It was your grandmother—my mother—who prepared me for your rice ceremony. Every day in my seventh month I woke at dawn to calm my false contractions and she, up already, lectured me on the auspiciousness of a proper Mukhe Bhaat. A proper ceremony, she said, anxious with superstitions and omens, will augur good health and prosperity for the child and the family. At the time, I strained to make her tired words new again—her fervor for superstitions confused my logical mind.   

Back then, you felt like a boulder in my belly, at first something I could barely carry, yet I came to relish the sensation—the weight of you strengthened me. But as I lay propped against pillows, nauseated, with an untouched breakfast tray, my mother continued to lecture. For the first feeding of solids, my mother said with her strident voice, the baby must eat plain white rice in his sixth month. Not seventh—that would be unfavorable, and it’s reserved for girls. Overcook the rice so the baby won’t choke. Fry five kinds of vegetables for your baby and your ceremony guests so that they won’t get bored: potatoes, eggplants, spinach, zucchini, and pumpkin. Don’t let your son see what you are cooking or else he will not eat it. If he watches you cook, cover his head with a blanket. When your own brother was a baby, he saw what I was cooking for his ceremony and refused solid foods for weeks.