Page 10 of A Thousand Painted Hours

“No, I must travel to Ajmer.”

“Boarding school?”

“Of course.”

I stared at him, gutted a second time in two days. “When will you be back?”

“At the winter holidays.”

“But that’s months from now!”

“I will be in school with you here,” Gurdaya said.

I looked at her, and swallowed the searing disappointment in my chest. “That will be nice.” But I looked back to Tanveer, head bent over his paper. I’d grown used to his easy company. Gurdaya was pricklier,harder to please, and I didn’t always know how to meet her mercurial moods.

He looked up and must have caught something in my expression. “It will be all right,” he said. “You shall see.”

Later, Gurdaya deserted us to sit with the women. Tanveer and I escaped to the grand lawn behind the villa and set up a game of bowls. The air was quite still, sunlight so bright its weight scorched the grass. Cicadas whirred in the trees, off and on, off and on, and the mountains were so washed out, they seemed as if they’d been watercolored against the horizon. I could not think of anything but the tiger fleeing from the hunt, and then of Tanveer leaving for school, just as my brother had several years ago. My chest ached, but to be a good sport, I desultorily hit the balls, taking my turn and watching as he took his.

“Well done,” I said, pulling my braid off my neck to let air get to it.

“Not really,” he replied. “You hardly played.”

“It’s hot.”

He gestured toward the grove of trees nearby the back wall, where a collection of chairs sat in the shade. The adults often sat there in the cool of the evening. “You should have lemonade and a snack.”

I nodded. It was often the case when my mood fell—I forgot to eat, forgot to drink. A servant named Champa polished a soup tureen just inside the door, and Tanveer spoke to her in Hindustani. She bowed and hurried away.

We settled, and in the shade, the temperature was not so exhausting. A breeze swept over us. His gaze fixed on the horizon, his mouth sober.

“I shall miss you,” I said. “I did not know you would be leaving.”

He bumped his sandaled foot against mine. “Will you send me drawings?”

“Yes, if you will write back.” I frowned. “My brother never writes back, ever. I have only ever had one letter from him in all this time. He barely writes to Mother.”

“Do you miss him, your brother? I never hear you speak of him.”

I shrugged. “Not as much as I did. It seems a very long time since he left for school.” The servant returned with a tray holding a pitcher of lemonade, a bowl of small apples, dal vadas, and a hefty slice of cake.

“Cake,” Tanveer cried. “Your cook makes the best coconut cake in the world.”

“He sent it to you, I’m quite sure.” I disliked the cloying taste of coconut very much. I poured glasses of lemonade and took a deep drink, feeling the cooling sensation all through my throat and belly. I sighed in relief.

Next to me, Tanveer dug into the cake with great intent, pausing to wash it down. “I will write.”

I nodded. It wouldn’t be the same, but it was better than nothing.

I watched him finish eating, carefully scraping up the very last bits of icing from the plate. “Do you like school?”

“Yes,” he said. “I get lonely because it’s far from home, but I like my studies. Do you?”

“Sometimes. Not maths, but history and literature please me. Poetry, art, all those lady things.”

He grinned. “You like astronomy.”

Warmed, I smiled back. Then paused and blurted out, “I shall hate when you go to school! I have not had a real friend before, Tanveer.”