In a small town in southern India, a girl lay in bed, fast asleep. The world outside her bedroom window was dark and quiet. That is, until her family’s rooster crowed.
That was it. The girl had to wake up. But first, she savored the last few moments in bed, thinking about the day ahead. She rolled over and looked at the other beds in the room. They were empty; her siblings were already up and awake.
“Chinema, please get some eggs for me,” her mother said once the girl came downstairs. Chinema nodded and raced out to the chicken coop. A few minutes later, a basket of eggs was laid on the kitchen counter. And a basket her mother did need—with eight mouths to feed, Mum had her work cut out for her.
Breakfast, as usual, was made on a fire pit outside. But today, a celebratory mood hung in the air as Chinema’s mother cooked. “It is a special day today,” she said, smiling.
“Chinema is old!” chirped the girl’s youngest brother.
Their father laughed. “Not as old as me. She is only turning sixteen.”
Chinema laughed in her normal way, quietly and easily. “Would you like to learn something, Thankachen?” she asked the boy. “When someone is younger than you,
they will never be older. You are younger than me, so you will never be older than me. When you are sixteen, I will be….” She thought for a moment. “Twenty-five. I will be twenty-five. And when you finally reach twenty-five, I will be thirty-four.” She smiled teasingly. “You will never catch up.”
Thankachen looked up at her. “I will catch up one day,” he said determinedly.
“You never will,” Chinema replied with a laugh.
“YES, I will!” he said, more frustrated now.
“Stop arguing about foolish things,” their father scolded.
After eating breakfast, seven of the children went to school. It was a small school, founded by American missionaries. But Chinema, the birthday girl, didn’t have to attend school today. She was allowed to do whatever she wanted for the entire day—provided it wasn’t against the rules.
Chinema was a voracious reader, so after breakfast, she settled inside with a book. She had only been reading for ten minutes, however, when her father came in. He looked upset.
“The chickens are unwell,” he said.
Chinema’s eyes grew wide. She loved her family’s chickens. There were fourteen of them, and she knew each one by name.
The chickens knew her, too. Chinema was sure of it. She could see it through the way they interacted with her.
Now, her father’s expression softened as he noticed Chinema’s concern. “It will be fine, dear.”
“Will it?” she asked doubtfully, before racing outside. She stopped at the chicken coop and stroked the animals.
She heard Papa’s voice in the background. “It will. The ailment is not severe, Chinema. The chickens will improve in a few days.”
“You are sure?” she asked again, turning toward Papa. One of her hands was still stroking a chicken.
He nodded.
Indeed, the chickens did show signs of improvement throughout the day. Chinema stayed by them, speaking with them as if they were her friends. By the time her siblings came home, she was confident that the animals would become well.
The children headed off to do chores; it was part of their routine. School work was always followed by farm work. Chinema was exempt from both today, and none of the children objected. They knew they may lose their own “birthday rights” if they did.
Once the children worked up an appetite, they grabbed mangoes to eat. Chinema eagerly joined them. The mangoes were ripe now, and nothing tasted better to Chinema than a mango picked off the tree. Well, nothing except Mum’s payasam.
This sweet dessert, made by Mum’s loving hands, was served at every birthday. Chinema knew that her birthday would be no exception. Her mother was excellent at making payasam—though she never used a recipe, the dish never failed to taste perfect.
“When will you start making payasam?” Chinema asked around three, looking at Mum.
The older woman smiled. “I’ll start on it later today. You won’t have to wait long.”
She was right. That evening, a sweet smell wafted into the air. Chinema immediately knew what it was.
“Thank you, Mum,” she said, giving her mother a hug. Then she pulled away from Mum, looking deep into her eyes. This lady had raised six children on a farm. She was strongand reliable, a sweet woman with excellent character. Chinema was so proud to be her daughter.
Chinema’s mother was also practical. “That’s enough, Chinema,” she said, gently pushing the girl away. “Enjoy your payasam.”
