Esprit D'Escalier

"We have another engagement soon after this,@ said Raza, Abut I can't leave without devouring the golden honey of your brush." I always ascribed this trait of eloquent graciousness of my friend to his twice-born gentility as a Muslim descended from a Persian ancestry born in Jaipur.

Mr. Mukerjee led us through the rooms where his paintings were displayed. A quick appraisal, an exaggeration here and there, and we were soon out of the door leading to the garden. But suddenly Raza was fixed to a medium-sized canvas near the edge veering out into the verandah. I reckoned it was a deliberate civility in honour of the last masterpiece before we finally took leave. But he did not move. I waited, and so did Mr. Mukerjee.

"When did you paint this, Mr. Mukerjee ?" enquired Raza.

"Fifteen years ago, I guess," replied Mr. Mukerjee.

"May I buy it," asked Raza.

"In fact I should have presented it to you, but for a little cash flow problems these days. You may have it for two thousand."

Out came Raza's wallet and, after paying the money, he picked up the painting rather hurriedly and walked straight out of the house. I followed.

Ostensively hurt by our bilious conversation, Raza walked fast and silently. I was also quiet, in fact a little upset that, for fear of offending Raza's sense of social elegance, I was unable to prove how deconstruction could have had a breezily liberating effect on Mr. Mukerjee. But Raza walked too fast to allow crystallization of my afterthoughts, and asked him if he was in a hurry.

"No hurry. But let us get back to our whiskey."

"Surely. But why in the hell did you waste two thousand bucks on that garbage ?"

A wind had sprung up, and Raza looked up at the stars, in a way one looks at the benign indifference of the universe, and said softly, almost incoherently, "A very valid question in normal circumstances. But certainly not when it's one of my own early paintings, mutilated by that gentleman's brush beyond recognition."