The god of small people

Niks has been falling sick. Again. And again. We’ve tried a variety of doctors and medicines and even antibiotics through a needle in his little hand. The Manipal hospital Emergency nurses say he is the bravest kid they’ve ever seen, with the scaredy-pooest mom. I stand outside while they poke at him inside.

When all earthly supports fail, we remember those guys upstairs.

And religions blend into one, with all the gods in their heavens being called down in a stampede. It doesn’t matter whether the god wears white robes or saffron, as long as He does the job.

So my neighbor, Nik’s adopted mommy, a Hindu Nair, promises the Infant Jesus church a solid bribe. And my Ma, a die-hard Roman Catholic resorts to tying a black thread ‘to ward off the evil eye’ on Nik’s skinny lil hand. And my cook does a hocus pocus with some seeds and oil around his nose. Something works. And Niks gets well.

I sit back and wonder. At what this relationship is with our Gods. They are smart beings for sure. Probably when Their coffers run a lil empty, and They need to finance a celestial tour across the skies, They look down, chewing Their divine lip.

And then They send Niks a tedious little viral infection, and soon enough – the prayers – and the funds will start pouring in.