Bonus Story: Bengal Birthdays

May 10, 2022 Choyghoria, Batiaghata

District Khulna, Bangladesh

“How was your birthday?” the message from home reads. And so I tell them. It is evening here, and I have walked down the road to sit beneath a coconut palm in the darkness, replying to the birthday wishes that have come once people back home have awakened on the morning of May 9th. I can see my friends sending a quick “Happy Birthday” before they grab their bags and head out the doors of their teacher houses. I can see my friends’ moms sitting in their living rooms for a quick breather after sending their kids off to work and to school. And here I am, sitting alone in the cool Bengal evening. Who would have thought...

When I told my family about my day on our family chat, it was a nineteen-minute voice message. This is why I did not go into detail to each person who asked about my day. I decided to write up a report on my 22nd birthday, mostly for myself, as I will want to have the memories for later. I thought I could send it to those who know me best. Read it if you’re interested. If you aren’t, don’t. I don’t care.

My birthday started at 12:00 on the morning of May 9th. I stole downstairs for some birthday peanut butter, Bengali brand Dorito chips, and sweet tea, and snuck back upstairs to eat my first meal of my twenty-second year.

I awoke eight hours later to rain. Beautiful rain. Our guard Tulshi found out it was my birthday and beckoned me over. “Sister, Happy Birthday!” Grant and Greta called me and sang me a happy birthday song, and the rain came down in sheets. While I was standing on my balcony admiring it, Fahim, the factory manager came racing down the path to shut the window he had left open. “Miss Kalli, Subho Jonmodin!” he shouted over the gale. I asked him how in the world he knew it was my birthday, and he replied with “Tulshi told me.” I promised to feed him some birthday cake at some point in the day. Everyone needs birthday cake.

We spent the morning getting ready for Shanto’s family. We had invited them over for pizza and cake and ice cream. They brought along Grandma, their aunt, and Hridoy’s girlfriend, Pinky. Pinky made me a dress for my birthday: a fancy Bengali style dress with a circle skirt and long flared sleeves. Hridoy proudly told me that he and his dad had picked out the fabric themselves. She also hand stitched me a calendar of the month of May. There is a red heart on the 9th day, and on the top it reads “Happy Birthday Kalli.” My favorite part is the girl holding a birthday cake. She has blue hair.

There is a tradition in Bangladesh. When a child has a birthday, their dad feeds them the first bite of cake. After I blew out my candles, Shanto said “Kalli, dad’s not here, so your uncle will have to do it.” I’m thankful he used a fork instead of his hands. I have had food fed to me out of people’s bare hands, and it is not my favorite activity.

After lunch came the highlight of the day: my first motorcycle ride! This was a day I had been waiting on since coming to BD. For some reason, it still hadn’t happened in my eight months. Motorcycles are the main mode of transportation. We even have one, and it is well-used. When you are driving down the road, there are always motorcycles weaving in and out, nearly touching you, barely avoiding collisions, ect. It feels strange to be the one on the other side. The ride was the best birthday gift I could have asked for.

After Shanto’s left, Brandi and I drank cha at our dokan with Tulshi and Fahim. In America, people have their regular coffee shops they frequent, where the baristas call you by name and start your drink without asking what you’ll have. In Bangladesh, we have our cha dokans. The lady at mine is named “Shanti”, which means “peace.” She knows just how I like my cha, and that I like to sit in the corner facing the road. She has two boys; Ishan, 13, and Imon, 11. They are very cute and very very naughty.

Fahim thought I looked sad/worried and asked me what my deal was. “It’s your birthday, and you’re supposed to be happy on your birthday!” The truth is, I was feeling worried. Shimanto had told me he and his cousin Ritu were bringing a surprise. (Shimanto and Ritu are two fourteen-year olds that live near us. They come to Sunday School each week, and I used to play badminton with them.) I know these kids and their Hindu ways, therefore, I was very worried about what could potentially happen at their planned arrival time of 6:30.

In the meantime, the girls and I watched football. The boys play in the field across from our house, and most of them are old badminton friends of mine. They are aged 13-17, and I never knew I would have so many little brothers. “Miss Kalli, Happy Birthday!” they say with a grin. We watch as they trip over one another and kick each other in the shins and score goals in the muggy afternoon. They ask me to play with mischievous smiles on their faces, knowing I will decline.

By the time I returned home from the football field, Shimanto, Tina, and Ritu had already arrived. A lady had come to the gate with issues, so I sat on the bench outside the fence and talked to her for a few minutes. Fahim came round again, and I asked him if he would eat birthday cake yet. He declined, as he was with his friend Sahib, and they were heading to the river.

Here Is where the goose chasing started. Not actual geese, and not actual chasing, but you get my point I think. Shimanto commanded me to walk to Mitu’s house and call for her. She was angry with him for some reason, and would not come unless I specifically called for her. So, I headed down the bamboo bridge, down a muddy path I nearly fell and broke myself on, and through the jungle to Mitu’s house. When we returned, Shimanto dragged me back out to his house to pick up some more food his mom was making. I was made to sit down while the food was finished. Shimanto’s dad, Mintu, chatted with me about my siblings, where they live in America, and what they do for jobs.

On the way home, I saw that the neighbors had indeed not gone to the river, but were sitting outside the factory. I decided that it was time for them to eat birthday cake. I ran inside the house to get them 2 pieces, but Lisa stopped me. Always looking for a good time, she said, “I’m just going to tell them to come over for your party!”

