Bombay is only half Indian. An English friend took me into a marble-paved club near the sea front for a smoke and a drink. We listened idly to the orchestra play its lifting tunes. Black smoke belched out of the tall chimneys which landmarked the mill quarter. It is a country of inevitable incongruities, a land where the ridiculous dogs the steps of the sublime, where repellent monstrosities are coupled with ennobling ethics. Squeaking grey-faced monkeys jumped about with babies clinging to their stomachs.
-- Notebooks Category 15: The Orient > Chapter 2: India > # 85