Esprit D'Escalier

The French have this meaningful expression: spirit of the staircase - a repartee one thinks of on his way home. It appeals to me because a million flashes of wit elude me when I need them most, and crowd my memory after the critical moment has passed. This is a particularly tragic aspect to my helplessness in the face of life in general.

My hesitation about an evening leading to further self-detraction on this account was, therefore, natural when Raza proposed a visit to Mukerjee and told me that he had found his winsomeness almost toxic when they met earlier in the day at the Arts College. I suggested if Raza would join me, against the spirit of his faith, in drenching himself with some whiskey instead.

"I would hate to stagnate inside like a filthy puddle," he protested, and I appreciated his resolve to appear invulnerable. I had a passing acquaintance with Mr. Mukerjee in the college days. Those were the days of the hippies, beatniks, pseudo-pacifists, angry young men, romantic-leftists, neo-bohemians, avant-garde young artists; and anybody who was unsure of himself took refuge under one or several of these identities. This is before the harsh realities of the post-college life had forced many of them to accept being ordinary people again, in search of jobs which they had decried in the heyday of their emotional elevation. But the spirit of swashbuckle had tenuously survived in our of host this evening. Having failed to achieve more than a local fame as an artist, he had become a teacher at the Arts College.

Raza, on the other hand, was already an acclaimed painter. I had invited him to stay with me if he ever came to Lucknow and, with the first fall in October, he showed up one morning with crates of paintings and I helped him organize an exhibition.

His penchant for the traditional and familiar was a sure bait in an age when people, in their effort to keep up with the Hussains, were tired of abstractions without being able to admit it. The exhibition was a great success. It was only when he began to drag me incessantly into evenings with artists and writers of that culturally condescending city that I suggested a walk along the Gomti or inebriation as an alternative.

Mr. Mukerjee's drawing room was what Koestler would have called Indo-Saracen, pseudo-Mayan, Tibeto-lacquer, Franco-neo-Gothic-Al-Gaddafi style. The conversation was amusing - about hearty friends, self-centered patrons of art, models transfixed in beauty, wives of every nature, lovers and enemies including fellow painters. Mr. Mukerjee talked mostly about artists indulging in blackmail, particularly Hogarth who threatened to add a tail to the portaits of his clients if they did not pay the price demanded by the painter. It was natural that an intellectual exchange should follow this anecdotal curtain raiser.

"But, Mr. Mukerjee, would you agree that at no point in history was old or medieval Indian painting influenced by western schools or vice-versa ?" asked Raza.

"Not really. The cubistic rock forms that loom behind the Bodhisatva in Ajanta are similar to block-like mountain forms in early Byzantine art," said Mr. Mukerjee.

"But won't it be a mistake to look for any influence in this co-incidence, if there is indeed a similarity as you opine ?" suggested Raza meekly. He looked suitably impressed by the host's erudition.

"On the contrary, I am positive that the sensual-spiritual ghostliness that animates Michelangelo's demi-gods had its inspiration in the pensive abstractions of Ajanta," Mr. Mukerjee replied.

"But wasn't it possible for two geographically distant cultures to evolve along identical or almost similar lines without being aware of one another ?" I asked Mr. Mukerjee in a serious bid to understand the process.

"An intelligent question, but not quite rightly put," replied Mr. Mukerjee, briefly and condescendingly dismissing my intervention.