The poem I thought up in the morning, the rare meteor of words, burns to ashes as it streaks past the Reality Sphere. India is perhaps the only Third World country with First World illusions of grandeur. Why else would we celebrate, say, the twins born to Julia Roberts? As Hamlet said, what’s Hecuba to me or me to Hecuba that I should weep for her? India is the Madame Bovary of the Eastern World. The half deceived, half deceiving self. Which is why the world inside your head is in continuous conflict with the appalling reality outside. The Word against the World.