a covert operation with more planning than a bank heist, and the prize was an old man's joy.

And then came the cake. Oh, the cake! Anil Kak and Neelam Kak presented me with a magnificent creation. The first look was awesome. Now, I’m a man who has walked the streets of London and the avenues of the USA, but I had never, in all my years, seen a cake like this. It was a 'Red Velvet Cake'—a crimson tower of confectionary art. I stared at it, half expecting it to start singing. We made our friendship official on the spot, accepting a Facebook friend request. From unknown visitors to dear friends, all in the span of a single, red-velvet afternoon.

But wait, there’s more! As if one architectural marvel of a cake wasn't enough, our dear Simmi (Aima) Raina swept in with another contender: a 'Chocolate Fudge Cake' so decadent, so sinfully rich, it looked like it was made by the gods themselves. The cake-cutting ceremony commenced. I, Sham Misri, wielder of the knife, prepared for a dignified slice. But Sarla, my wife of countless years, had other plans. With the speed of a striking cobra, she snatched the first piece and—shlap—shoved it directly into my mouth. And then, for the grand finale, she smeared a generous portion of it on my clean-shaven face. In six decades of marriage, she has never attempted such a sugary assault. It was a first. It was shocking. It was... strangely wonderful. Does old age increase love, or just the urge to publicly embarrass your spouse? I leave that for you to ponder. Simmi, not content with two cakes, also produced tinned biscuits of such exquisite promise that just looking at the package made you want to devour the entire thing in one go. It was all love, pure and delicious.

The gift-giving began in earnest. My nephew Suneel Ganju handed me a magnificent bag. "What's this?" I asked. "A present from your sister, Behna," he said. Inside? A treasure trove of almond kernels and—oh my gosh—a whole lot of money. Her absence was a physical ache, but her love had travelled in that bag. Then, Suneel Ganju and his wife, Sugandhi (whose name truly means 'fragrance', and she lives up to it), gave me a dazzling shirt. 'O, what a glamorous one!' I thought. I wanted to wear it right then; my heart was already donning it.

And the love kept flowing! Sarla’s brother, Suneel Gurtoo, arrived with a bag of wonders. It contained the most honoured 'Atta hoar' – a sacred, twisted dough ornament, so auspicious you're supposed to hang it over your ears (don't ask, it's a Kashmiri thing). His wife, Basanti, brought a hoard of 'bagirkhani' – specially made flatbreads that were devoured at teatime in a frenzy of buttery delight. They even presented a matching suit for Sarla and me! I thought that "his and hers" fashion was a Western conspiracy, but no, it has clearly reached Jammu. The colours were perfectly coordinated. Their dear Anju Gurtoo was there too, and her husband Sanju sent his love in the form of a giant envelope of premium Afghan almonds. "Taste some, Gasha Ji," they urged. I did. Oh, they were yummy and full of love.

Then my Babi, Tosha Ji, hugged me, kissed my forehead, and handed me a colourful bag of dry fruits. My eyes got wet. In that simple gesture, I was a young man again, and the years just melted away.

Through this whirlwind of family and food, Neelam Kak, my new/old friend, quietly intervened. She had apparently seen my YouTube videos where I recite Lal Vakhs, the ancient mystic poetry of Kashmir. "Recite one!" she begged. And so, extempore, surrounded by the happy chaos, I spoke. Anil Kak was thrilled. Neelam was excited. "Make us your Facebook friends!" they exclaimed again, and we sealed our newfound, decades-old friendship in the digital world.

Just as the sugar high was peaking, Sarla, the general of this domestic operation, pronounced, "Lunch is ready!" The dining table, with its six chairs, became a command post. The six men attacked first. "So delicious, so delicious," was the only phrase uttered between mouthfuls. It was a symphony of flavours, a taste of home we hadn't experienced in so long. Then came the ladies' session, and they cleared the decks with equal efficiency. Finally, tea arrived with fresh, flaky 'Katlam', and we all sat there, stuffed, content, and buzzing. It wasn't just food we were sharing; it was only LOVE. Love that had travelled from Noida, from Canada, from across the globe in phone calls, and most importantly, love that had filled our quiet home to the brim, turning an ordinary birthday into an extraordinary, unforgettable caper.

Sham Misri