The Englishman

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 John'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'. Beautiful eyes that looked towards him.

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" John 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 they 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, old lines kept getting washed up on his shore.

They discussed again, that old trip to Ajanta that he would keep returning too, John was really good about it, he must have heard him says the same things again and again. " 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 just pull rank with them to get them to do it" John looked at him with that endless patience, not saying that thing perhaps Griffith was trying to provoke him into saying" Are we doing it all wrong?" What were they saying in class that were making these young men contemptuous of the finest work of their country's craftsmanship?

Griffith went to bed again, trying to weigh in balance all that he remembered saying in different classes, saying to different Indian boys, who were training to be artists in this country. Of course memory is very selective at such times, it would let him off, pronounce him not guilty in the mean. Pestonjee's sullen expression at the caves 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 perspective and ancient Greek art was worth nothing. No, he did not think that. 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.. 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.