This is the evening of a long and fairly fulfilling life. And it is late evening in Landour. A misty, apricot light suffuses the horizon. Down in the villages the apricots are ripening. A small boy brought me the fresh fruit this morning—still very sour, very tangy, but full of promise. And if apricots could take precedence over missiles, the world would be full of promise too. I’m afraid science and politics have let us down. But the cricket still sings on the window-sill.
