A trio of distasteful stories set in India, Paul Theroux's The Elephanta Suite is fusty at best and a more than moth eaten worst, delighting in the so-called underbelly of India. Apparently, India is in danger of becoming so glitzy that it is better to show the world the 'truth'. This is such a tired old exercise that the book is not even worth the paper on which it is printed. It might be great, however, as promo for those dubious organisations which sell Asian holidays for sick minds in the West. The basic philosophy is the same as in the past. Then, it was wild life to shoot and take home as mementos of the hunt. Of course, even that was white washed as saving Indians from voracious wild beasts. Today, the trophy is some unfortunate underage Indian girl. To go by the author, we are indeed so wretched that we have such girls by the dozen, wretchedly cheating White men blind in return for such a small 'favour'. After all, is there any clean Indian in The Elephanta Suite? There you have it! The logic is impeccable.