Arthur Stratton's book is an interesting variation in the growing literature of Westerners who seek to know India. His is a very special sort of sight-seeing, for in the artifacts he searches for meanings and significances that reveal India, present and past, to him. In Darjeeling he comments on the nature of the town and hotel reservations and the Himalayas; in Calcutta, the cows, Jains Temple and Kali call for consideration. His ruminations on the Taj Mahal at Agra, a ""funeral wedding cake"", and on Fatehpur-Sikri as a portrait and tribute to the great Akbar who ruled from it are fine contrasting and off-beat pieces. In the Ajanta and Ellora caves he discovers the nature of Buddhism; in Delhi, he passes an eventful and satisfying Holi day. A salesman in Luckow, a holy man and leprous child in Bombay, rajahs and Britishers all hold a message for him just as a stepped tank at Amber or the Jagannath Temple at Puri do. This New Englander's view of a nation of embracing Hinduism, with its historical Moslem footnotes remains singular and valuable amid the India books.