This article is the English version of Vikas Swarup, « L’année de son réveil », published in Politique étrangère (Vol. 91, No. 2, 2026) which celebrates the journal’s 90th anniversary.
When Ray Mehta opened his eyes, he saw light.
Not the hard light of a hospital. Winter light. Pale and level. It came through a wide pane of glass. Beyond it stood a mountain, solitary and white at the summit, its dark stone face rising clean into a sky of improbable blue.
He looked at it for some time before he tried to move.
Then he turned his head and took in the room.
It was spare in the way expensive things are spare. White walls. Rounded corners. A bed, a chair, a narrow table. No wires. No steel stands. No flowers. No clutter of medicine. The room had been designed to suggest serenity to someone who had paid for it in advance.
His mouth was dry. He swallowed. For a moment he did not know whether the procedure had succeeded or failed. Then a woman spoke.
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