Gods don’t play dice

When Little Som was two and half,
He had his first illusion dashed:
The laddoos did not come from Gods;
A dabba had them neatly stashed.
He went inside the pooja room
And swiped the laddoo sitting there,
Declaring to his grand-amma,
“We will not give the Gods a share.”
As Grand-amma was part way through
Her rosary of hundred eight,
She did not stir a muscle’s breadth
And reasoned it was fine to wait.
But Little Som had much to lose:
He started losing patience first,
And then in minutes, temper too,
And, finally, the worst of worst:
He lost the fear of Gods’ revenge.
Though, any self-respecting kid
Who’s heard the tales of Hindu Gods
Will know the things that Devas did
When something that They thought was Theirs
Was taken by a daring man
With big-big eyes and hairy head
And darkened skin of Deccan tan.

They started with his grand-amma,
Who went to sleep but did not wake.
No sign of fever or of pain,
A boon for her devotion’s sake.
But then the cruelty of Gods
Erupted in a squeal of brakes
When rushing to the hospital,
A scooter slipped on cow dung cakes
And crashed into our Little Som,
Who lived to see another day,
But not to walk on his own feet
Which he was told will soon decay.
But when are Gods so simply pleased?
They sent a fever and a pox,
The first of which put Amma down,
As per her faith, in wooden box.
The second left a lot of scars
On Little Som’s demonic face,
So much a sight of ugliness,
His Appa sent him in disgrace
To live among the temple kids
Who sang and begged their daily bread,
While Appa found another wife
And had a fairer baby made.

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