Now I must go back to that room, I suppose, said Mr. Bhuti.
I’m afraid so, said the Frenchman.
May I rest a moment? Mr. Bhuti said and sat on the edge of the bed.
No chairs there, he explained. In that room where no one is content. Where my wife and mother wait, still wait, for even a single sip of water. However, in that room? No water. For us. Therein lies the torment: what one wants, one may not have. For some there is, yes, water. But whatever it is thattheymost desire? Is denied them. One fellow desires his violin. But: no violin. For him. Anyone who does not desire a violin may get one quite easily. One woman wishes to apologize to her son, for some offense: for her, that room is full of telephones that do not work.
Well, here, look, the Frenchman said.
And brought out, from behind his back, a tumbler of chilled water, down the sides of which ran fat beads of moisture.
Mr. Bhuti drank perhaps a third of it, then stopped himself with what seemed an act of tremendous willpower.
May I be permitted to take this with me? he said.
Of course, said the Frenchman.
From behind his back the Frenchman produced a large pitcher with a painted rooster on it.
Take this as well, he said. With my best wishes. For having come all this way.
I know they will be most grateful, said Mr. Bhuti.
He rose and, taking along the tumbler and the pitcher, left the room slowly, so as not to spill a single drop.
A second or two later, however, he stepped back in.
One must do one’s best, yes? he said. Having watched one’s loved ones suffer so, then being brought face-to-face with the individual alleged to have been a principal cause of that suffering, one must exert oneself to the utmost, I think.
Well, I said.
Yes, he said.
Placing the tumbler and pitcher carefully on the bedside table, Mr. Bhuti climbed up onto the bed, then lowered himself onto, and into, my charge.
Fuck, my charge shouted.
Sir, my dear sir, the Frenchman cried.
As quickly as he’d entered, Mr. Bhuti rolled out of my charge and stumbled away from the bed.
Now he knows, he said. Now he truly knows.
Disoriented from the transfer, he came directly toward me like a careening drunk.
And inadvertently passed through me.
And I knew too.
The shock of it knocked me down. I struggled to the love seat, pulled myself up beside the (oblivious) wife. I had seen Mr. Bhuti’s village, yes. But had also grasped that it was not exceptional, not at all; the entire region thereabouts frequently burst into flames, and vast tracts of it, once peopled and prosperous, now stood abandoned, marked by black-burned trees and a web of brackish former rivers from which every trace of life had been extinguished.
And that wasn’t all.
Mr. Bhuti, a lawyer, had, before a certain financial reversal, traveled widely all around his country, and his region was far from being the only region so damaged; other regions, damaged in different ways, exhibited different symptoms. It was all there in his mind: a beetle-ruined birch grove in Kalimpong, a flooded Haryana valley in which peaked roofs appeared to the eye as thousands of toy boats; here the ocean had risen to the second floor of the Kolkata library, leaving, when it receded, the books on those two floors rank with mold; at Shivrajpur, three dolphins, disoriented by the unusual heat of the ocean, had grounded themselves during a beach wedding, leaving the guests, including Mr. Bhuti and his wife, Charvi, at a loss as to what to do.
And it wasn’t only in his country.
It was happening everywhere.
