By Zilka Joseph

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 Roshashana
and Passover but this was different. Like Eid, when our Muslim

friends and neighbors 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

block set, a wildlife colouring 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. Now my eyes were riveted

to the two women whose hands touched mine,
and I saw that they looked just like the goddesses

in my picture books—Athena, Freia, Durga, Gaia,
their faces glowing with a not-of-this-earth radiance.

First published in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal

Zilka Joseph's work is influenced by her Indian and Bene Israel roots, and Eastern and Western cultures. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, Poetry Daily, Kenyon Review Online, Michigan Quarterly Review, Asia Literary Review, and in RESPECT: An Anthology of Detroit Music Poetry, 101 Jewish Poems for the Third Millennium, Cheers to Muses: Contemporary Work by Asian American Women, and The Kali Project. Her chapbooks have been nominated for Pushcart and PEN awards, and Best of the Net. Sharp Blue Search of Flame, her book of poems (Wayne State University Press, Detroit) was a Foreword INDIES Book Award finalist. Her third chapbook Sparrows and Dust was recently nominated for a Pushcart. In Our Beautiful Bones, her new book, has been nominated for a PEN America award. She was born in Mumbai, and lived in Kolkata for most of her life. She now lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA. She teaches creative writing workshops, is an editor, manuscript coach, and a mentor to writers in her community. www.zilkajoseph.com

Banner image is by Annie Spratt and downloaded from unsplash.com