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

‘IT IS NOT MY FIRE THAT BURN YOU HERE’
gods, of a goddess who devours human skulls, of gods who destroy;
and the propitiation of demonic forces, fertility figures, entities with
power over natural elements. Downtown Benares makes
Hieronymous Bosch look like Norman Rockwell. And it’s real –
not an ethnic spectacle laid on for tourists used to visiting dead
cultures and having them revived for their entertainment.
I confess it delighted me to see a retired New York lawyer and his
wife stagger from their taxi after a tour of the ghats, clothes mangled
by sweat, hair wilted, sensibility smacked around, eyes full of abject
terror. I feel like that after a day in New York.
‘I need this,’ said Irving, pouring down a Scotch.
‘Give me another, would you, darling?’ Jo asked the bartender,
shoving her glass toward him for more vodka.
‘Jeez!’ Irving sighed, looking my way. ‘What a place! Have you
been down there yet?’
I asked down where.
‘You know,’ Jo answered. ‘By the river. Those filthy little alleys . . .’
‘The noise,’ Irving added. ‘The crowds. Those awful temples of
theirs . . .’
‘The smell!’ Jo continued. ‘All those people! Pushing, shoving . . .
And have you seen what’s in those places? I mean – what are they
called, Irving? – idols, that’s what I mean. Idols! It’s so darn primitive.
Isn’t it?’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘The gods, the . . . well, the, er . . .’
‘Penises,’ Jo added. ‘He means the penises.’
‘And the animals, dear. The awful-looking thing with the tongue,
too.’
‘What do you worship?’ I asked.
‘We’re Jewish, dear,’ Jo replied.
‘But what do you worship?’
There was a lengthy pause. Then Irving said, ‘God, of course.’
It would be unfair to say that this was a typical exchange, but it
was not untypical, either. The same conversation with practising
Christians – and I’ve had many – would become much more heated.
With Roman Catholics in particular, it would be positively blazing.
Try pointing out that Hinduism never rejected the teachings of
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