From the age of 17 through my 20s, I was living on my own, so

Host: The afternoon light lay across the hill town like a tired animal. Shadows stretched long and thin across the dusty road, where a few children’s voices still echoed faintly from somewhere down the valley. The air smelled of pine, tea, and a hint of loneliness — the kind that doesn’t hurt, but lingers like an old song that never quite ends.

Host: In a small teahouse perched above the mist, Jack sat near the window, staring at a slice of cake someone had left for him. A single candle, flickering, uncertain. Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps soft, her hair slightly damp from the rain outside. She didn’t speak at first; she just watched him, the way one watches a person remembering something they never said aloud.

Jeeny: “Ruskin Bond once said, ‘From the age of 17 through my 20s, I was living on my own, so sometimes I wouldn't even tell anybody it was my birthday. It was not a big thing for me.’”

Host: The wind brushed past the window, lifting a strand of her hair.

Jeeny: “That sounds like you, Jack. Quiet, private… letting your birthdays go by like they were just any other Tuesday.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Maybe because they are, Jeeny. Just another day. The world doesn’t stop to light candles. It keeps moving, with or without you.”

Host: The flame on the candle wavered, almost nervous, as if listening to them. The clouds outside began to gather again, swelling with the promise of rain.

Jeeny: “But that’s what makes it beautiful — that we pause, even when the world doesn’t. We stop to say, ‘You exist. You’re still here.’ Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “Worth what? A few balloons, a song, some empty wishes? The older you get, the more you realize celebrations don’t fill the spaces that actually matter.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But they remind us those spaces can be shared. You know, when I was seventeen, I used to think birthdays were about gifts and cakes. But now I think they’re about witnessing — letting someone know they’re not alone in their time.”

Jack: (laughs softly) “You make it sound like a religious ceremony.”

Jeeny: “In a way, it is. Every year we’re reborn, a little different. A little more broken, maybe — or a little more whole. Birthdays are like pilgrimages to our own memory.”

Host: The rain began again, tapping gently against the roof. Jack turned toward the window, where the world had turned into a soft watercolor — trees, mist, and silence blending together like an unfinished painting.

Jack: “When I was twenty, I spent my birthday alone in a small room in Delhi. No friends, no calls. Just me and the sound of traffic outside. And honestly… I didn’t mind. There was a strange kind of freedom in being unnoticed. No expectations. No performance.”

Jeeny: “Freedom, or numbness?”

Jack: “Maybe both. When no one’s watching, you stop pretending to be happy. You just… exist. Like a shadow under your own light.”

Host: The silence between them deepened, filled with the soft hiss of the rain. The teahouse was nearly empty, save for an old radio in the corner that played a tune from the 70s — one of those melancholy songs that feel like a letter never sent.

Jeeny: “But don’t you ever want to be remembered, Jack? Even for a day?”

Jack: “What difference does it make? Whether people remember you or not, the world forgets fast. You fade from their calendar, their photos, their hearts. Maybe it’s better not to depend on remembrance for your worth.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s a sad kind of independence.”

Jack: “It’s the only kind that’s safe.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the room, outlining their faces — hers full of sorrow, his full of resignation.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I think? I think people like you and Ruskin Bond — you don’t celebrate because you’ve learned to find beauty in ordinary things. You celebrate in quiet, in writing, in watching the rain. You don’t need balloons when you have words.”

Jack: “Words don’t hug you, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “But they stay longer. Sometimes a sentence remembers you more deeply than a person does.”

Host: Jack looked down at the candle, now burning low, the wax slowly pooling like melted time. His eyes softened, and the faintest smile — one that almost didn’t believe in itself — crossed his face.

Jack: “You know… maybe there’s truth in that. When I write, it feels like I’m marking the day in my own way. Like leaving a scratch on the wall of time.”

Jeeny: “That’s a birthday, Jack. Not the cake, not the party — that mark. That quiet act of saying, I was here.”

Host: The rain grew gentler, and the light began to soften, turning the whole room into a shade of amber. A dog barked distantly, and the radio faded into static.

Jack: (thoughtfully) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe every time I write something honest, it’s like lighting a candle no one else sees. A private celebration.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Some birthdays are meant to be heard; others are meant to be felt.”

Host: She reached out and lit the tiny candle again, though it was already almost gone. The flame trembled — fragile, beautiful, like the soul of someone who’s learned to be alone without being lonely.

Jeeny: “You don’t need a crowd, Jack. Just one light. One person who knows.”

Jack: (quietly) “And if there’s no one?”

Jeeny: “Then light it anyway. The universe will know.”

Host: The flame finally died, a thin trail of smoke spiraling upward — a ghost of fire, vanishing into the evening air. Jeeny smiled softly, and Jack closed his eyes, as if making a wish he would never tell.

Host: Outside, the rain stopped. The mountains exhaled a thin mist, the trees glittered with drops of light, and somewhere in the distance, a bell rang — small, metallic, and pure.

Host: And as the camera slowly pulled back, leaving them framed in that quiet moment, it felt as though the world itself had whispered, gently, “You were here.”