Evil Happy Birthday

"Mark Uncle, Mark Uncle! Sing a song. Sing a song," comes the hue and cry from the ravenous pack of Nav Jeevan scallywags. I have already performed my limited repertoire of Hindi numbers innumerable times and now my adoring audience's appetite will be satiated with an English tune only. The problem is I don't think I know any English songs, or at least not beyond the first two lines or so. The pathetic truth is that my lyrical memory is about as sharp as a Nerf ball's edges. After false starts with "My Country Tis of Thee" (sung in mock operatic style), "America the Beautiful" (chest puffed out and arm raised in a salute), and "This Land is Your Land" (much knee slapping and foot stomping as if auditioning for Country Bear Jamboree) I default to singing "Happy Birthday." The rousing accolades engendered by the first three offerings give way to expressions of ennui. Ho hum. Been there, heard that.

Sensing my sterling reputation as a paragon of entertainment is about to be irreparably tarnished, I improvise. I pull Ajma to me, as she is closest of the ten or so kids that fall within a three-foot radius of my person. I focus my complete attention on her and allow my eyes to glass over while my vocals grow raspy and slightly menacing. Much giggling ensues, but some of it is clearly tinged with anxiety. The younger children have already guessed as to the tragic transformation that is underway deep within my bowels. Yes, my precious little dearies, I am going bad fast – succumbing to the dark side. I curl my upper lip back in a devilish sneer and my hands, once soft and tender, turn into claws gripping Ajma's fragile arms with increasing threat. Despite it being midday a shadowy unease spreads across the room. The lyrics are now being delivered with the guttural ferocity characteristic of the unfortunate progeny of demon seed and the faintest members of my audience peel away screaming in terror. This triggers wide spread panic and there is a mad scramble for the two exits. A terrified Ajma is the last to escape after wresting herself free from my clutches. With an irascible roar I lurch to the doorway and claw at the sky.

The devilishly robust kids, only minutes removed from having been frightened out of their wits, gather their peers and drag them to my room demanding an encore performance. I claim complete ignorance as to their petition.

"Is it somebody's birthday? Who's birthday is it? If I had known I would have bought a cake. I feel really bad. Well, I'll just go now to the bakery." I rise as if prepared to exit, but am rudely thrust back onto my cot by a multiplicity of tiny hands.

Haritha, who along with Shalini, is the only orphan able to understand some English, explains my subterfuge to the others gathered. The miniature mob waxes tempestuous.

"No, Mark Uncle. You sing. You sing Happy Birthday now!" Haritha demands.

Resigned to my lot I launch once more into the tired hallmark of the birth anniversary. The veterans of my drama shift uncomfortably waiting for Mr. Hyde to appear. The others are similarly restless – they were called here for this? What was all the excitement about? Then it starts. My right hand starts to twitch spasmodically. I look to it first and then to my audience with obvious concern while continuing to sing, albeit somewhat hesitantly. The ones in the know, know what I know, while the newcomers look to the knowers wanting to know what they know, but cannot, themselves, possibly know: Something wicked this way comes. The left hand joins the right in it's unnatural vellication and then my entire torso becomes afflicted with the malevolent twitching. My face registers panic and moments later the singing turns shrill. The youngest cannot bear to witness the complete transition to evil and slip out the door to relative safety. Second row viewers push the front row forward and chaos reigns. I screech the refrain now with unmitigated malice while clawing wildly into the fray. I cackle with such diabolic conviction that I manage to give myself the creeps.

The third iteration of my iniquitous rendition of "Happy Birthday" draws an even greater audience, but this time one of the girls is blocked from easy exit and turns to defiantly face my screeching tirade. She crosses her arms across her chest and squints confidently a la Clint Eastwood. What can a demon do in the presence of such a penetrating gaze? I make as if I am about to pounce on her, but she remains intrepidly unflinching and steps forward to hug me. She has stared fear directly in the eye and is going nowhere. The curtains have been pulled aside and the Wicked Wizard of Oz has been revealed for what he really is. The gig is up.

With some embarrasment, I am forced to repeat the song for the orphan's twenty-something Tamil tudor and finally for a visiting priest who can only look at me quizzically and wonder why today, of all days, he failed to pack his holy water. At the conclusion of my farewell performance no one bothers to run. Even Monkey, the most diminuitive of orphans, simply jumps hyperactively in place, pumping her arms with fists clenched tightly, and anxiously grinning like there's no tomorrow. She too has learned something of defusing terror and disarming the terrible.