Liver in Rishikesh
MO: Writings from the River, Issue 3 Volume I, p.65
Here, the cold Ganges flows clear and crisp.
From the mountains where its source sits,
this town is the first the river goddess finds;
Ganga sprung from Siva's tangled locks, or so passes the myth.
Shiva then is worshipped in this town,
idols of him dancing and phallic statuettes like
upside-down thimbles sprout from the earth.
Pedestrians share their bridge with scooters
and pay one rupee a handful of junk food
for addicted fish begging below.
There is a stretch of path from the bridge
to the ashram where I stay. Benches propagate
along the path; a calf shades itself under one
as its emaciated mother bends down to bathe him.
My room is large and faces the flowing goddess.
I am told if I bathe in the river she will purify me,
and so I stick my feet in her freezing waters and slowly wade in.
That afternoon a burst of fire burns in my waist.
The pain keeps cramping up and dying off.
The only doctor along the path is an absent Ayurvedic
so I stumble and discover a couple,
Canadians staying in the room next to me.
This is their third visit, though they despise Indian food,
and still pay their plane fares selling fruit.
The following morning the cramps stab my innards with nails.
I race down the path thirty minutes early while the doctor
meanders in thirty minutes late, still drinking his chai.
He stabs his fingers into my stomach, holds my wrist, closes his eyes.
I look around for translation and a boy says, He's thinking.
Minutes later he opens and focuses his eyes and says,
Your liver is bad. He gives me powder and honeyed
medicine balls and sends me away. After the first dose
the cramps cease and never return, even when I spend
two long months traveling in trains and hotels where
I mix powder with water and pop honey balls while watching
the polluted goddess flow through southern towns searching for purity.
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