Fear the beguilingly demure smile of a six-year-old. Especially when accompanied by a wistful listing of the treats on offer at the last blockbuster birthday party. It has the power to plunge you, against your better judgement, into a hallucinogenic world of balloons, buntings, jumping castles(lurid inflated mattresses on which kids maniacally jump up and down), disneyfied birthday cakes and three painful rounds of invitation—card, SMS and phonecall—the standard drill, at least in memory-deficient Delhi.
But for me, the real nightmare was lying quietly in wait. Only six tots out of the 30 invited turned up for the event I had struggled to organise, leaving me with a disappointed little hostess, mountains of food and a pile of infuriatingly useless return gifts. I tried to turn my frustration into reformist zeal and SMSed the defaulter mummies: Can we please be more considerate to each other?