from my Mumbai hotel I could see the stream of people in the narrow street below
a cart carrying the dead listed and nearly toppled over
the ox pulling it did not stop dragging the askew carriage along
passersby steered clear of the primitive hearse knowing it carried the curse, the fever felling the denizens of this muggy megapolis
a plague harvesting souls quicker than they could be burned
the Mithi was thick with their ashes, diluted only by tears of the mourners who harbored fears they would be next
I was there, a helpless healer; a doctor turned detective, running a race to find a cause, a miracle cure
all my potions impotent, all my staring at slides a lesson in limitations, ignorance--a discovery of crawling creatures too miniscule to be dissected, too beguiling to be understood
my eyes were tired of looking at the tiny death moguls and their victims my ears weary of the entreaties for relief from suffering
yet I stood and watched, one wagon after another, carrying carrion for the pyres
I prayed the power would stay off, for light would have shone on me: a curious survivor, unworthy of whatever grace kept me from the heaps of lifeless limbs bound for the fires of the night