THE FLY HAS NO PITY by Kurt McGill Cooch Behar, West Bengal, India That week the rains came. On the morning of July 21 there was a heavy shower and a good deal of thunder. In the afternoon it was hotter than ever. But the following day, cascades poured down from the leaden sky, driving us from the swimming pool in Nripendra Park to take shelter in the Narayan Pavilion. And, as if life wasn’t complicated enough already, a general uprising of the native population had started in Agra, moved rapidly to Lucknow, on to Patna overlooking the Ganges, and then to Kisanganj – within striking distance of our city. Now unemployed pulp mill and textile workers were tooling around in autoricks from Uttar Pradesh to Bihar menacing retired people who had worked hard all their lives and only wanted to pound the odd chapatti, tend their ridge gourd and okra, and run the irrigation on days when it was prohibited by the local council. I was as yet unaware how out of sorts I r