In the relatively small area of Cuddalore alone, the tsunami caused five hundred deaths, and as we pass an arch commemorating the assassination of Rajiv Gandhi, Sonia Gandhi's husband, I think about the intricate weave of the many filaments of reconstruction. It is a task that is not only material but environmental, social, political, economic, and emotional. There are ugly possibilities for new corruption and hopeful chances to correct previous injustices. Thinkers, bankers, fishermen—the tsunami recovery effort has forged one of the world's most disparate communities, and I suspect this might be one aspect of a Bill Clinton utopia.

On the Indian coast, questions of caste and livelihood require deft calibration, and every benefit is shadowed by a corresponding hazard. Are fishing communities willing to live side by side with Dalits (untouchables) in newly built villages? Can Dalits, usually renters or sharecroppers, obtain government relief if such aid money is designated based on evidence of loss of property or livelihood? What can be done for inland farmers, whose land, inundated with saltwater, is ruined for cultivation? Fishermen's widows were half of an economic team, preparing and marketing the catch—what other work will provide them with steady wages for their families? If they are directed to move inland, fishermen worry that it will be impossible for them to launch their boats in the predawn hours that form their workdays. They fear that hotels will take advantage of the beachfront for resorts, shutting them out altogether. I ask the UNICEF representative to India, Ces Adorno, about homes for tsunami orphans, but he tells me that this, too, is a delicate business: The government, remarkably, is sponsoring them through school until the age of eighteen—and so is wary of adopters eyeing children's state allowances. I am witnessing here nothing less than the remaking of a world.

The Indian Air Force helicopter is shaped like a barracks, a kind of flying Quonset hut. Clinton's personal physician for this trip, Dr. Roger Band, struggles with the enormous suitcase, full of medications for every conceivable contingency, which he must personally monitor at all times on every leg of the voyage. After we are seated, the pilot emerges and reads a short formal speech welcoming us not only as passengers but as guests. Then our helicopter shivers like a horse leaping into the air and levitates, following behind the chopper carrying Clinton, over cultivated fields, a marigold-yellow cathedral, and uniform blocks of cottages, landing twenty-five minutes later. The village of Thazhanguda is treating Clinton's visit as if it were a seasonal festival: Garland sellers are open for business, the thatched-roof huts are newly decorated with painted leaves and flowers and an occasional demon mask. Men and women hold up babies, waving as we pass under banners offering a "Hearty Welcome to Shree [Mr.] Bill Clinton," and greeting "UN Envoy Beloved President Bill Clinton." On the porch floor of the new "tsunami reconstitution programme recreation center," exuberant musicians play brass horns and traditional drums. I would be surprised if at least one marriage weren't born out of this holiday crowd.