Dilip

By Hammad Ahmed


They’ve put special seats for me all around, but I don’t use them. Like this one with the black cushion and wooden back. No no, I sit on the public benches and spread out a little bit. When I have time to sit, of course. It’s really not that kind of job.

My first day I had a difficult time putting the headset on over my turban. The metal band did not bend enough and my ear kept popping out from under the earpiece. Yes, I remember, I thought it was a huge problem. I even went and asked the curator what to do. He looked and me calmly and I think he said, “Just be comfortable, Dilip. It’s not a big deal.” They’re pretty nice to us.

I started in the Asia section. I mean, in the Khoan and Michael Sullivan Gallery. That’s what the sign says—it’s all signs here. Across the hall I can see the African art and some of the Greek. But those weren’t my sections then. So I really got to know the Buddhas and other sculptures in the Sullivan gallery. Some of them are not bad, but you get tired after a while.

The people coming through are more interesting. I can tell they’re surprised to see me. They don’t expect to see my mustache and my maroon turban in these clothes, and sometimes I nod at them to let them know its ok. Usually they see the statues and when they think they’ve figured it out their faces relax again.

But I can’t really say I belong here. I mean, yes, I’ve learned a lot in this gallery. Did you know Manjusri is the Boddhisatva of wisdom? The sign tells me this. I sometimes sit in front of his statue, so that he stares past my head. He is sitting on a lion. One hand reaches up, the other hand he holds palm-up near his belly. It helps to take a break with him after I have been walking for a while. But if someone comes in, I have to give up the seat.

And I do. Yesterday a girl was about to come in from the Indonesian room next door, and I think I got up too fast. She said hi, so I said hi. I don’t like hearing my voice in the gallery. Normally I don’t speak. She was looking at one of the horses, and I slowly walked to where she was.

I asked if she went to Stanford. Again my voice sounded too loud, too deep, like a big buffalo. She looked back at me and her dark hair moved at the shoulders. She did. She asked me if I did, too.

I told her I just work here. I went to university in India. Even in India, I said, they have big schools but none of them have art museums. She said yeah, and didn’t say anything more.

We looked silently at the horse. A long, wooden horse with a skinny face and a flat back. A small man, small enough to fit in the horse’s mouth, sat alone on its back. His wooden inch of a penis was sticking straight out from his belly. These tribal people had only one thing on their mind.

We didn’t say anything. She finally left the Indonesian art and walked straight past the Buddhas to the main lobby. I stood for a while longer in the doorway and thought about where I should go next. I did not have to stay in the Sullivan gallery anymore because they had started letting me monitor the Henkel gallery, too. That’s the Greek one across the hall. So I held my hands behind my back and walked casually over there toward those armless marble statues. They seemed like a nice change.



Published April 2007