Mumbai Goddesses

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.

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