I felt a lot better now, knowing that the chances for intergalactic violation were next to nil. Korsnas was funky enough without the notion of alien interference in the daily bliss of editorial work. The Dutch yatra badly needed the rest of the Bhagavata Purana, and we were barely halfway Canto four. At this point, Gangadh... Ah, yes... For all practical purposes I have decided to name the skinny, pale devotee from Holland Gangadhara (a name of Shiva, who carries the Ganges on his head), although it appeared that our friend carried a lot more on his head than just the Ganges. Dabbling in the occult had proven more fruitful to him than it had to me. I never had the morbid pleasure of necromantic success, or even as much as a faint smell of sulfur, while Gangadhara spent years dealing with morphing mirror reflections and attacks by ominous, black clouds -- even throughout his devotional career.

But I digress...

At this point, Gangadhara took care of editing the Cantos that had already been translated. I served as the utterly untrained proofreader pertaining to style and spelling. Krishna would carry all necessary knowledge and skills that I lacked. The first three Cantos had been translated by the late Hayeshvara das (late as in dead, rather than the curious affection of devotees for always being late). As he had done with several books in, perhaps, a faint hope to impart an extra air of importance, Hayeshvara had used an archaic, almost Biblical, style of the Dutch language that had been out of vogue since the monarchic days of Napoleon's brother -- a sincere chap, forever remembered in Holland for his attempts to learn the language, culminating in a public announcement that he was "konijn van Olland" (rabbit of Holland) instead of "koning van Olland" (king of Holland).

But I digress...

The timeless spiritual message to the plebs of the Low Lands was now laid out in Shakespearean style. Yeehaw... Hath thou nought understondan thaet in the futur thaer layeth hence 10,000 sceats of seovene cantoes awaiten, oh thou hors-heafoded oon of great vertu?

Then, a small twist in his institutional affiliation had bumped Hayeshvara out of the editorial picture, and with him the oratory sublimity of medieval yester-yore. Fresh blood felt that an equally fresh breeze of wholly transformed language was required -- regardless of any mid-canto mismatch. Can you say Supreme God Person? Halfway the fifth Canto both reformists and their Supreme God Person were also sent packing. Now, if you thought that the cosmology of the fifth Canto itself wasn't complicated enough, try to plough through it in a combination of two language styles. Hath thou had enogh yete, bro? Eventually, Cantos 6 to 10 were virtually re-translated in a compromise of modern Dutch and former key-concept translations, and then promptly shelved for six years before their first print run.

Man, dealing with the Dutch yatra in matters of book production was like an endless game of bait-and-switch that caused high blood pressure and headaches. There was, however, a silver lining to this cloud of medical doom: Korsnas was a veritable electro magnet for the most amazing healers this planet has ever seen. They came and went, taking care of lines of ailing pujaris, cooks, and editors. Why not everyone in Korsnas was a picture of demigod-like health was a complete mystery to me -- that is, until I actually met some of the healers.

He came from Hungary. His perceived level of success warranted the swift transfer of my good self from my humble home in the temple's library to a corner in the brahmacari ashram. He needed space for himself and his assistant. His glories spread within days, like fungus on stale bread. I lined up and when called entered my former crash pad.

The scene unfolding before me could have been straight from the Orc mines in The Lord of the Rings, and likely smelled even worse. Dazed patients sat and lay around (Orc-like, mind you). Some had needles protruding from the strangest places; others were treated with burning cigar tips; yet again others had their backs covered in glass cups, sucking up fluids and blood like crystal leeches. Dried roots and leaves of various shapes and textures hung on strings from the ceiling. Every possible surface was filled with bottles, boxes, pills, and bags. At the center of the room, behind what once was a large dining table (and my former desk), sat the Master, whispering sidelong to his assistant (Igor, likely...).

