Django posted:seignet posted:
It is a miserable and grotesque fate which has decreed that the East Indian, spending the span of his days in his native Eastern land, should imitate the habits, the vices and the misery, of the scum of distant European cities which has never been seen; of a people with whom he has nothing in common. Born in the East; in the Land of the Sun: the land of minaret and cupola, of the palm tree and the pipal: of the sun-flower and the citron: of marble tombs and crescent-crowned arches: of hidden courtyards and high zenana walls: of arcades of the orange and lemon, and of fountains scented with jasmine: the land of attar and pan: of finger nails tinted with henna and eyes rimmed with surma: of veiled and secluded women: of durbars and caparisoned elephants: of deverishes, dancing girls, snake charmers and opium eaters: of yataghans and jeweled slippers and praying carpets: the land of Holi and the Fateha: of a people who still pray on the house tops, and offer sacrifices and burn their dead: of temples built before the Parthenon and gods worshipped before Jupiter; in this ancient land in which the East Indian has his heritage, he lives, not the life of the people around , but the life of the gin-drinking, wife-beating, evil smelling, foul minded and foul-bodied denizens of the slums of London.
You present a piece from British India Society,way back from 1840.
You mean fe say the man tryin fi pass it as he own nuh