“Happy Birthday, Aisha,” Mom says as I enter the kitchen. “My little girl is finally sixteen.”
“I know! I can finally get my license,” I reply.
Mom laughs, rolling her eyes. “Did you hear what she said, Steve? She interprets becoming sixteen as an ability to get her license.”
“Well, she’s not wrong,” my dad says. I look at him. He’s wearing overalls that are splattered with milk.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
He frowns. “It’s Petunia. She wasn’t doing too well earlier.” He sees my concerned face. “I think she’s all right now,” he adds quickly.
Petunia is the cow. She’s also a dear friend of mine. As a girl who’s grown up on a farm, I’ve made friends with just about every animal—the chickens, the cow, the ducks. I seem to have a connection with them. Even my parents know that I have a way with animals, that I love our animals deeply. I never like to see them hurt.
“You know what my mum used to make for birthdays?” Mom says, changing the subject.
“What?”
“Payasam, cooked over a fire outside.” She licks her lips. “It was perfect. Seasoned with ginger, cardamom…”
“What’s payasam again?”
“A sweet rice dish,” Mom replies. “I can make some today for you, if you like.” I nod.
“Okay. I’ll start cooking it this afternoon. When I was growing up, payasam was served at every birthday. All of us loved it. But Mum would only make it on birthdays, so it was a special treat.”
Her eyes get a far-away look in them, the same look that appears in them when she speaks of life in Kerala. “And the birthday girl or boy would get to skip school. We’d get
to do whatever we wanted—provided it wasn’t against the rules. How amazing that was. A day without any schoolwork!”
“I can relate,” I say, a bit sarcastically.
“Hard work builds good character,” Mom says. That’s one of her favorite sayings. “I started learning to work the moment I could hold a broom. I’m proud of that. My parents never overworked us—they just taught us about the value of hard work.” She looks at me, eyebrows raised. “I hope I’ve taught you about it, too.”
“You have,” I say. “I think that’s a universal value among rural cultures. Hard work.”
“You know,” Mom says, washing the dishes, “I think so, too.”
It’s not long before the morning has passed, and the afternoon is upon us. Mom begins baking. I watch her stir flour with cocoa powder in one bowl, and then mix butter and sugar in another.
Once she puts the cake in the oven, she starts making payasam. A unique scent—the combination of chocolate cake and payasam–floods the kitchen. The scent is almost like a combination of my family’s two cultures.
Dad speaks with me at around two. “Petunia is doing better,” he assures me, looking tired but proud. “She’s a real fighter.”
I run outside and look at Petunia, peering deep into her eyes. Although she doesn’t speak, I can tell what she’d say if she could. I’m okay, Aisha. I’m well. Go and enjoy your birthday.
The rest of the afternoon is filled with gifts and visits from family and friends. I’ve decided to keep my birthday dinner a small gathering, however. By the time six P.M. rolls around, the house is empty except for my parents, my sister, and I.
Once dinner is ready, we dig in. After we have supper, Mom brings out the cake—-a beautiful, homemade masterpiece.
“Mom,” I say curiously, “I have a question.”
“Yes?”
“You grew up in India. How did you learn to bake cake?”
She laughs. “I worked for an American company for a few years, remember? I lived in an area with some American workers. One of them taught me to bake cakes.”
We cut into the cake, after taking photos from just about every angle. And afterwards, Mom brings out steaming bowls of payasam.
It’s delicious. Sweet, but not too sweet. Creamy. Aromatic. It’s a wonderful way to end a birthday.
As I eat, I look up at Mom, smiling. We grew up in two different worlds, but today, I can taste the sweetness in each one.
Deborah is an author from the Midwest. She currently serves as the Director of Programs at SeaGlass Literary, an organization for young writers. Her stories have been published in the Blue Marble Review and the Persimmon Review.
Dr. Parton's Literacy In Place 