By Nicole Baute

April 2, 2018


In September, they carry Ganesha to the river. The bedazzled elephant god sits Sukhasana, mala of flowers around his neck, unlikely to swim. My inherited religion is about a man who rose from the dead, his bloody corpse the symbol. I say I don’t believe but one night in Vancouver I knelt at the back door, insects buzzing around the light, and pressed my palms together like they taught us. I don’t know what I’m doing, I said, to no one. Humans are scared most of the time. In India our driver carries a club in the trunk of his car and our housekeeper is a hypochondriac, certain a gallstone will kill her. Bodies are carried through the streets here but so are grooms on their wedding night, glittering and stunned, with marching bands. The Ganeshas decay in the water, Plaster of Paris transforming into white foam, chemical dyes swirling out to greet the fish, the beaches, the day, and in my palatial apartment I pick up my pen and pray.

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