Priya Ayyar: July 14 1947.

Dear Mama,

I know you know what happened today at 6:00 a.m., twelve years ago. How could you not? It was the day we came and you left, but I don't want to be sad today. I want to be happy and tell you everything. I'll start at the beginning. You probably already know what I'm telling you, but maybe you don't. Maybe you haven't been watching.

I like turning twelve so much already. It's the biggest number I've ever been, but it's an easy number -- easy to say, easy to count, easy to split in half. I wonder if Amil thinks about you on this day like I do. I wonder if he likes being twelve?

We woke up at a little before seven. Amil and I usually sleep through our birth minutes and then when we wake up, we stand next to the last mark we etched into the wall with a sharp rock. No one else knows it's there. I do it for Amil and he does mine and then we compare how much we've grown since last year. Amil has finally caught up with me. Papa says someday Amil will tower over all of us. That's hard to imagine.

Papa gave me your gold chain with a small ruby stone hanging from it. He started giving me the jewelry when I was seven. Now, I have two gold bangles, two gold rings, small emerald-and-gold hoop earrings, and the ruby necklace. Papa said I should save the jewelry for special occasions, but lately there are none, so I wear all the jewelry at once and never take it off. I don't know where he keeps all of it, but each year on my birthday, another piece appears at my bedside in a dark blue velvet box with gold trim. When you open it, the blue satin lining winks back at you. Papa always asks for the box back after I take out the jewelry.

Secretly, I want the box more than the jewelry. I want it to be all mine and never have to give it back. I could find any old thing -- a pebble, a leaf, a pistachio shell -- and put it in the box. Like magic, these things would get to be special at least for a day. Maybe he'll let me have it when your jewelry runs out.

I want to tell you about this diary I'm writing in. Kazi gave it to me this morning wrapped in brown paper, tied with a piece of dried grass. He never gives me gifts on my birthday. I once read an English story where a little girl got a big pink cake and presents wrapped in shiny paper and bows for her birthday. I thought about the little gifts Kazi he gives us all the time -- pieces of candy under our pillows or a ripe tomato from the garden, sliced, salted, and sprinkled with chili pepper on a plate. Cake and bows must be nice, but is anything better than a perfect tomato?

The diary is covered in purple and red silk, decorated with small sequins and bits of mirrored glass sewn in. The paper is rough, thick, and the color of butter. It is not lined, which I like. I've never had a diary before. When Kazi gave it to me, he said it was time to start writing things down, and that I was the one to do it. He said someone needs to make a record of the things that will happen because the grown-ups will be too busy. I'm not sure what he thinks is going to happen, but I've decided I'm going to write in it every day if I can. I want to explain things to you as if I'm writing a storybook, like the Jungle Book except without all the animals. I want to make it real so you can imagine it. I want to remember what everyone says and does, and I won't know the ending until I get there.

Kazi also gave Amil five charcoal drawing pencils. Five! He also made us rice kheer with our pooris.

I'm not sure there is anything better tasting in the world. Amil, who normally eats too fast, makes his pudding last extra long, eating the smallest bites he can. I think he just does it so I have to watch him long after I've finished. Every so often, he'll look up and smile. I pretend I don't care. Sometimes he saves his sweets for me, but not rice kheer.

Today, we were running late, though, and Amil couldn't spend forever eating his kheer because Dadi took our plates away and told us to get ready. Amil started grumbling about school and how he wished he was a grown-up and could work at the hospital like Papa instead. "The drums sound better at a distance." Dadi said like she always does, and rushed us out the door.