With rationalization came rage. I was furious at the international condemnation of our justifiable, logical pursuit of security. How hypocritical that nations already in possession of the Bomb should tell us we shouldn't have it. How condescending their suggestion that our country--a peaceful, responsible member of the United Nations--couldn't be trusted with nuclear weapons. And how shameless their threats of economic sanctions against democratic, pluralistic India even as they cravenly kowtowed to totalitarian China.

As the summer wore on and international attention moved to other things, my colleagues and friends stopped bringing up the tests in conversation. This meant I could drop my aggressive, advocate-for-the-defense stance. It also meant I had more time to think about May 11. And the more I thought, the more uncomfortable I got. The anti-nuclear sermons of my schooldays flooded back in my mind. Suddenly, it didn't matter what the world thought of the tests, or of India: the fact remained that we, on our own and without urgent provocation, had abandoned the high road. The economic sanctions haven't hurt much, but the damage to India's international image may be irreparable. Once we were a poor country that, unlike some richer ones, had the good sense to steer clear of the Bomb. Now, we're just a poor country.

And who gained what in return? The government frittered away the political capital it had drawn from the tests in just a few weeks. More importantly, six months after the tests, I don't feel any enhanced sense of security--quite the contrary. Pakistan's tests may have leveled the playing field, but the game is now played at a more dangerous level than ever before. In their worst-case scenarios, military strategists on both sides envision a nuclear holocaust. In mine, I see the marble dome of the Taj Mahal, sticking out from a sand dune in a vast desert where once there was my country.

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