The Traitor Not even a handful of green will grow if you pour on a heap as big as the Himalayas blood as much as the Indian Ocean - a crank still swears by this, and lives somewhere in a by-lane of Bombay. He trembles with a nameless fear and makes water when he hears the street-dogs bark. Call him coward rather than crank. He gulps down his daily ration of liquid fire served by the morning papers, and then to expiate the sin fingers the love-locks of children; reads the Gita and warns himself, 'Don't you touch a weapon. Beware.' Opens his umbrella only to remember the nuclear mushroom, and places his hand on just anybody's shoulder to regain his balance. He cries like a neuter, effeminately, when he hears the war songs in khakhi uniforms. Call him traitor rather than neuter. Chewing his nut of nemesis, he raves, though awake, 'How I would love to live, and see Picasso's dove flying in the sky!' - Vinda Karandhikar Translated