From an anthology of South Asian climate fiction: A hotel for the wealthy makes a village dry up

The old man lies on the ground, arms and legs splayed, glistening with dew. The hoops of metal binding his wrists and feet in a cross are unforgiving, and he no longer struggles. A procession of ants march over his bowlegs and his head is caked in bird droppings.

The American – was her name Darryl or Diane – hands me a pair of pruning secateurs.

“You say you want to join us. Cut off one of his fingers. That’s what happens to staff who steal from hotel guests.”

In the east daggers of red and orange light up the sky, heralding the sun's arrival. The cawing of bulbs and koels fills the air. I take the tool.

This time yesterday, I was on the other side of the island, in a different world outside the Hotel Wall.

I wipe Sitadweep Island’s endless heat off my brow with an old T-shirt. It’s early evening and the entire village has gathered at the meeting place. A hush has lain over the village like a pall since the afternoon, when the sound of Sunil’s baby daughter’s slowly dimming cries fell silent.

“The Hotel killed our daughter. We want justice.” The petitioner Sunil waves his cutlass about, daring anyone to contradict. He wears just a...

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