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.

MAMA YOUR EYES

are everywhere

they see through this house these walls
this hallway my books
my pages that stare emptily at me

Looking at your photo
I am lost in the ocean of your eyes
the star-like print of your sari
your hair a little awry (still worn
shoulder length then)
in the black and white passport photo
enlarged so we could remember your face
(blurred in this frame) forever

When I see my own eyes in the mirror
they say
you have only so much time on earth
and then it is done
guilt pounds my heart
how did I lose you mama
could I have saved you
see ma this hollow thing I have become

this photo of you
is the same that dad had in his room
(in haste we had your funeral
we left everything behind)
I bow to your eyes mama
and shut mine
(tears sear
my eyelids)
do you see me ma
standing here
this ghost of me
are you there

mama dad survived only two years after you left
the year he died he pointed
to this very same photo on the shelf
and said
see her there
see how her eyes follow me
from the chair to the desk
where I use the nebulizer
from the desk to the dining table
from the table to the living
room where I watch TV
then back to my bed
she watches me
he says
she watches me

did your eyes see his sorrow mama
or did he shut out grief with his will of steel
while he lived on for two years in a place
he had to live a home that was not his home

and in the first year of your death
he would not speak your name
he would not cry
he would look away
when I told him how
I missed you

and when I prayed with him
on your second anniversary
and I choked over every word
as I read the prayers
I was so broken I could barely carry on
he looked at me strangely
with his one good eye
said (was it disbelief?)
you haven’t got over her yet
this from the man
who was married to my mother
for 62 years

the man who did not want to die
who clung to life gasping
while his lungs collapsed bit by bit
pulled the cruel mask from his face
cried out over and over take me home
I want to go home

but home was gone the day you died mama
but your eyes hover in my room my dreams
watching

Usha Akella, co-director of MATWAALA:
In its signature spirit of community welcoming established and upcoming poets, Matwaala 2018 took place in NYC. Matwaala’s Big Read was hosted by Asian American Writers’ Workshop (AAWW) on 26 September 2018. The participating poets this year were Usha Akella, Zilka Joseph, Ralph Nazareth, Varsha Saraiya-Shah, Ravi Shankar, Vivek Sharma and Pramila Venkateswaran. 2018’s Poet of Honour was Ralph Nazareth. There was also a reading with a feminist theme hosted by Bluestockings Bookstore in NYC.