Neither. I Am Just One

Iqbal, That Great Poet, Was So Right. The Moment You Recognize What Is Beautiful In This World, You Stop Being A Slave. To Hell With The Naxals And Their Guns Shipped From China. If You Taught Every Poor Boy How To Paint, That Would Be The End Of The Rich In India.

A Rich Man's Body Is Like A Premium Cotton Pillow, White And Soft And Blank. ''ours'' Is Different. My Father's Spine Was A Knotted Rope, The Kind That Women Use In Villages To Pull Water From Wells; The Clavicle Curved Around His Neck In High Relief, Like A Dog's Collar; Cuts And Nicks And Scars, Like Little Whip Marks In His Flesh, Ran Down His Chest And Waist, Reaching Down Below His Hip Bones Into His Buttocks. The Story Of A Poor Man's Life Is Written On His Body, In A Sharp Pen.

Go To Old Delhi,and Look At The Way They Keep Chickens There In The Market. Hundred Of Pale Hens And Brightly Colored Roosters, Stuffed Tightly Into Wire-mesh Cages. They See The Organs Of Their Brothers Lying Around Them.they Know They Are Next, Yet They Cannot Rebel. They Do Not Try To Get Out Of The Coop. The Very Same Thing Is Done With Humans In This Country.

Here's A Strange Fact: Murder A Man, And You Feel Responsible For His Life - ''possessive'', Even. You Know More About Him Than His Father And Mother; They Knew His Fetus, But You Know His Corpse. Only You Can Complete The Story Of His Life, Only You Know Why His Body Has To Be Pushed Into The Fire Before Its Time, And Why His Toes Curl Up And Fight For Another Hour On Earth.

Greenwich Village Always Had Its Share Of Mind Readers, But There Are Many More These Days, And They Seem To Have Moved Closer To The Mainstream Of Life In The City. What Was Crazy 10 Years Ago Is Now Respectable, Even Among The Best-educated New Yorkers.