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35053668-Empire-of-the-Soul-Paul-William-Roberts

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EMPIRE OF THE SOUL<br />

fodder, a pr<strong>of</strong>ession <strong>of</strong> human equality being all any religion needed<br />

to gain a substantial following in India.<br />

On one wall hung a large framed photograph <strong>of</strong> Mo<strong>the</strong>r meeting<br />

<strong>the</strong> pope. John <strong>Paul</strong> II looked happier than she did.<br />

‘A ma-ann huh-oo wass bl – bla-ee – blah-inn . . .’<br />

‘Blind!’ snapped <strong>the</strong> nun. ‘A man who was blind. Continue.’<br />

It was agonising to hear, and I felt grateful when <strong>the</strong> reading<br />

lesson was over and both teacher and pupil disappeared into <strong>the</strong><br />

steam outside. On a bookshelf <strong>the</strong>re were twenty-nine copies <strong>of</strong> a<br />

treatise on prayer by some French cleric, three o<strong>the</strong>r Bibles, a fifteenyear-old<br />

National Geographic magazine, and an English dictionary<br />

that began at <strong>the</strong> tail end <strong>of</strong> B: buzzard, buzz bomb, buzzer, buzz saw,<br />

by, by-and-by, bye, bye-bye, by-election, Byelorussian . . . I began to feel<br />

sleepy, reading <strong>the</strong> introduction to Prayer, which stressed that <strong>the</strong><br />

activity was not supposed to be a shopping list <strong>of</strong> desires you wanted<br />

God to fill.<br />

To become a saint, one must suffer much. Suffering begets love<br />

. . . and life among <strong>the</strong> souls.<br />

– Mo<strong>the</strong>r Teresa<br />

‘Who wants to see Mo<strong>the</strong>r?’ a crackly old voice snapped.<br />

I looked up to see <strong>the</strong> curtain covering an inner door briskly<br />

swept aside by a tiny, robust figure clutching an enormous bone<br />

rosary in her hands. Mo<strong>the</strong>r Teresa was clearly good at making<br />

entrances. She also seemed far less shy and frail than she did on<br />

film, with some impressive warts on her nose. At eighty-two, she<br />

was certainly more vigorous than many people half her age – like<br />

me – and <strong>the</strong>re was a certain tenacity in her manner I had not expected.<br />

She gripped my hands firmly with hers, saying, ‘Very kind <strong>of</strong> you<br />

to come all this way. What do you want?’<br />

We sat, and her gnarled and fissured fingers constantly counted<br />

<strong>the</strong> huge worn rosary beads, causing an incessant clacking noise. I<br />

imagined <strong>the</strong> thousands, <strong>of</strong> similar meetings she must have endured,<br />

wondering what I could do to make this one a little different.<br />

I started <strong>of</strong>f with a pretentiously convoluted question about how<br />

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