Having returned from basically the same Indian scene 25 years ago and never having fully recovered, this book was an emetic beyond its own description of one (mild dysentery). Though I've returned to India many times, my first experience was exactly as Sutcliffe describes. The insular, flaming arrogance of the privileged kids that come and go, learning nothing but from each other, is apparently a part of the Indian economy and may one day even become a sect unto itself. Holy it is to wrap yourself in brightly colored rags, hari om, and live for nothing, hari om, till the next check clears, hari om. A culture rich in music that defies description, in exalting dance, they will never know, but only return to the West deserving their memories of the canned, tinny Hindi pop that's blasted in the markets, and the vulgar billboards that advertise an addiction to cliches. How many more bored dilettantes will it take to convince India of its shallowness and two-dimensionality?