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

426
EMPIRE OF THE SOUL
I soon learned what the dom raja had meant by that brother he’d
mentioned so enigmatically yet so pointedly: after a recent fraternal
squabble, the family had divided in two, sharing equally the fire
and the burning – and the loot. Amar, son or not, probably did stand
to inherit nothing. The position passed to the son deemed most
suitable, not the eldest. I was forced to admit Amar’s future was not
something to dwell on. I hardly blamed him for weaving a narcotic
cocoon in which to snooze away the hours, a refuge where no past
or present, let alone future, could intrude upon his personal Eternal
Emptiness. I felt ashamed for what I’d said to him.
Determining what time dawn was sparked great debate. I asked the
clerk, and he asked the travel manager, and he asked the general
manager, and he phoned a friend who was out, then consulted some
Kashmiri merchants who ran the hotel’s only shop. These last
looked terminally depressed. They tried to sell me a twelvethousand-dollar
rug.
Kashmir was in chaos, sealed off and under military rule. They’d
had no word from relatives in months, and, far worse, no shipments
of handicrafts. Kashmiris were interested in business, not politics –
except when they were militant fundamentalist Muslims who felt
Allah would rather see the state razed and bankrupt than still joined
to a nation of infidels. With handicrafts in short supply, these boys
were obliged to go for a ten thousand per cent profit on everything
they had to keep the cash flow at flood tide. I bought a postcard for
a staggering twenty rupees to help them out and then retreated to
my room.
The Star TV Network was broadcasting Bill Clinton’s presidential
campaign minibio. It made me despair for America and Americans.
Listening to this confection of lies and saccharine, I sat writing a letter.
Hearing the good citizens of Arkansas claim they once were lost
but now were found through the amazing grace of Governor
Clinton, I killed the audio.
Finally, completing the letter I’d been scrawling, I read it through.
Its morbid tone alarmed me so much that I tore it up. What time
was dawn? A meal, a drink, I suggested to myself. That usually
works.