The Master turned back to the patient across the table and said, "You have sand in your kidneys, and you must watch out for cancer." She was handed a bag of powder and a box of pills and was sent on her merry way, confused look and stutter and all. "Sit down here," the Master told me. There were no formalities and he did not require any medical history or current complaints. "It is all in the eyes." I put my chin on a metal brace that brought up memories from my childhood attic laboratory and felt the bright light hit the back of my eyeballs. "Sit still," he commanded, as my eyes started tearing up. For about two minutes he gazed into the depths of my physical being through the patterns of my irises, all the while paging back and forth in a binder with drawings of eyes and body parts.

"Sand in my kidneys?" I asked with a pseudo-innocent smile on my face. "No," he said, and handed me a tissue. "You have toxic blood." Wow... Calvin and Hobbes would have gladly accepted a slow change into a toxic-waste superhero, but to me it sounded a bit darker than I had expected. "Is that where the sound in my head comes from?" I blurted out. The eyes of another patient in earshot grew twice in size. My attempts to assure her that it was harmless most of the time fell on suddenly deaf ears.

The chair was of an average kitchen variety and offered little comfort. Without any explanation a dozen needles were stuck into my ears and hooked up to an electronic device that could have been a prop in one of those James Bond movies from the 70s. Before I could blink twice, I succumbed to a rather shocking experience. "You must tell me if the current is too high," he said. With my jaw and tongue now paralyzed, the only recourse was fully instinctive sign language. He got the point and reduced the current to a level that caused a mild tingling that could even be considered pleasant.

After 20 minutes without results, the time had come to have my back covered in little cups that would relieve my blood from its toxic nature. The first 10 minutes were tolerable. The next 20 were sheer torture. The apologies for having forgotten all about me did little to soothe the twelve large, bump-shaped bruises that ran down my spine for the next two weeks. I would not easily forget this experience. After all, the library may have been back to normal, but that smell...

Totally unassuming and a bit funny, one could say, the next medical blessing had blown in from left field during a festival and was allowed to stay in return for his service. I don't know his name, but shiatsu was his game -- literally. Visiting brahmacaris of the tall and muscular kind could hardly resist the challenge that this bespectacled midget was able to make you scream in pain with some light massage. One by one they succumbed, and soon rumors of the Malaysian Torturer abounded.

I must admit, the prospect of maybe being able to withstand what apparently no one else could was fascinating. It was almost an urge; a psychological pushing, much like hunger. Yeah, yeah, I fell for it. In the first session he focused on the soft areas at the back of my knees. It took me great effort to decipher his funny accent and most of his explanations went far over my head, but it took me less than 10 minutes to realize that I had made a big mistake. Another ten minutes had me on the verge of vomiting. The pain was excruciating. Pure, naked nerve pain as I had never experienced. In a Yoda-like way he assured me that "less the pain will be next time." It wasn't. The spots were still sore from the first round, and in the epiphany that masochism is not a vaishnava quality I cut the treatment short.

The last session was supposed to be just a follow-up, but that the knee spots were all of a sudden no longer important and his insistence to massage my inner thighs, made the coin of suspicion drop all the way down the slot. Pinned against the wall, only his glasses prevented his little eyes from popping out as I tightened his collar. Ahimsa saved his day. The little pervert left the next morning. No one ever complained that he still owed them a treatment or two.

The navel-poker was one of the shortest doctor's visits ever. His patients were easily recognizable the following day, walking into mangala-aratik like they had spent half of their lives on a horse. Ancestors of the ancestors of the ancestors must have handed down this esoteric art of massage of the intestines through the navel by rolling a bowling ball down the ages, knocking a couple of details out of the picture along the way. My newly found reservation had spared me the ordeal, but barely offered any protection against snickering when the temple president strode into mangala-aratik, pale and wobbly.

O man, and how many more followed! Wannabe Ayur-vedic doctors, self-taught yoga experts and massage therapists, herbal experts, you name it...

And after everything was said and done, the same people would stand in line again for the next quack.

Perhaps a shrink this time..?