In Bollywood, birthday celebrations are usual and very carefree.

Host: The evening hummed with a quiet warmth — the kind that clings to a city’s skin after the lights have bloomed and the music has already begun to spill from balconies. From the open terrace of a small Mumbai café, the city shimmered below — a sprawling sea of color, sound, and stories that never truly slept.

Fairy lights hung loosely across the railing. A half-eaten cake sat beside two glasses of sweet lime soda, and somewhere down the street, a band was tuning its instruments.

Jack leaned against the railing, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his grey eyes half-closed, reflecting the fireworks that burst somewhere in the distance. Jeeny sat cross-legged on a chair opposite him, her long hair glinting in the golden light of a paper lantern swaying between them.

The city was alive. But they were quiet.

Jeeny: “You didn’t even tell me it was your birthday today.”

Jack: “Because it’s just another day.” (He smiled faintly.) “The world doesn’t pause for a date on the calendar.”

Host: A faint breeze brushed against her face, carrying the smell of spice, rain, and distant music. She looked at him, half amused, half hurt.

Jeeny: “In Bollywood, birthday celebrations are usual and very carefree. People dance, laugh, feed each other cake, sometimes cry from happiness. You’d think that kind of joy would rub off on you, living here so long.”

Jack: “I don’t do carefree.”

Jeeny: “That’s your problem.”

Host: He turned, the city lights catching the edge of his jaw, his features sharp and quietly burdened.

Jack: “You think celebrating makes you free? It doesn’t. It just helps you forget that time is slipping away. One more candle means one less year left. You blow them out pretending it’s magic, but all you’re doing is counting what’s gone.”

Jeeny: “You always twist joy into something tragic.”

Jack: “No, I just see through it. Birthdays are performances. People sing, toast, take photos — all pretending they’re not terrified of getting older, or lonelier, or forgotten.”

Host: The sound of laughter floated up from the street below — children chasing each other around a vendor’s cart, their tiny shoes slapping against the wet pavement. Jeeny’s gaze softened.

Jeeny: “Maybe pretending is part of surviving, Jack. Maybe carefree doesn’t mean careless — it means remembering how to be light for a while.”

Jack: “Light? Or distracted?”

Jeeny: “Does it matter? When the world is heavy, distraction becomes medicine.”

Host: The paper lantern flickered. For a moment, it looked as though both of their faces were caught in the same flame — his lined with irony, hers alive with defiance.

Jack: “You sound like a Bollywood monologue.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Bollywood celebrates life because life here demands it. You think people dance just because they’re happy? No. They dance because sometimes it’s the only way to not break.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But you can’t dance away mortality.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can dance through it.”

Host: The terrace was silent again, except for the distant drums of the band below. Jeeny reached for a slice of the melting cake, and offered it to him.

Jeeny: “Eat.”

Jack: “I’m not hungry.”

Jeeny: “Then eat for tradition.”

Host: He hesitated. Then, with a quiet sigh, took a small bite. The frosting left a faint smudge on his lip, and Jeeny laughed softly — the kind of laugh that cracked through cynicism like sunlight through rain.

Jeeny: “See? Even you can be part of something simple.”

Jack: “You call this simple? I call it sugar and obligation.”

Jeeny: “You’re impossible.”

Jack: “And you’re sentimental.”

Host: She smiled at that, not denying it. Her eyes were warm, filled with the soft light of memory.

Jeeny: “Do you know why I love birthdays? Because for one day, the world gives you permission to exist without apology. People remember you. They say your name. They gather around you like it matters.”

Jack: “So you need the world’s permission to feel alive?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s nice to be reminded.”

Host: A faint sound of fireworks popped again, painting the sky in crimson. Jack looked upward, the faintest trace of wonder hidden behind his practiced detachment.

Jack: “You really believe in this — all the singing, the dancing, the shouting ‘Happy Birthday’ as if it changes something?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t change the years. But it changes the moments. And sometimes, moments are all we have.”

Host: He stared at her for a long time, the way one might look at an old photograph — searching for the part that feels like truth.

Jack: “You know, Arbaaz Khan once said, ‘In Bollywood, birthday celebrations are usual and very carefree.’ I used to laugh at that. I thought it meant they didn’t take anything seriously. Now I think maybe they just take joy seriously.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “Still, there’s something hollow about it. The cameras, the parties, the social media posts. It’s not joy — it’s proof. Proof that you’re still visible, still relevant.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even pretending to celebrate life keeps it alive a little longer. You can call it illusion if you want, but it’s the kind of illusion that saves people.”

Jack: “You think celebration saves people?”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen it, Jack. Remember during the lockdowns? People with nothing — no jobs, no homes — still lighting little candles on their balconies, still singing to each other from windows. That was their version of a birthday. Their way of saying: we’re still here.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders lowered. He didn’t reply immediately. The sound of the city filled the silence between them — auto rickshaws honking, someone laughing too loudly, the faint echo of music rising from the streets.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been too busy surviving to remember how to celebrate.”

Jeeny: “Then tonight, start again.”

Host: She pulled a small matchbox from her bag and lit a single candle stuck into the leftover cake. The tiny flame danced uncertainly in the night breeze.

Jeeny: “Make a wish.”

Jack: “You really believe in wishes?”

Jeeny: “I believe in moments that make us believe.”

Host: The candlelight flickered against his face — half shadow, half fire. He looked at it, then at her. Something unguarded, almost tender, crossed his expression.

Jack: “Alright. I wish…” (He paused.) “…that one day, I stop being afraid of joy.”

Jeeny: “That’s a start.”

Host: She smiled, leaning back as he blew out the flame. For a heartbeat, darkness took them both — then the city below glowed brighter, as if absorbing that tiny wish into its pulse.

Jack: “You know, you might be right. Maybe celebration isn’t about ignoring the world’s pain. Maybe it’s about reminding yourself you’re still part of it.”

Jeeny: “Now you’re getting it.”

Host: The band below struck its first chord — a cheerful Bollywood tune rising through the humid night. Someone shouted in Hindi: “Dance, yaar!” And laughter followed, rolling like music across rooftops.

Jack: “Do you dance, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “When life lets me.”

Jack: “Then tonight, it’s letting you.”

Host: He offered his hand. She took it. And for a moment, beneath the neon glow of the city, they began to sway — awkwardly at first, then freely, the kind of dance that belonged to no choreography, only to pulse and presence.

The cake was forgotten. The lantern swayed. The lights of Mumbai burned bright around them, infinite and alive.

And as the night carried on — carefree, golden, imperfect — the two figures on the terrace laughed like children, their shadows merging into one.

Because for one fleeting hour, even the cynic had remembered how to celebrate. And the world — vast, loud, relentless — seemed, for once, to dance with them.