9 March, 1924
India is just as I remembered it—almost. I cannot help but feel inadequate, for my knowledge of the language here is practically non-existent. With time, no doubt I will become a little more familiar with it, but right now I feel so overwhelmed with the actual purpose of my being here—i.e. the excavations and all the work and research that entails—that I fear I have learned little more than the obligatory pleasantries. For now, that must do. But I do so hate being the typical foreigner—or, worse, the British Imperialist—who has little knowledge of the language and culture.
An old acquaintance from Egypt who will no doubt become a friend over the course of the work this spring, is one Peter Cox, and it was quite a surprise to see him in India. I believe that my brashness put him off a little bit, so perhaps I shall hold back in the future. Admittedly, that is not likely. No doubt he will soon learn more about me and my ill manners and will perhaps grant me a little latitude, though goodness knows I do not deserve it! Yet I cannot help but be myself. I am always afraid that one compromise, however small, might lead to others and then spiral out of control. It is a silly fear, yes, and probably baseless, but I fear—naturally, as some of my female friends would say—any limitations to my person and my freewill. Were women truly the equal of men, perhaps I could relax and could be a better person. As it is, I have an excuse, albeit a very bad one, to be exactly as I am.
I have not met any of the administrators yet. Two of them are away at the moment and the other…well, I have been warned about the Major and am not eager to meet him before I have to. I fear that I may need a good night’s sleep and all of my wits to convince the man that I do indeed belong here as a scholar as well as a financier.