The Englishman

After class, Griffith headed to John's cottage for his evening cup of that wondeful sweet decoction they call called tea here. Outside John's windows the lawns, and beyond that the absolutely excessive and wonderful bustle of Victoria Terminus. No, he had no complaints of India. None at all. And ths reassuring feeling that he was doing good work. He loved their eyes, all of them, the Pestonjee's, the Dhurinders', the Abalals'. Young, bright eyes. Beautiful eyes, he would get startled mid class sometimes, looking at them. He'd taught in England long enough, he didn't remember feeling quite the same thing there.

"You're living out a dream of the exotic", John had laughed and told him. And that was probably true. He had no complaints about being here, at all. Yeah, he had not met many women, the few he liked were already hitched, or otherwise, well, a sorry lot seemed to be usually dispatched from England. To Bombay, at any rate. He had heard some exotic tales of white women in Mahabalesvar, all hogwash in all probability.

He wanted to talk to John about something else though, that disturbing trip at Ajanta " 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"

He remembered John's troubled face when he went back home at night. Was it their teaching? was the unspoken question between them. What were they saying wrong? Griffith went to bed remembering what he said in different classes, trying to evaluate his own words in the light of what had happened, as the familiar film of sweat squirted its way out of his pores, evaporated into a cool air and lulled him finally to File:Sleep.