India is Hotel California: you can check out anytime you like but you can never leave.
Ambassador cars –half Rolls Royce and half Soviet tank- cruise with class. Huge tinsel-decorated trucks rumble and groan, filthy lime-green buses fly around like kamikaze cans squeezing out a chunky sauce of arms and legs.
Spirituality is for sale.
“I’m not drunk, I’m Indian.”
Saving face is so important that living a lie is accepted practice.
Padma is forced to sit and smile and be interviewed as if she is applying for a job as a life-long slave.
-there are more hands on dicks here than at a hip-hop gig.
India is beyond statement, for anything you say, the opposite is also true. It’s rich and poor, spiritual and material, cruel and kind, angry but peaceful, ugly and beautiful, and smart but stupid. It’s all the extremes.
I’m worried self-analysis will lead to spiritual paralysis.