Anish Das Quotes in Indian Ink
The Shepperton garden is now visible. Here, MRS SWAN and PIKE are having tea while occupied with a shoebox of Flora’s letters.
ANISH Oh … yes. Yes, I am a painter like my father. Though not at all like my father, of course.
MRS SWAN Your father was an Indian painter, you mean?
ANISH An Indian painter? Well, I’m as Indian as he was. But yes. I suppose I am not a particularly Indian painter … not an Indian painter particularly, or rather …
MRS SWAN Not particularly an Indian painter.
ANISH Yes. But then, nor was he. Apart from being Indian.
MRS SWAN As you are.
ANISH Yes.
ANISH We had been loyal to the British right through the first War of Independence.
MRS SWAN The … ? What war was that?
ANISH The Rising of 1857.
MRS SWAN Oh, you mean the Mutiny. What did you call it?
ANISH Dear Mrs Swan, Imperial history is merely … no, no—I promise you I didn’t come to give you a history lesson.
MRS SWAN You seem ill-equipped to do so. We were your Romans, you know. We might have been your Normans.
ANISH And did you expect us to be grateful?
ANISH Mrs Swan, you are a very wicked woman. You advance a preposterous argument and try to fill my mouth with cake so I cannot answer you. I will resist you and your cake. We were the Romans! We were up to date when you were a backward nation. The foreigners who invaded you found a third-world country! Even when you discovered India in the age of Shakespeare, we already had our Shakespeares. And our science—architecture—our literature and art, we had a culture older and more splendid, we were rich! After all, that’s why you came.
But he has misjudged.
MRS SWAN (Angrily) We made you a proper country! And when we left you fell straight to pieces like Humpty Dumpty! Look at the map! You should feel nothing but shame!
MRS SWAN We were right up near Nepal …
ANISH Yes, the tea-tray …
MRS SWAN You spotted it. In India we had pictures of coaching inns and foxhunting, and now I’ve landed up in Shepperton I’ve got elephants and prayer wheels cluttering up the window ledges, and the tea-tray is Nepalese brass. One could make a comment about human nature but have a slice of Battenburg instead.
ANISH My father abandoned this portrait.
MRS SWAN Why?
ANISH He began another one.
MRS SWAN How do you know, Mr Das?
ANISH Because I have it.
He opens his briefcase and withdraws the watercolour which is hardly larger than the page of a book, protected by stiff boards. He shows her the painting which is described in the text.
MRS SWAN Oh heavens! Oh … yes … of course. How like Flora.
ANISH More than a good likeness, Mrs Swan.
MRS SWAN No … I mean, how like Flora!
I went home. It was still “home.” I learned that my father had left me his tin trunk which had always stood at the foot of his bed. There was nothing of value in the trunk that I could see. It was full of paper, letters, certificates, school report cards … (He takes a newspaper clipping from his wallet and gives it to Mrs Swan.) There was a newspaper cutting, however—a report of a trial of three men accused of conspiring to cause a disturbance at the Empire Day celebrations in Jummapur in 1930. My father’s name was there.
Codswallop! Your “house within a house,” as anyone can see, is a mosquito net. And the book is Emily Eden, it was in her suitcase. Green with a brown spine. You should read the footnotes!
It’s no go the records of the Theosophical Society, it’s no go the newspaper files partitioned to ashes … All we want is the facts and to tell the truth in our fashion … Her knickers were made of crêpe-de-Chine, her poems were up in Bow Street, her list of friends laid end to end … weren’t in it for the poetry. But it’s no go the watercolour, it’s no go the Modigliani … The glass is falling hour by hour, and we’re back in the mulligatawny … But we will leave no Das unturned. He had a son.
Quite possibly. Or with Captain Durance. Or His Highness the Rajah of Jummapur. Or someone else entirely. It hardly matters, looking back. Men were not really important to Flora. If they had been, they would have been fewer. She used them like batteries. When things went flat, she’d put in a new one … I’ll come to the gate with you. If you decide to tell Mr Pike about the watercolour, I’m sure Flora wouldn’t mind.
“Darling, that’s all from Jummapur, because how I’m packed, portrait and all, and Mr Coomaraswami is coming to take me to the station. I’ll post this in Jaipur as soon as I get there. I’m not going to post it here because I’m not. I feel fit as two lops this morning, and happy, too, because something good happened here which made me feel halfway better about Modi and getting back to Paris too late. That was a sin I’ll carry to my grave, but perhaps my soul will stay behind as a smudge of paint on paper, as if I’d always been here, like Radha who was the most beautiful of the herdswomen, undressed for love in an empty house.”
