1886
Dada:
At Terry School
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. Dhun- Govind'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. Govind 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. Govind looks back at the object, but cannot find that shade.
Sarasvatibai:
While in Bombay, staying with his uncle, Bhalachandra, a railway employee, Dhundi passes from J.J.School of Arts, and became- Govind. He was married
She shakes her head at Neelkanth's smiling face:
Not to me, not yet. Govind married his young cousin, Kamala, who once stood in the temple with him, remember?
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."
Dada smiles and encouraged by Sarasvati's smile, continues Kamala's story:
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.
Govind 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.
Dada: These story is only for your mother.. and..for Babarya?
(Babarya looks very pleased. There is only him peering into the factory now, facing his parents sitting on their cot. The other children have left. )
Dada: . 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.
( Dada laughs, a short, amused sound)
Dada:
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?"
( Dada gives his short, hearty laugh again. Babarya is laughing to keep time with his laughing father. His father is teaching him how to laugh, and what is to be laughed at.)
Dada:
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
It is getting hot and Dhundhi walks to college everyday, on wide British roads, past latticed British buildings. Laburnum Road it is called. And the trees are light with mauve flowers, all the green gone, only light blossoms everywhere. All along the road and pavement, wilting fine membranes of purple, like jamuns, but so much softer, gentler. Dhundhi has a friend, a dark young man who looked at these soft flowers once and wondered what white women tasted like. Not very different from our Konkanasts, I imagine, thought Dhundi. White skin, light eyes, but with a different air, lighter food, lighter clothes.. almost air, maybe, except for the lips, making love with them might feel like tasting some air? His friend laughed. A young woman had come to the passing out event, the Governor’s sister or sister in law, in a frilled dress with light flowers.. like these, somewhat bloodless flowers, of extreme delicacy.
Kamala seemed fascinated with white women, would often ask him details, ask curious questions. They came in- a carriage?? He would make up some things for her, and as he made up, the white woman became even prettier, finer, more delicate and distant, air
Nikhil Chopra rekindles the ghosts of our landscapes [1]
File:18 February 1882.pdf advertisement The tropical cabriolet, the perfect carriage for hot climates, suspended on Cee Springs, Back of Hood to open for Ventilation. Price complete from 60 gaineas(sic). Rumble seat, fitted if required. Particulars post from the Office of this Paper, or this Manufacturers,67, George Street, London. 18 September, 1886
Indian National Congress, comes into being in Bombay. Dadabhai Naroji elected its first President.
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
Dada:
There was a good man at J.J., his name was Griffith. 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. Or some exquisite magic lantern slide that was casting these images.. The more he looked at them, the more convinced he felt of a platonic 'reality', of which these unbearably beautiful images were just a shadow, a haunting to suggest to mortals what the ideal could be like. He wanted to talk of it to someone, with his students even.. 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.
"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.
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.
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.
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.
Budhwarkar
Felici - sculptor(Indian h Raja Ravi Varma White Pavilion Solomon/Sister of begum of Janjer
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.
Meghdoot being recited at Maula Bux academy? O mighty cloud capable of carrying immense quantities of water… Soar into the sky with your face turned northwards, dear meghadoota. Begin your journey, O meghadoota, by sprinkling rain on the parched earth. The fragrance of wet earth will spread happiness among the country men and women. They will take to their fields singing joyously. Soon, you’ll see the Amrakuta (Amarkantak) mountain, beautifully decked in a skirt of orange and green. Its slopes will be covered with thick groves of Amra, heavy with ripe fruit. When you grow tired of being light and airy, drink generously of the Reva till you become full and heavy. Majestically, sail over mountains and plains, showering rain and bringing joy to all living things. The green and brown kadamba buds will spread out their petals as soon as the rain water touches them; The bees will go to the kadhamba, attracted by the fragrance of the fresh blossoms; The deer will gather in groups on the marshy river banks, eager to feast on the fresh kandhali leaves; “The elephant herds that love the smell of wet earth, especially aromatic after a dry spell, will be excited at your arrival. In due course, you’ll reach Vidisha. Drink deep of the sweet waters of the river Vetravati (Betwa) there and settle down to rest on one of the small, nameless hills. The anonymous hill will be thrilled playing host to a majestic cloud such as you! The women will dry their hair with frankincense after their bath and the smoke given off by the incense will add to your size and colour. You’ll appear so imposing and dark that even Siva’s attendants will look at you in admiration. Your blue-grey complexion will remind them of their master, whose neck had turned blue when he had consumed a deadly poison called kalakoota. Moving briskly, sail over Dasapura and Kurukshetra. As your shadow darkens Kurukshetra, pay obeisance to that great battlefield. It was there that the great archer, Arjuna, rained arrows that made his enemies writhe like the lotuses that tremble under your heavy showers. Then come to rest on the Himalayas. Enjoy your rest on the mountain of snow, made fragrant by the musk of the Tibetan musk deer. Suddenly, there could be a conflagration. Frequently in these thick forests of sarala pine and bamboo, the branches rub against each other and the friction gives rise to a flame when the wind blows. Quickly shower down your waters in thousands of jets and extinguish the fire. With these words the yaksha ended his soliloquy. No sooner had he finished than a gentle breeze began to blow; the chataka bird, which feeds only on raindrops that fall fresh from the clouds, began a happy song; rows of cranes appeared in the sky as if to attend on the cloud; and Indra’s magnificent, multi-coloured bow added a sparkle to the dark grey cloud, like the colourful peacock feather adding colour to the dark complexioned Krishna. The cloud messenger, the meghadoota, soared into the sky and the yaksha’s spirits soared with it. He saw the good omens all around and felt sure his message would be delivered...
Malka Jaan, Gauhar's mother, becomes a published wrier with 'Makhzan e Ulfat e Malka' or 'Treasures of Malka's love'. Malka Jaan also buys a mansion in Chitpur Road, which becomes the stage for many Mehfils. Gauhar's coming of age ceremony which turns grotesque and then grim, in the mansion. She is sent away and returns, having delivered a still born child. Malka pushes her out of her misery and sends her to the Darbhanga Darbar to perform a solo. She makes a huge success, and begins writing and composing independently as 'Humdum' and 'Gauhar Piya'
