God of Mamashops

[Inspired by “God of Arepo”, a random story written by sadoeuphemist on tumblr in response to a writing prompt]

Auntie built an altar by the descending stairs into her basement mamashop. It was just a small red altar with enough space for a small plate of food and three sticks of pink incense, tucked away behind the pots of plants that had grown lush with time. Two days later a god moved in like a stray cat.

“It’d be nice, you know,” Auntie whispered as she set down the plate with two steamed buns, “if you were a god of wisdom who could help all the ah boys and ah girls who visit my shop pass their exams. Or a god of health, to look after my son when he works late in his office, as he does so often. It’s not much, but I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after us.” The next day, she lit some new incense before heading down to open her shop, and the day after that she refreshed the offerings with fresh fruits. On the third day, the god spoke up. “You should go to the temple in Chinatown,” the god said, “a real temple. Get some real gods to bless you.” It parted the curls of pothos leaves that have overgrown the pots around the altar and sighed, “I mean, not to be rude. I like it here. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that I can bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Auntie laughed, “I’m a very simple one, I run only a mamashop owner in this little corner of the HDB foyer.”

“I can’t help you with them. I’m only a god of the morning mynah calls, and the burst of sun upon the sticks of laundry drying from each house’s kitchen, and the little shade that falls upon the sidewalks at noon. I am a god of a dozen different nothings, nothing of practical value for you here I’m afraid.” The god heaved another sigh and chuckled bitterly. “There’s no point in worship for me. In this era, you have better luck going to your MP and asking for even a little attention. That might even manifest into a lift for the overhead bridge outside. Better to pray to a thing greater than me.” 

Aunty smiled a little. “I like this sort of worship fine. Maybe come and sit with me in my mamashop downstairs. That would be enough.”

Aunty fell into a routine of lighting the incense and cleaning the ashes before opening the shop, and sometimes she and the god will water the bouquets of houseplants outside her corridor in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then it was the rainy season. There were minor inconveniences of abrupt thunderstorms that rained upon Aunty’s laundry drying outside, and potted plants had toppled from their planters and spilt their roots and soil on the wet corridor. Eventually, the downpour flooded into the mamashop, and the stairs leading down into the basement cascaded with a water that had no way out. Aunty simply washed the clothes again, righted the pots, closed the shop and brought along scraps of cloth to soak up the flooded shop.

The god watched unhappily, “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“Aiya, we’ll be fine,” Aunty waved her hands. “These are small things, and the MP has too much on her plate listening to the woes of my neighbours. You should come and visit me in my mamashop and see that things are alright.”

A year passed, and then another. The children who used to pass by the mamashop have to travel further for secondary school and stop by only for the occasional sweet drink on blistering afternoons, but as with the cyclical nature of life, new visitors have started to drop by. They found that they got lucky with the dusty gatcha machines that Aunty tops ups, and thus often crowd the mamashop basement with their boxy bags and sweaty uniforms. Aunty had to mount the altar onto the walls to prevent her visitors kicking over the offerings for the god. And as times changed, so did the people in the neighbourhood. And then one day someone broke into the shop, ripped a hole straight through the metal shutters, and took everything in Aunty’s cash register. There was perhaps some rush of guilty conscience, perhaps as the god stared hard at the greedy intruder’s back, that compelled a hasty exit. The bags of candy stapled to cardboard walls were strewn on the floor, and the stack of boxes filled with next month’s stock had collapsed over the entrance.

People walked by, and eyed the scene with pitying clicks of their tongue, and went on with their lives with indifference. Aunty sat on the first step of the staircase, and with shaking hands tried calling her son. The god watched the silence that followed the voicemails, and huddled in the dark basement, “There is nothing here for you. There is nothing I can do. Go talk to the police, and some greater powers that could help you.” 

“That’s—“, Aunty’s voice wavered, “That’s what my son told me too. I’ll get through this. We’ve still got each other, right? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but sometimes life happens.”

Years passed. There are now police cameras watching the corridor, and bicycle rack locks, and new licensing laws. The god sat on the other side of the register, watching Aunty as she frowned through her prescription glasses for her ailing eyes and prepared the documents to renew her little mamashop year on year. The children still come, and even the surprising visit by her grandchildren. The god watched it all and realised there was happiness folded in the wrinkles at the corner of Aunty’s eyes. The god contemplated the musty quiet in the basement mamashop, and the increasing dustiness of the place as Aunty slows down her cleaning schedule.

And one fateful day, in a neighbourhood in a country with no great tragedies or discomforts in life, came a small unremarkable tragedy as the mamashop closed and never opened its doors again. Instead of standing behind the register waiting for the diminishing trickle of visitors, Aunty now rolls gingerly in her bed, nursing the permanent pains that ailed her. She clutched her abdomen, and could barely make it past her lift lobby — much less the descending stairs to her mamashop — and hobbled to the altar with new offerings of fresh fruits. The god rushed out to meet her.

“You’re not well enough to come back to the shop,” the god realised, “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry. I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Aunty said, groping for the wall for support, “It all happens with old age.” 

“I cannot even give you good health or longevity at the end!” The god reached out to take the plate of fruits and held her trembling hands.

 “Tell me,” she mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

The god helped Aunty back to her room and spoke.

“I’m of the morning bird song,” it said, and helped her with the jingle of keys, “the thrill of finding an elevator at your floor. The slant of sun that warms the laundry.” Aunty smiled as she shuffled to her gate.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said, “the laughter of children after school, the nostalgic tastes of brightly coloured childhood snacks.” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Thank you for keeping me company all these years,” Aunty said, “Since my son moved out it has been awfully quiet, but you have stayed all these years. That is all a lonely old lady like me could ask for..”

And as the remainder of the days passed, and the mamashop closed and was replaced by a trendy bubble tea shop, as the indifferent face of time stood and watched the earth, Aunty kept the humble altar by her door, and returned home to her god.