Page 141 of A Thousand Painted Hours

I know I do not deserve even the slightest sliver of your attention, but I hope you will read this letter and allow me to beg forgiveness. I have been a beast, in the truest sense of the word. I am abjectly sorry for the way I treated you in Cairo. No one deserves such treatment, most especially one’s beloved wife. I have worshipped you since the first moment I saw your face in that garden. I suppose you were weeping then over hating England, and now you have been able to return to India. I hope you have found some happiness there.

Your mother misses you most desperately. I have put her up in a rather nice house in Bloomsbury, and she has two servants and an allowance I trust will see her through very well. When I return to London, I shall also live there. If you choose to return, I will not ever ask a thing of you, and you will have the entire top floor as your studio. I only want time to make up to you what I stole. I can best do that by showing my altruism around your mother.

I no longer drink spirits. Kabul has cured me of the habit, and I am a much improved version of myself. As you know, it only darkened my moods, and I find it much easier to cope without the influence of gin. If you find it in your heart to forgive your husband, I will not ask another thing. Only come back to England and live with us, your mother and me. It would make her so happy.

Yours, always,

Peter

July 1927

Talwarpur Palace

Dear Mother,

I will not be returning to England. I am grateful to Peter for caring for you so thoughtfully, but our story is more complicated than you will allow.

India is my home. I will not leave it.

Love,

Elsie

—73—

For several months, I drifted in rosy haze. All of us did. Had any being ever been so perfectly rendered as Kirandeep, with his enormous curious eyes and little rosebud mouth, his crop of blackest hair? I could gaze for hours at his perfect tiny toes, the yawning toothlessness of his mouth, the rolls of fat on his arms and legs. We were all besotted, Tanveer, Channan, and I. No child had ever been so showered with love.

Outside the palace walls, however, life continued its relentless roar. Small skirmishes among villagers, divided by allegiance to their faiths, broke out constantly that hot summer. Men gathered in the palace and engaged in deep and sometimes fierce discussions of how best to move forward in light of the promised reforms of the government, which had not materialized quickly enough. Gandhi’s writings, urging simplicity, village uplift, and a rejection of materialism were circulated, and even he was concerned with the rising conflict between religions. Tanveer shared the writings with both the hidden radicals agitating for violence, and with me, so I would understand what they were debating, what was on his mind.

But as a new mother, I could not connect to that world of strife. I planted flowers on my balcony and tended my son, and Channan and I grew as close as sisters.

Our lack of vigilance would be our downfall.

Villagers often came and went through the palace gates, a fact we all took for granted. The gatekeeper, a man named Banta, thoroughlyvetted anyone on their way in, and saw to it that they made their way out, but late in September, he was trampled by a buffalo. His position was filled by another man named Rashid, whom I barely noticed except to be saddened by the sudden death of Banta.

We had grown comfortable. Careless.

One hot September afternoon, Channan had retired from the heat, and I sat in the shaded courtyard with Kirandeep in his cradle, protected from mosquitos by netting. We were positioned close to the cooling wall, covered with rushes woven with vetiver, and the fountain. I sipped mint tea and read a novel I’d just received in the post. My feet were hot in the sunshine, and periodically, I dipped them in the fountain. The air was utterly still.

Which meant I heard the shout and outcry long before they reached the gate. Tanveer appeared at the door. “Take Kirandeep upstairs,” he said urgently, “and stay there until I find you.”

I grabbed my sleeping child, who barely stirred in the soporific heat, and raced up to my chamber, where I laid him in a basket and drew the netting around him again, then went to the balcony to see what I could.

It was very little, though I could hear shouting and a repeated cry in Punjabi.

We stayed in the room until evening, when Tanveer finally appeared. “It is safe enough now,” he said. He looked weary, his feet dusty from his trek to and from the village. I poured him a glass of water from a pitcher, and he drank it down.

“I must go to Lahore. One of the most respected men in the village has been arrested, almost certainly to bring my cooperation with the demands of the British, and I must get him out.”

“Of course.”

He touched my hair. “There is a great deal of anger over this arrest. I’ve added a man to the gate, and offered incentives to calm the anger, but—” Kirandeep had been watching him with his sober, calm eyes, and cooed at his father. Tanveer eased instantly, and took the weighty softness of Kirandeep out of my arms.

In Hindustani he said, “What say you, little tiger? Have you wisdom for me in this matter?”

Kirandeep pursed his lips and made a soft whoo, his fingers waving.

“I will take that under advisement.” He kissed his head, and Kirandeep grabbed great handfuls of beard. Laughing, I helped disentangle them.