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

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344<br />

EMPIRE OF THE SOUL<br />

incurable disease; something that would probably have made him<br />

think twice about walking anywhere without knee-length riding<br />

boots. Staying healthy in India for visitors has always been largely<br />

a matter <strong>of</strong> common sense. The diseases people fear are caused by<br />

poverty; <strong>the</strong> ones that <strong>the</strong>y get are usually caused by carelessness.<br />

At least S. J. Perelman was free <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> xenophobic English<br />

superiority complex. The American humorist described <strong>the</strong> Taj in<br />

1948, in his Westward Ha! or Around <strong>the</strong> World in Eighty Clichés. In it<br />

he demonstrates, among o<strong>the</strong>r things, that architecture was an art<br />

form he did not appreciate:<br />

Like <strong>the</strong> half-dozen o<strong>the</strong>r passengers debarking from <strong>the</strong> President<br />

Munroe, Hirschfield and I made a beeline for <strong>the</strong> Taj Hotel, a<br />

huge Mauro-Gothic edifice <strong>of</strong> grey stone whose crenellated<br />

towers, battlements, and drawbridges more accurately suggested<br />

a college dormitory . . .<br />

He discerns an atmosphere <strong>of</strong> gloom and apprehension hanging<br />

over India in <strong>the</strong> wake <strong>of</strong> independence, and <strong>the</strong> Hindu-Muslim<br />

riots that Partition exacerbated. The subcontinent was wounded<br />

and terrified <strong>the</strong>n, unsure <strong>of</strong> its future after <strong>the</strong> British withdrawal.<br />

Perelman, with his cavalier lack <strong>of</strong> concern for poor nations and his<br />

obsession with personal comforts, concentrates his attention on <strong>the</strong><br />

fact that alcoholic beverages had been banned in Bombay two days<br />

a week, as a prelude to total Prohibition. And, as if unaware <strong>of</strong> what<br />

<strong>the</strong> country had suffered over <strong>the</strong> preceding few years, <strong>the</strong> man<br />

who wrote many <strong>of</strong> Groucho Marx’s best jokes grossly exaggerates<br />

his own physical discomforts at <strong>the</strong> hotel famous for its luxury:<br />

Our hotel room did nothing to help matters. It was a long,<br />

monastic cell facing a courtyard, extremely hot, and so narrow<br />

that two persons could not pass without scarifying each o<strong>the</strong>r’s<br />

skins. Someone had made a half-hearted gesture in <strong>the</strong> direction<br />

<strong>of</strong> cooling it by installing an overhead fan capable <strong>of</strong> two full<br />

revolutions a minute . . . The bathroom was a masterpiece <strong>of</strong>

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