Anish Das Quotes in Indian Ink
The Shepperton garden is now visible. Here, MRS SWAN and PIKE are having tea while occupied with a shoebox of Flora’s letters.
ANISH Oh … yes. Yes, I am a painter like my father. Though not at all like my father, of course.
MRS SWAN Your father was an Indian painter, you mean?
ANISH An Indian painter? Well, I’m as Indian as he was. But yes. I suppose I am not a particularly Indian painter … not an Indian painter particularly, or rather …
MRS SWAN Not particularly an Indian painter.
ANISH Yes. But then, nor was he. Apart from being Indian.
MRS SWAN As you are.
ANISH Yes.
ANISH We had been loyal to the British right through the first War of Independence.
MRS SWAN The … ? What war was that?
ANISH The Rising of 1857.
MRS SWAN Oh, you mean the Mutiny. What did you call it?
ANISH Dear Mrs Swan, Imperial history is merely … no, no—I promise you I didn’t come to give you a history lesson.
MRS SWAN You seem ill-equipped to do so. We were your Romans, you know. We might have been your Normans.
ANISH And did you expect us to be grateful?
ANISH Mrs Swan, you are a very wicked woman. You advance a preposterous argument and try to fill my mouth with cake so I cannot answer you. I will resist you and your cake. We were the Romans! We were up to date when you were a backward nation. The foreigners who invaded you found a third-world country! Even when you discovered India in the age of Shakespeare, we already had our Shakespeares. And our science—architecture—our literature and art, we had a culture older and more splendid, we were rich! After all, that’s why you came.
But he has misjudged.
MRS SWAN (Angrily) We made you a proper country! And when we left you fell straight to pieces like Humpty Dumpty! Look at the map! You should feel nothing but shame!
MRS SWAN We were right up near Nepal …
ANISH Yes, the tea-tray …
MRS SWAN You spotted it. In India we had pictures of coaching inns and foxhunting, and now I’ve landed up in Shepperton I’ve got elephants and prayer wheels cluttering up the window ledges, and the tea-tray is Nepalese brass. One could make a comment about human nature but have a slice of Battenburg instead.
ANISH My father abandoned this portrait.
MRS SWAN Why?
ANISH He began another one.
MRS SWAN How do you know, Mr Das?
ANISH Because I have it.
He opens his briefcase and withdraws the watercolour which is hardly larger than the page of a book, protected by stiff boards. He shows her the painting which is described in the text.
MRS SWAN Oh heavens! Oh … yes … of course. How like Flora.
ANISH More than a good likeness, Mrs Swan.
MRS SWAN No … I mean, how like Flora!
I went home. It was still “home.” I learned that my father had left me his tin trunk which had always stood at the foot of his bed. There was nothing of value in the trunk that I could see. It was full of paper, letters, certificates, school report cards … (He takes a newspaper clipping from his wallet and gives it to Mrs Swan.) There was a newspaper cutting, however—a report of a trial of three men accused of conspiring to cause a disturbance at the Empire Day celebrations in Jummapur in 1930. My father’s name was there.
Codswallop! Your “house within a house,” as anyone can see, is a mosquito net. And the book is Emily Eden, it was in her suitcase. Green with a brown spine. You should read the footnotes!
It’s no go the records of the Theosophical Society, it’s no go the newspaper files partitioned to ashes … All we want is the facts and to tell the truth in our fashion … Her knickers were made of crêpe-de-Chine, her poems were up in Bow Street, her list of friends laid end to end … weren’t in it for the poetry. But it’s no go the watercolour, it’s no go the Modigliani … The glass is falling hour by hour, and we’re back in the mulligatawny … But we will leave no Das unturned. He had a son.
Quite possibly. Or with Captain Durance. Or His Highness the Rajah of Jummapur. Or someone else entirely. It hardly matters, looking back. Men were not really important to Flora. If they had been, they would have been fewer. She used them like batteries. When things went flat, she’d put in a new one … I’ll come to the gate with you. If you decide to tell Mr Pike about the watercolour, I’m sure Flora wouldn’t mind.
“Darling, that’s all from Jummapur, because how I’m packed, portrait and all, and Mr Coomaraswami is coming to take me to the station. I’ll post this in Jaipur as soon as I get there. I’m not going to post it here because I’m not. I feel fit as two lops this morning, and happy, too, because something good happened here which made me feel halfway better about Modi and getting back to Paris too late. That was a sin I’ll carry to my grave, but perhaps my soul will stay behind as a smudge of paint on paper, as if I’d always been here, like Radha who was the most beautiful of the herdswomen, undressed for love in an empty house.”
