1886

While in Bombay, staying with his uncle, Bhalachandra, a railway employee, Dada passes from J.J.School of Arts, marries Maharashtrian girl, Kamala.

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Their classroom is a large stone box, with light sliding in at the windows. He slips onto one of the wooden benches and sits stiff and straight, his back scruplously far from the wooden backrest. Then the white man enters and after a quick smile and some words, begins to teach them. Dhundiraj's feet have already slipped out of their slippers, unaccustomed as he is to wearing them indoors. His big toe brushes against the next ones for reassurance. He cannot understand a thing of what the Englishman is saying. He sees one boy- Parsee, or is he Christian, he is in western clothes- he sees him lean back indolently on that backrest, slide comfortably down on his seat.

White papers are handed to them and they make their first drawing. To Dhundiraj's stupefication, a white object is put against an almost as white background. The Englishman keeps brushing one side of the cone with his woman's hands and saying something. Dhundiraj feels helpless, he cannot understand a word, he keeps watching the white man's energetic eyes. The teacher then holds up a drawing of the same object with a strange dark patch coloured onto one part of it. Dhundiraj's looks back at the object, but cannot find that shade.

Much later, he will laugh with Kamala about that first day " He wanted us to make him a shadow, and we could not understand! There was so much paper around, that was the first thing I noticed. Much more paper than I had ever seen in my whole life."

But he knew Kamala always wanted to hear another part of the story. She would try and keep her expression unchanging but her eye would brighten as soon as he repeated-

There is a large hall as you enter, and large white marble statues of nude English women with no arms, standing carelessly all around . Just a thin loin cloth on their lower bodies, nothing else. You have to wend your way between those nudes as soon as you come in. You(Kamala) would faint if you had to walk past them, They were beautiful, mind you, they were art. All those English women with no clothes" Kamala would always giggle by the end of his simple pornography.

Dada took a tram every morning, all the way to his art school. The journey was made sweeter since his marriage, everything he saw and did, he recorded and reported every night. The moment he climbed the footboard of the tram and it started wending its way along the roads, he would feel his listener's eyes watching him, he knew she would be waiting to hear what he had to tell. Once he entered the gallery of plaster nudes at the art school, and walked past them to his classroom, he would forget all about Kamala.

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Mr. Griffith, (the Englishman) was in charge of work of making copies ofAjanta. When the students of J.J. School of Arts went to stay at Ajanta Pithalko had a tradition of art and craft which had flourished since the days of the Shatvahans and was destroyed only in the 13th century.

Phalke's father resigns from his post at Wilson, Elphinstone College, as a protest against teaching Sanskrit to non- Hindus.

... if Mr.Griffith had succeeded in removing the plaster and painting on the walls of Ajanta caves...

In architecture and sculpture, Mr.Griffith had six scholars and five workmen. The details in the new station at B. railway had been entrusted to the students of J.J.School of Arts. "For the new Telegraph Office in Bombay, we have made new designs. Mr. reported that he had succeeded in making glazed pottery which could hold liquids without oozing.

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refer to- The Discourses of Reynolds, a mentor of Indian academic artists... noble art should give no hint of craftsmanship the new premium on the idea of genius

He liked the way the grass caught hold of the earth here. Strong green shards and at the point they struck out of the soil, they shared its deep red brown. Looking down at the stretch of the earth kept him occupied all the way to Lockwood's cottage. Outside the stone walls of the Art College, he could hear the din of the market place. He smiled. No, he had no complaints of India, none at all. If he had any, they disappeared a few minutes into the dark cavern of his classroom, facing all those young, expectant eyes. Beautiful eyes, all of them, of the Dhurinders', the Abalals', the Pestonjees'. Eyes that look towards him, so beautiful that they made his breath catch sometimes.

He never had this feeling in England, where he had taught for a good while.

"My dear, you are living out your dream of the exotic. Enjoy it while it lasts" Lockwood pushed a ceramic cup towards him, filled with the promise of that thick sweet liquid they called tea here. It carried that extra sinuousness of form, muscular form, he did not know how else to describe it, that made the Orient what it was. He felt attached here, to the place.

If there was a woman ,.. of course the thought came to him,often. The so called 'best years' were passing him by. Well, unless he had an affair with a married woman, they seemed more interesting.. or else, maybe he would make a trip to see the famed white women of Mahabalesvar. Some hogwash myth in all probability. "Now therefore while that youthful hue/Sits on thy skin like morning dew" Surprising how much poetry he was recalling here. He did not know he remembered so much of it. Must be to do with having to live surrounded with a completely unknown language.. like driftwood, choice lines of his language kept returning to him.

They discussed again, that trip to Ajanta that he had recently been alluding to. Lockwood was being very good about it, really, he had heard him out patiently, a few times by now. " Those were beautiful works, John, actually beautiful works, not just of craftsmanship, but they had something infinitely more.. and none of these boys could see it. Not one! Some of them actually refused to make copies. I had to finally pull rank with them to get them to do it" John looked at him with that quiet patience, that sometimes seemed bullheadedness to Griffith..not saying that thing that Griffith was probably trying to provoke him into saying" Are we doing it all wrong? Is that the point of this whole conversation that you make us have again and again?" Or maybe Lockwood did not think that at all. What had he said last time " We are forced to be pioneers, Griffith, and that will be rough".

What were they saying in class that were making these young men contemptuous of the finest work of their country's craftsmanship?

