We lived in Shivaji Park when I first asked
my parents about Santa—because he brought presents,
and my picture books showed him flying—
in a sleigh drawn by reindeer over fields and mountains of
snow in cold countries where white people lived
in huge houses with fat furniture and funny things
called fireplaces. We did some fun stuff for Rosh Hashana
and Passover but this was different. Like Eid, when our Muslim
friends and neighbours brought biryani and phirni, our Christian
ones
brought fruitcake, marzipan and kul-kuls, and went for midnight
mass to lit-up churches in Mahim and Bandra. I was
mesmerised by the big paper stars and coloured lights that hung
outside homes and roadside shrines. My friends
always got what they wanted—red bicycles, blonde
blue-eyed dolls, tea-sets, comic books. That summer,
inside a hand-me-down picture book of festivals I found
a life-size (folded) crepe paper Santa, a springy
“accordion” Santa. I stretched and stretched him
hard till he reached his girth and full height,
he grew much taller and bigger than me, and
then climbing up onto the headboard of my bed,
hung him up so his big black boots
would swing somewhere near the top
of my head when I slept. His right leg
was shorter than his left, and would not straighten
but bounced up and down like a yoyo,
his fluffy, yellow-white beard was crooked,
but his face was like an apple, all kind and smiley.
It was a sweltering night, the fans whining overhead,
the mosquitoes fierce. When Granny turned in her sleep
and snored, our shared bed creaked. I tried hard
to keep my eyes and my ears shut. I woke the next
morning, sun glaring in my face. Three gifts
lay on my bed, wrapped in pretty paper!
I pounced, ripped them open, sat in a sea
of torn gift paper, rumpled bedclothes,
mis-matched covers. And Granny sat by me
on the bed, her silver hair in a plait, Mum
standing close, her long black hair
spilling from her bun, and all of us
stunned by the magic of Santa, his perfect
choice of puzzles, wooden building
blocks, a wildlife coloring book (how did
he know I loved animals?). Their voices rose
and fell like swallows, their eyes darted from me
to the gifts, to the bed, to the paper, to me
again, and to the uneven-legged Santa—who,
tormented by the mid-May heat, was wilting
to a pale ghost of Long John Silver. He held no
interest for me anymore. My eyes were riveted
to the two women whose hands touched mine.
They looked just like the goddesses
in my picture books—Athena, Freia,
Durga, Gaia, their faces glowing
with a not-of-this-earth radiance.
Excerpted from Sweet Malida: Memories of a Bene Israel Woman by Zilka Joseph. Copyright © 2024 Mayapple Press. Reprinted with permission from Mayapple Press. Woodstock, NY. All rights reserved.