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Memoir of a Philosophical Pastor
Kenneth D. Stephens
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On all accounts New Delhi was the place to be at midcentury soon after independence. I experienced those Jawaharlal Nehru days, however, as a disjointed figure gawking from outside the gate. The new 1956 Thunderbird was showcased in a window at Connaught Place, part of the elegant British buildings designed by Edwin Lutgens and Herbert Baker in the early 20th century. The jazz combos from Portuguese Goa, featured by some of the night spots, were as good at the standards as any I have ever heard since then. I listened standing at the door, my mind body become a finely tuned instrument vibrating to the romance and rhythm of Someone to Watch Over Me. Then and there I was an American GI, handsome and tall and unbeatable like Tab Hunter.
To advertise the movie, the bridge over the river Kwai swung physically across the street to the Regal Cinema. No postmodern disillusion here, but a modernistic private sector optimism about the bridges that can be built, the waters that can be crossed. New winds from the West were sweeping the land. People were talking. The private buzz everywhere was about owning a telephone, air conditioning, a refrigerator, a stereo set. Television was on its way, and cars with the sleek, flashy designs of the brave new world were about to arrive. Cinerama was already here, just around the corner from The Bridge on the River Kwai.
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