The caves returned to Griffith as he went to bed. Those delicate coloured shadows haunting the walls, Griffith almost wanted to turn back and see who those exquisite creatures were who had cast such shadows on the walls of the caves. But the students.. Pestonjee's sullen expression returned to haunt him. And then he would feel "guilty,guilty, guilty". To what end? Did he really believe that all that he told them about ancient Greek art was worth nothing. No, quite no one compared to Michelangelo, of too he was sure. He was not just espousing the cause of some white Englishman, he was trying to communicate the eternal values of art, to get these wonderful young boys to recognize it when they saw it. So then where, between the introduction of the new- and for these boys sometimes all of it was new, certainly the evaluation of their own monuments that they had hitherto treated with a completely utilitarian approach.. between the introduction of the new and..?? Sleep came closer, and unbolted many doors in the dark. New-old images floated up. The familiar film of sweat squirted its way out of his pores,all over his body and evaporated into a cool air that finally lulled him to sleep. As he was slipping away, he heard midnight crows making bedlam of that hour.

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Sadashiv was enraged, he was waving the paper out into the air, but every wave would bring some of the nude female form back to his eyes, he would push it away, again. Dhundi stood watching, in a tense silence. Kamala was at the doorway, just behind the curtain. The curtain would blow and hide her face and then suddenly reveal it again. "It is art, father", Dhundhi said.

Sadashiv looked like he was going to tear the paper and fell silent instead, overpowered by the rubbish of that remark. "Dhundhi, son, this city has corrupted your young mind, I should have never brought you here. Anyway, it is not late yet. Pack your bags, we are all returning to Trymbak. Tell Kamala she can meet her aunt next time she is here.I don't want any delay"

"I am not coming, baba, I still have to finish my course. If you want, I will tear this" and Dhundhi did exactly that to the printed piece of pornography that had been found on his shelf. " You will not believe me when I say that to make art, you have to study the human nude, its shape, its proportion, how light falls on it. In our own temples.."

"You are not coming to Trymbak?"

Dhundhi shook his head, his father walked out of the room. Dhundhi saw Kamala's shadow make a startled movement behind the curtain as she made way for her angry father-in-law

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Indian National Congress, comes into being in Bombay. Dadabhai Naroji elected its first President.

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"Hannah, how are you?"

'I am fine, thank you, sir'.

" Heard you have become interested in music. Is that true?"

'Yes, sir'

"Classical music?"

Yes, sir, classical music.

Do you sing yourself?

No, sir.

Do you play an instrument?

That's right, sir.

What kind of instrument? The sitar?

No, sir.

What do you play then?

A gramaphon, sir.

The hall boomed with laughter and applause. .. looked at the ceiling to ask a question then bent his head slightly to catch the reply. But it ws impossible to tell that he was answering his own questions.

His lips did not move at all.

Naveen was astounded. He had to learn this art. Life would not be worth living if he did not.

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Phalke moves to Baroda, Kala Bhuvan, lives with brother Shivram Govind Phalke, secretary of Ramesh Chandra Dutt. Dada learns painting, drawing, moulding under the guidance of profesor Gujjar. Prof. Gujjar, then Principal of Kala Bhuvan, a kind and a sympathetic man, saw extraordinary talent in Phalke and put him in charge of the KalaBhuvan photographic studio. It was a golden oppurtunity for Phalke who made good use of the up to date library and laboratory. ... experiments in the photo chemical process.

Baroa was the place where I could get the technical and fundamental experiences of film-making. Very few people would have made such a good use of Sir Sayaji Library as I did during my stay in Baroda. The great Marathi dramatist, Shankar Moro Ranade, was my preceptorin the dramatic art. Babasaheb could easily mark out my genius as a poet and as an actor. His"Veni Samhar" was performed by our college. Since then, I have written many small poems and I have given a kirtan before an audience of 400 to 500 people. I had a sweet melodious voice and received full scientific instruction in Maulabux Musical School.

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but what was he to with his knowledge? On whom could he practise his skill? He could not, after all, open a shop like a hair cutting salon wher people would come and pay to have their appearances altered.

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If the Maharaja took a liking to any one verse, he would press the button on the bell before him. The buzz could be heard in the wings, as soon as he heard it, the singer-actor would repeat the verse. The plays which were staged especially for the Gaekwad of Baroda, had this strange quality.

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Budhwarkar

Felici - sculptor(Indian h Raja Ravi Varma White Pavilion Solomon/Sister of begum of Janjer

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Naveen decided to be honest. " I've always been interested in magic", he said, " but your performance the other day got me passionately interested in ventroloquism" Akrur Babu shook his head, " This kind of art is not for all and sundry. You have to be extremely diligent. No one taught me this art. Go and try and learn it by yourself, if you can." Naveen left. But only a week later, he was back again, ready to fall at Akrur Babu's feet. He had dreamt of nothing but ventroloquism over the last seven days. But this time things only got worse. Akrur Babu practically threw him out of his house. " You should have realised the first time I was not prepared to teach you at all", he said. " This clearly shows your lack of perception and intelligence.No one can learn magic without these basic qualities- and certainly not my kind of magic". The first time Naveen had returned feeling depressed. This time he got angry. Let Akrus Chowdhury go to hell. He would learn it all by himself. He bought a book on ventroloquism in College Street and began to practise. Everyone- including himself- was surprised at his patience and perseverance.

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