Elephant dance (1937)

There is magic in the very air, and the beauty of it acts like a drug — a timeless dream. No one has painted or sung it adequately, because it seems to be inexpressible. Postscript, London, Feb'y 14th, 37. So many people ask me what has happened to Sabu. As I write he is here in London, he and his older brother and a Hindu tutor, living in a hotel near the British Museum. He is very happy. Every time I see him I ask him, 'Aren't you homesick, Sabu? Aren't you tired of London?' But he answers with always the same smile on his lips, the same light in his eyes. People stop him in the streets and ask, 'Is this the Elephant Elephant Boy?' They know him from his pictures in B°J the papers. He does not speak English readily because he does not speak much anyway. He likes to come to our house and turn on the radio. In our compound in Mysore he played an instrument, like a harp, called a bulbul tharang; he would play it day and night, passionately, until someone stopped him. He and Sultan, another little boy from the Palace stables, gave concerts together; Sultan did singing and pantomime and never failed to bring down the house. Sabu has sent to India for his bulbul tharang. We brought him to London because there was work for him still to do on the picture in the studio. 135