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

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EMPIRE OF THE SOUL<br />

13<br />

‘No Like A-feesh?’<br />

BANGALORE TO PUTTAPARTHI, 1992<br />

Great teachers, whe<strong>the</strong>r <strong>the</strong> Buddha or <strong>the</strong> Christ, have come; <strong>the</strong>y have<br />

accepted faith, making <strong>the</strong>mselves, perhaps, free from confusion and sorrow.<br />

But <strong>the</strong>y have never prevented sorrow, <strong>the</strong>y have never stopped confusion.<br />

Confusion goes on, sorrow goes on. If you, seeing this social and economic<br />

confusion, this chaos, this misery, withdraw into what is called <strong>the</strong> religious<br />

life and abandon <strong>the</strong> world, you may feel that you are joining <strong>the</strong>se great<br />

teachers; but <strong>the</strong> world goes on with its chaos, its misery and destruction, <strong>the</strong><br />

everlasting suffering <strong>of</strong> its rich and poor. So our problem, yours and mine, is<br />

whe<strong>the</strong>r we can step out <strong>of</strong> this misery instantaneously.<br />

– J. Krishnamurti, The First and Last Lesson<br />

Now I was back in Bangalore for <strong>the</strong> first time in fifteen years. The<br />

place had changed utterly, turning into a bustling metropolis choking<br />

on diesel fumes, <strong>the</strong> centre <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> burgeoning Indian computer<br />

industry. There must have been five times <strong>the</strong> traffic <strong>the</strong>re had been,<br />

and <strong>the</strong> streets couldn’t handle it. I was glad to escape <strong>the</strong> noxious<br />

gasses and noise, passing through <strong>the</strong> West End Hotel’s gates into its<br />

opulent and superbly maintained gardens. The hotel had changed,<br />

too: changed hands. It was infinitely better than I recalled, with a<br />

huge, open-sided Indonesian-style restaurant set in <strong>the</strong> middle <strong>of</strong><br />

an artificial lake, reached by a narrow bridge. The Taj Group had<br />

taken over, I discovered. Yet again those indefatigable Tatas were<br />

taking care <strong>of</strong> India’s heritage.<br />

At night, a free-form chorus <strong>of</strong> frogs serenaded diners in <strong>the</strong><br />

candlelit restaurant, and <strong>the</strong> smells <strong>of</strong> bougainvillea, frangipani,<br />

and hibiscus wafted in from <strong>the</strong> ingeniously lit gardens. The place<br />

was hopping, too. It was Derby Week at <strong>the</strong> track across Race Course<br />

Road, and <strong>the</strong> West End teemed with owners and horse people,<br />

champagne corks popping at that day’s winner’s table. When I<br />

mentioned to someone in Delhi that it had been Derby Week, I was<br />

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