In the village where I grew up, pigs and chickens were the two domesticated animals each farming household kept. Some farmers raised goats and/or cattle as well, but their numbers were insignificant.

Chickens were raised mainly for economic reasons. Eggs were an important source of protein. Therefore, hens were valued much more than roosters. Most families depended on the eggs for a small income to pay at the village shop for necessaries like salt, sugar and matches. Eggs could also be bartered with other farmers for produce a family would need but did not raise themselves. Roosters, apart from giving their human masters “a wakeup call” by crowing early in the morning, nourished the farmers in an occasional chicken soup the year round.

Farm chickens then were largely free-range. For the night most families kept their birds in a coop or pen built next to the cottage or right under the eaves. When dusk was closing in, the birds would find their way back into their shelter and huddled together for the dark hours. At the crack of dawn, the birds woke up and walked out. They roamed leisurely around the cottage all day.

The chickens were left to find their own meals around the cottage most of the time. If there were scraps from the kitchen they were fed to the birds. When it was the season for hens to lay eggs, some farmers might feed some grains to the poultry if they had a surplus. Of course a brooding fowl got a special treat from the housewife, who fed her water and grains every day. Normally the birds had no trouble feeding themselves on whatever they might come upon, for example, insects and worms on the plants or in the soil.

My family had a very special chicken house. It was one of a kind in our village. Our chicken house was sub terrestrial inside our house. When our second adobe brick bungalow was being constructed around 1982, Father had the dirt floor paved with concrete. At the time, all the other villagers had no more than flattened earthen ground in their hamlets. Concrete surfaces inside a home had been unheard of. Even the stove in the kitchen was made completely of adobe bricks.

Father sunk a square hole in the floor near the front door of the living room. He had the hole walls cast in concrete. Covered with a neat concrete top, the cellar was accessed by a side aperture which served as both entrance and exit. The gate was connected with the bottom of the cellar by small steps. Initially the birds had to be caught and pushed into the new home. After some training, they got used to it and learned to walk into the cellar without coercion or coaxing, come the time.

Sometimes we had supper rather late. The birds had all retired to the cellar by the time we were dining. Our eating noises and the smells of the meal should have roused them. A couple of braver hens could not help themselves. They pushed open the gate and walked up despite the late hour. The middle room was well lit by an electric bulb. We could recognise each and every one of them. Not only that, but our favourite feathered friends got their names as well. Cooing softly, they approached us and looked longingly at our bowls, begging for a peck. When this happened, we, very much amused, were too pleased to share some food with the lovely birds. Noodles were lifted from our bowls and dropped onto the floor. After they ate their fill, the birds retreated to the underground home and went back to sleep.

In time the birds came to like their new home very much. It was cooler in summer and warmer in winter than a normal chicken pen. Besides, Father cleaned the cellar from time to time. And bad weather did not bother the birds any more, except for severe rainstorms. One stormy summer night, it was raining cats and dogs. To our perplexity, all the birds had come out of the hole and cuddled together in a corner of the room. On closer examination, we realised that it had poured down so much that rainwater had oozed into the underground chicken house. How smart the birds were!

This memory of our underground chicken house and the cute birds never fails to turn up the corners of my mouth.

Oh, those halcyon days!