you please. And cholera is abroad in
the land.

At the entrance to the temples sits the image of Binzuru. Long ago,
when history was new and the gods were young, Binzuru, one of the
sixteen great disciples, broke his vow of chastity by remarking on the
beauty of a woman. So he was put outside the temples. His image no
longer rests upon the altars, with those of the calm, serene ones.
He's disgraced, expelled, no longer fit to sit upon the altars, with
the cold, serene ones, in their colossal calm. He's so human now,
outside the temples. Sitting on a chair for human beings to touch him,
now he's off the altar, he's in contact with humanity. The devout ones
rub his wooden image--there is no bronze or gold in poor Binzuru's
makeup. So the people rub his wooden image, rub his ears, his head,
his forehead, rub his arms, his legs, his shoulders. How they suffer,
human beings! How their bodies ache and suffer, judged by poor
Binzuru's body! For if you rub Binzuru on the part which hurts you in
your body, and then rub your body with a hand fresh from Binzuru, you
will be cured. Your pain will go. That's true. Binzuru is polished
smooth and shining, quite deformed with rubbing--his poor head's a
nubbin! And in gratitude for what he's done for people, he sits now on
a pile of cushions, one for each new cure. Bibs and caps adorn him
too, votive offerings from the faithful whom he's cured.

But he is no good for cholera, poor Binzuru. You can't reach him quick
enough to rub his stomach, then your own. Cholera's too quick for
that. You can't reach him soon enough. He can't help in this.

Down the road a stretcher comes, swinging from a bamboo pole, carried
on the shoulders of two men. Over it a mat is thrown, and through the
little open triangle at one end, you see a pair of brown legs lying.
Only legs, no more. Drawn up stiffly, toes clinched.

Here in the hospital they lie in rows, very quiet. Not an outcry, not
a murmur. Everything is swimming in carbolic. The nurses wear masks
across their mouths and noses. They come and go in clogs, barefooted,
and splash through the carbolic on the floors. This is cholera. These
people, lying so quietly upon their hard pillows, have cholera. It is
not spectacular. All are poor folk, fishermen, sailors, farmers,
shopkeepers, all the ignorant, the stupid, who were not afraid. One is
dying. Nose pinched, gasping, bathed in sweat. The hot air can't warm
him. He is dying, cold.

So there is c