Question
From Scratch
by Susie Castellano
This passage tells the story of a homesick girl named Priya and her mother, who have moved from India to the United States. The story includes words of Indian origin: “Ama,” which means grandmother; “dhaba,” a type of restaurant; “rupees,” a type of money; and “dupatta,” a scarf or shawl.
As you read, pay attention to who is telling the story.
Priya’s mother placed the pot of water on the stove, and Priya poured in the sugar. One, two, three, four cups of the sugary crystals glinted under the stove light. Priya peered into the pot as she stirred the sugar water. Soon it would be thick and syrupy.
“Mummy, what time is it back home . . .” Priya stopped and corrected herself. “I mean . . . in India?”
Her mother rattled around in the cabinet for another small pot. “Here it is seven at night, so in India it is six-thirty in the morning.”
Time for chai, Priya thought. She pictured Ama squatting in their little kitchen, her orange-and-yellow sari draped around her shoulders and over her head in the traditional way. She’d sing a silly song in Hindi about the weather as she fixed the morning tea on the little electric stove. Priya felt a sharp pang in her chest as her grandmother’s voice flooded her mind. She didn’t want her mother to see her tears, so she stared into the pot, stirring absently.
Mummy placed a stick of butter in the second pot and adjusted the heat. Priya watched the waxy butter slowly turn to foamy liquid.
“Will you get out the dry milk and the baking mix?” her mother asked.
Priya opened the cupboard and stared at the prepackaged baking mix her mother had bought at the big indoor supermarket. Already her mother was adjusting to their new life, buying quick American ingredients to replace the traditional ones that were now hard to find. In India, her mother had made everything from scratch. Reluctantly, Priya opened the baking mix and poured it into a bowl with the dry milk.
Priya hated the American supermarket. It felt cold and unfriendly, and the fluorescent ceiling lights hurt her eyes. Priya thought about the bazaar, the outdoor marketplace near Delhi. There were vegetable stands and crowds of chattering people, kiosks with colorful bindis, and the warm smell of spices from the dhaba. There were shops with rainbows of blankets, silver and gold jewelry glittering in the sun, and fabric shops where her mother bought material for her clothes.
Best of all there was the little bracelet stand, where shiny bangles painted the walls with splashes of red, purple, orange, and green. Every autumn, just before the Diwali holiday festival, her father would give her ten rupees to buy new bracelets. Priya hadn’t worn her sparkling bangles since they’d stepped off the plane in Dallas, Texas, five weeks ago. They remained hidden in her drawer, in the little velvet pouch Ama had sewn for her.
Priya thought about her mother browsing the long supermarket aisles with a clangy metal shopping cart, her dupatta swinging behind her in a wave of color. Suddenly her throat felt tight again. Mummy wanted so much for her to be happy here. “Do you want this for your lunch or this?” she would ask, offering Priya packaged snacks in colorful, cartoon boxes with big letters that shouted “New!” “Great Taste!” and “Quick and Easy!” In India, Priya might have traded all the bangles in the world for a box of the sweet, brightly colored treats. Now, she felt lonely.
___
Adapted from From Scratch, by Susie Castellano, ©️ by Cricket Media, Inc. Reprinted with permission.
What point of view is this text written from?
Third person omniscient
First person from Priya’s perspective
First person from Mummy’s perspective
Third person with a focus on Priya
by Susie Castellano
This passage tells the story of a homesick girl named Priya and her mother, who have moved from India to the United States. The story includes words of Indian origin: “Ama,” which means grandmother; “dhaba,” a type of restaurant; “rupees,” a type of money; and “dupatta,” a scarf or shawl.
As you read, pay attention to who is telling the story.
Priya’s mother placed the pot of water on the stove, and Priya poured in the sugar. One, two, three, four cups of the sugary crystals glinted under the stove light. Priya peered into the pot as she stirred the sugar water. Soon it would be thick and syrupy.
“Mummy, what time is it back home . . .” Priya stopped and corrected herself. “I mean . . . in India?”
Her mother rattled around in the cabinet for another small pot. “Here it is seven at night, so in India it is six-thirty in the morning.”
Time for chai, Priya thought. She pictured Ama squatting in their little kitchen, her orange-and-yellow sari draped around her shoulders and over her head in the traditional way. She’d sing a silly song in Hindi about the weather as she fixed the morning tea on the little electric stove. Priya felt a sharp pang in her chest as her grandmother’s voice flooded her mind. She didn’t want her mother to see her tears, so she stared into the pot, stirring absently.
Mummy placed a stick of butter in the second pot and adjusted the heat. Priya watched the waxy butter slowly turn to foamy liquid.
“Will you get out the dry milk and the baking mix?” her mother asked.
Priya opened the cupboard and stared at the prepackaged baking mix her mother had bought at the big indoor supermarket. Already her mother was adjusting to their new life, buying quick American ingredients to replace the traditional ones that were now hard to find. In India, her mother had made everything from scratch. Reluctantly, Priya opened the baking mix and poured it into a bowl with the dry milk.
Priya hated the American supermarket. It felt cold and unfriendly, and the fluorescent ceiling lights hurt her eyes. Priya thought about the bazaar, the outdoor marketplace near Delhi. There were vegetable stands and crowds of chattering people, kiosks with colorful bindis, and the warm smell of spices from the dhaba. There were shops with rainbows of blankets, silver and gold jewelry glittering in the sun, and fabric shops where her mother bought material for her clothes.
Best of all there was the little bracelet stand, where shiny bangles painted the walls with splashes of red, purple, orange, and green. Every autumn, just before the Diwali holiday festival, her father would give her ten rupees to buy new bracelets. Priya hadn’t worn her sparkling bangles since they’d stepped off the plane in Dallas, Texas, five weeks ago. They remained hidden in her drawer, in the little velvet pouch Ama had sewn for her.
Priya thought about her mother browsing the long supermarket aisles with a clangy metal shopping cart, her dupatta swinging behind her in a wave of color. Suddenly her throat felt tight again. Mummy wanted so much for her to be happy here. “Do you want this for your lunch or this?” she would ask, offering Priya packaged snacks in colorful, cartoon boxes with big letters that shouted “New!” “Great Taste!” and “Quick and Easy!” In India, Priya might have traded all the bangles in the world for a box of the sweet, brightly colored treats. Now, she felt lonely.
___
Adapted from From Scratch, by Susie Castellano, ©️ by Cricket Media, Inc. Reprinted with permission.
What point of view is this text written from?
Third person omniscient
First person from Priya’s perspective
First person from Mummy’s perspective
Third person with a focus on Priya
Answers
GPT-4o mini
The text is written from **third person with a focus on Priya**. The narrator provides insight into Priya's thoughts and feelings, revealing her homesickness and memories, while maintaining a third-person perspective that does not use "I" or "me."