A bright sunny morning. Scratching about the yard — peck, peck — the little red hen found a handful of golden rice seeds. She called out, “Who'll plant this rice with me?” “Not I,” yawned the dog. “Not I,” said the cat, stretched out in the sun. “Not I,” said the goose, turning her long neck away. “Fine — then I'll plant it myself,” said the hen.
Ashar came, and the monsoon with it. Pit-pat, pit-pat — soaked through, the hen planted on: one step… another step… Behind her, the chicks pressed down the soft mud. From under the dry shed the dog called, “Who works in this rain, sister?” Without looking up, the hen said, “Well, brother — rice doesn't grow itself, does it?”
Days passed, months passed. By Ogrohayon the field stood golden, rippling and shimmering in the wind. The hen called, “Who'll cut the rice with me?” “Not I,” said the dog. “Not I,” said the cat. “Not I,” said the goose. “Then I'll cut it myself.” Snick, snick went the sickle — and by dusk a little mountain of rice rose in the yard.
“Who'll husk the rice with me?” “Not I! Not I! Not I!” — this time all three said it together. The hen set her foot on the dheki — THUMP! THUD! THUMP! THUD! In the bamboo tray her chicks winnowed the bright white rice. Listen — can you hear the beat filling the yard? THUMP! THUD! THUMP! THUD!
A cold Poush night. The lantern glowed low. The chicks were fast asleep. The hen's wings ached and her eyelids were heavy — yet she kneaded rice flour with date molasses and set the pithas to steam, one… two… Watching her sleeping chicks, the tiredness seemed to grow a little lighter.
At first light the yard filled with the smell of steaming pitha — it drifted everywhere! All three came racing — “I'll eat! I'll eat!” The hen asked, calm and quiet: “Who planted the rice? Who cut it? Who husked it? Who made the pitha?” Three heads sank low. “You… it was all you.” “Then I shall eat it — I, and my chicks.”
The hen and her chicks ate the pithas piping hot — ahh, so sweet! Beyond the fence the three sat silent — that day, the smell was all the share they got. Mouth full of pitha, one little chick asked, “Ma, why aren't they eating?” The hen smiled. “No hand in the work, no share in the feast.” Though the next Ashar, she never had to ask — all three came running.