Many times, I'm asked what I do in my free time in Japan. I sketch. Some of you have seen my sketches. Sometime back I was in Kyoto. It was my third trip, but the ancient ambience of the city continued to move me, as I was transported to a Japan far away from the gleaming chrome and steel and glass of Tokyo. I was up at 6.15 am one day. Went over to one of the older temples to sketch them as they were washed in the warm early morning sun. Massive pagodas towered above me, and nearby the temple's deer chomped on the grass.

After sketching, I went over to a small bamboo and grass structure that had a window, with a calligraphy Master seated inside. You can get your work stamped by the temple's name etc. by the Master. With appropriate humbleness, I handed in my work. He was wearing the traditional male kimono, seated on a cushion on the tatami floor. He was old, his face lined in all the right places, crow feet around his eyes et al. He looked at my sketch. Not a word passed his lips. Masters usually do not reveal their emotions or reactions to art.

He looked at the calligraphy sample he had with him. He checked my sketch book. He scaled the sample to my book by drawing some imaginary strokes. He then scratched an ink stick with an ancient knife, deftly mixing it with some liquid and then picked up his calligraphic brush. The brush was ancient too, no doubt encrusted with the inks of aeons of calligraphy masters who handed down the art and tools from parent to child. He crooked the brush at an appropriate angle, before dipping it in the ink well, playing around with the ink so as to get the right mix and pick up just that right amount of ink to create the perfect stroke. He paused for a second, took a deep breath and then, the music started. People behind me let go the collective breath they had been holding back, watching the Master. The kanji words flowed. The brush played with the paper, now a hard stroke, now another that hardly touched the paper. Strokes that went every which way you want. I couldn't understand what he wrote. But I was witness to some art that had its anchor somewhere way, way away in the history of this land, I was sure. I guess, when I think back there must have been a sheen of tears in my eyes as I was watching it.

After the brush calligraphy, he depressed the official seals - the temple's, his own name as Master, the date stamp etc. on the entire artwork, creating a masterpiece that I knew I would still be showing to my grandchildren many years from now. He admired his work, totally engrossed in it, oblivious to his surroundings or of me. His held up my book and looked at it from this way and that. Only then did he look up at me, and I stared wide-eyed, quite shaken by the whole spectacle. I made appropriate noises. "Sugoi!" "Kirei, desu yo ne?!" I said, beautiful, isn't it? Nodded my head several times in the process.

Still one thing was left. The ink hadn't dried yet. I wanted to see how he would dry it. I looked around for a window or some such thing like that that he would open, let the sun stream in and dry it. Maybe not. Strong sunlight would destroy the essential gleam of the ink's black colour. Maybe a gentle stroke of the Chinese fan that I could see was tucked in his belt.

No. He looked up behind me. Saw the crowds waiting for THEIR books to be painted with the calligraphy. He looked back at my book, reached up to a shelf above the window and pulled down a hair drier, a HAIR DRIER. Plugged it in, and then four seconds later, the work was dry. He slapped a large blotting paper on the calligraphy, closed the book shut and handed it to me. "Sugi no kata wa....!" he said to the air above my head. Next person please.

I paid the 400 yen that was his fee. And slowly walked back, my awe of four hundred years of calligraphic art blown away by the four second blast of a hair drier.

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