In the meantime, the party had moved into the shed. The kids had blown balloons and taped them all around the table. They had 3 different kinds of Bengali snack foods, and we supplied leftover cake and pizza. My gifts had been presented, a black orna and a green orna. (Ornas are scarfs we must wear for modesty in this muslim country.) Lisa had successfully convinced Fahim and Sahib to come over, and they crammed themselves into our crowded shed. They and Tulshi stood on the side, observing these Hindu children working like ants. “Two more minutes, sister Kalli. Three more minutes, sister Kalli. Five more minutes, sister Kalli.” I looked at the adults standing along the wall and mouthed, “I don’t know what is happening.” They replied, “I don’t either.”

Suddenly, Trevor got a phone call from Shanto. He had a baby at his house that needed milk. (One of our projects here is to give milk to babies who need it.) Trevor couldn’t understand Shanto’s language and Tulshi couldn’t understand his need, so Shanto called on me for help. I left my party and stood outside talking to Shanto on the phone. We decided what he needed, and he decided he would send Hridoy to our house to bring back the milk.

Not a long time later, Hridoy showed up with his toothy grin and low chuckle. I pulled him aside and told him how these people were forcing a birthday party on me and I felt a small bit overwhelmed because I didn’t know what was going on or what was going to happen. He got that look in his eye that appears when he has an idea. “Didi, do you want to come to my house right now?” He came up with a perfect excuse: Trevor was going to go to Shanto’s with Hridoy to look at the baby, and what If Trevor needed a translator? Hridoy’s brother Antor, who is learning English, was not at home to help. Honestly, nothing sounded better: a balm in Gilead. But, we both knew it wasn’t going to happen. As quickly as Hridoy showed up, he was gone.

Finally, it was time to light the candles. Like, “20 minutes later” finally. (You see, we had been waiting because these kids, last minute, decided to carve every single piece of cucumber into a flower. Food is love.) The candles were lit and the lights were put out, and they all sang me “Happy Birthday”: Lisa, Whitey, Brandi, Shimanto, Pim, Ritu, Mitu, Tina, Sahib, Tulshi, and Fahim. I have to admit, it was the second best part of the day. In that hot little shed in a tiny village in South Asia, all my best friends were singing me a birthday song. Who could have ever guessed... I blew out all 22 candles without missing a single one.

Mitu served all the guests, first giving me that “First Bite” of cake. I walked back outside, because I hate being the center of attention on my birthday. (It’s fine on other days.) I was standing in the doorway, when suddenly, Lisa came to me with panic in her eyes. “Kalli the pizza. We are feeding this pizza to Hindus.”

The pizza was of the sausage, beef pepperoni, and beef bacon kind. Cows are sacred in the Hindu religion, and Hindus have been known to make themselves throw up after discovering

they have eaten beef. Then Lisa says “Not only that, there’s a Muslim here! We are wiping them all out at once!” Muslims don’t eat pork, as it is considered “unclean” in Islam. We served pizza that literally none of our guests could eat. Of course, it had been no problem to serve it to Shanto’s family, as they are all Christian. But this? This was a bit of a problem.

“Lisa what do we do?” I asked in mirrored panic. “There’s nothing we can do,” she said. “We can’t tell them.” I took a peek at people’s plates. Fahim, the only Muslim, had taken all the sausage off his pizza. But, from what I could see, Sahib and Tulshi, both Hindus, had eaten all of theirs. (I heard later that the kids were piling pizza toppings onto their plates, and talking about how good it was.)

I was so nervous I couldn’t eat. I was so scared someone was going to ask what was on the pizza, and there we would be, a bunch of stupid foriengers who had just served beef to Hindus and pork to a Muslim. If they asked, I wasn’t going to be around. The others could play dumb and pretend they didn’t understand Bangla, but I’m a little past that point. Luckily, Lisa saved the day and called Fahim over to the garden.(The reason we had gone to the garden was because we are planning to do some landscaping. Fahim has planted a beautiful yard at his brother’s house, with fruit trees of all types and a flower garden that would make my mother drool: hibiscus plants in every corner, dalias the size of dinner plates, and other tropical flowers whose names I don’t know. We have called upon his expertise to advise us of what kind of plants would suit best, and where to get them from.) I decided to abscond to the safety of the other side of the yard as well.

Once the eating was finished, the big boys and I exchanged thank yous and they left without a fuss. We had a harder time getting the kids to leave. We will leave that where it is. You would have to experience the Bengali ways to understand. We will just say that it would have probably been easier to literally remove a small mountain using nothing but a serving spoon.

Ah, Bangladesh. We love you.

We thought the evening was over. We thought we were able to go to bed. We were all sitting in Trevor’s room, talking about how horrified that we had served beef to hindus and pork to a muslim. Trevor had been peed on by the baby he had gone to see. I still hadn’t studied my lessons for the next school day. Suddenly, our reprieve was broken by the landlord. He decided to show up at 9 pm, unannounced, to put screens on our windows. He comes with watermelons and shirts for Trevor. He comes with his friend who only hangs around for the money. He comes with his broken English and sly words. And so we serve him cha. We smile and laugh as he talks about his need to go to America. We act impressed when he discusses his plans to paint our gate gold.

They finally leave at 11 pm. This was early. Once, in Travis' day, he and his passe had shown up at 2 am, wanting entrance through the gate. Our night guard had told him “Absolutely not.” We stayed up until midnight talking about our day, trying to debrief. We decided that we could sleep in 30 extra minutes in the morning, and just eat cereal for breakfast. We were exhausted.

In all, it was one of my favorite birthdays yet. But, as Lisa said over and over that day, I’m glad my birthday only comes once a year.

If you are one of the ones who sent birthday wishes, a thousand thank yous. It’s good to know I’m not forgotten.