“limited words, unlimited thoughts”

Charles Darwin, the father of genetics, in his ever so famous theory of evolution stated that as a population inherits traits from generation to generation it gradually evolves and mutates into new or altered species, each stronger and more viable than the previous. Thus, was explained the metamorphosis of man from a four legged, unkempt beast to the gadget savvy, biped of today; the evolution of the tree-swinging, ape-man Tarzan into a civilized John Clayton who left the jungles of Africa in search of his true love, Jane. Surely Charles Darwin must have died a happy man, terribly pleased with himself at this groundbreaking theory he arrived upon. Even today I see this evolution at work but in quite the reverse direction, through a concept we popularly call “Birthday Bumps”. Yes, that one celebrated event that calls on all man-“kind” to abandon any inhibitions whatsoever and get down to showcasing the true,  raw, animal instinct within them! A means to vent out frustration or to get even with someone or plain and simply put, just for “kicks”, this ritual has been around for donkey years now. Originally an Irish tradition, the birthday child was lifted upside down and “bumped” on the floor for good luck. The number of bumps given signified the age of the child plus one extra for good luck. How the rest of the world adopted this ritual no one will ever know!  

As a child I grew up well attuned to this concept. Birthday parties would mean a cake obviously, followed by a truckload of gifts. But the true icing on the cake would be the anxiously awaited birthday bumps! Boy or girl, big or small, scrawny or chubby, every single kid on the block would be there to pitch in his two cents and hurl the birthday child up into the air and then watch with sheer alacrity and joy the laws of gravitation take over as the poor birthday backside bore the brunt of the cold, harsh floor beneath. And my my! The sheer joy one could see on those faces! Those intent and gleaming eyes! That proud look on each child’s face as he returned home joyous of the pain he was capable of inflicting on another human being probably twice his size!  

With time however this tradition began to fizz out. We grew older, birthdays became an event of the past and instead a time to get wasted and brood and wail about turning a year older. Bumping the gluteus maximus aimlessly against the floor somehow lost its old charm and the clanking of beer mugs seemed more like music to the ears.  

But then just as I was turning oblivious to the existence of such a ritual I stumbled into B-school. The one place people go to in order to unlearn all that those gray cells could have possibly assimilated over the years in a desperate attempt to learn matter that those gray cells just refuse to accept now! But in this one aspect unlearning didn’t seem to work. Learning all over again was the order of the day and reliving those good ole’ childhood days seemed the “bottom” line. And here’s where I witnessed what I could only describe as the most horrendous and yet most innovative concept of birthday bumps! Less of bumps and more a combination of hard blows and kicks, this indeed had to be the most torturous and agonizing start to a new year but equally satiating and invigorating for those doing the honors. Once again I saw the big and small, lean and “healthy”, fully clothed and semi-clad, all come together to “shake a leg” and lend a blow or two here and there while the traumatic screams of the birthday “baby” reverberated in the background. And the precision and panache with which the kicks were afforded would put even Beckham to shame!  

One keen observation I have made though is that unlike the old days when we as little girls would be part of the ruffians bumping bottoms or having ours’ mercilessly bumped, as women today we would step back and just watch in wonder as the men got into their element and kicked away to glory. And what if it was a woman’s birthday? Well, then the men would be chivalrous enough to pardon us the pain and trauma and instead pick on the man they all conveniently assumed to be a “close” associate of the woman in question and the shelling would begin.

And thus this concept has caught on like wild fire and every now and then, at the stroke of 12, on a silent hostel night as I burn the midnight oil I hear a sudden uproar of pain and joy combined. “Ouch!” I say to myself and go back to stooping over my books.

                                                                                                    – by Kamal Krishnamurthy, Student, SPJCM