silly child godmothers don’t come to weeping little girls who give up hope so the stars explode to descend to earth with a magic wand
they walk amongst us with tobacco-stained teeth that chomp on betel leaves while their fingers speak to God himself through rosaries and Heaven rests beneath their feet
they befriend fairies disguised as fireflies and protect their children from witches in trees; burning red chilies to ward off the evil eye an adornment of talismans to ensure our safety
an aloof sniff of leaves is enough to distinguish which will soothe a flu & which can put you to sleep; and in their company you learn of unrecorded history – not of wars in textbooks and foreign policies but of lovers torn apart due to politics in families, of angels descending and underdogs rising, a dialogue between the sky and the sea – they are angels with their own stories, crowned not with halos but with silver tresses and plain cotton saris.
I watch the cartoon godmother fling around a wand carelessly as the rest distract us with a song and I lie in her godi – warm with generations of children, her own and grand, I rest under her cushioned hand that is lined with tributaries of green and blue, her skin giving in to gravity ready to shed away too so she becomes just the soul trapped in her ocean of blue eyes that seem to lose the ability to see here on earth but twinkle with familiarity when she raises them to speak to God Almighty.
I watch the TV screen and say my own prayer grateful to see a godmother as clumsy only exists on TV while I lay in the lap of true divinity.