Page 143 of A Thousand Painted Hours

Darkness fell. I nestled Kirandeep into a space by the wall at Channan’s back so that he wouldn’t fall, and stretched out on the floor to doze. In that half-awake state, I thought I saw a fire flickering over the walls. I heard a tiger roar in the distance, no doubt agitated by the smoke and shouting.

My imagination tortured me with visions of what might happen if they found us. I did not fear for my son so much, as I thought even a mob would spare a baby, especially the maharaja’s son.

But I saw Channan dragged away. I saw myself, captured by the angry villagers and—what? What punishment would befit the harlot foreign mistress of the maharaja? Did they burn women at the stake here? Drag them to their deaths? Stone them? The possibilities were endless for women who did not behave.

But I would die myself rather than allow anything to happen to Channan.

Lying there on the hard floor, praying to any entity that might listen, I begged for safety for all of us, and I offered the very thing I knew I had to deliver: I would have to leave. The pain of the knowledge flayed my very skin from my body.

In the dark, in the cold, with Channan safely asleep next to the cradled body of my son, I let my sorrow howl into the room so that I could be strong for what would come next. For the safety of my beloveds, I would endure whatever was required.

I didn’t know how long we’d been there when I heard the door above unlock, and footsteps coming down the stairs. Shafi appeared at the door. “It is safe now,memsahib. You may all come with me.”

We followed him without speaking into the gray dawn. As we walked along the corridor overlooking the courtyard, I looked down to see the destruction of anger—overturned furniture and savagely uprooted plants. I smelled smoke, but saw no evidence of it. “Did something burn?”

He nodded darkly, and gestured. “The ruins were set on fire.”

A thin line of smoke rose from the rubble, and Channan made a sound. I took her hand. “All is well, sister.”

We ate parathas and yogurt Sughra brought. I fed and changed Kirandeep, and we all fell into a restless slumber. Shafi stood guard, and the gates had been locked, but none of us would rest until Tanveer returned.

At last he rode into the gates, rushing to find us in Channan’s chambers.

That night, while Kirandeep slept, we made love with sacred intent. I pressed into memory the taste of his tears, the fierce clasp of his arms around me. In the darkness, with rain falling beyond the rooms, I lay against his chest and wept with such gravity I thought the river might carry us away. When I was at last spent, I whispered into his neck. “Whygive us this deep love when we are forced to part again and again and again. What is the point of all this heartbreak?”

“It is the space between heartbreaks,” he said. “How many are so lucky as to know this connection we share? It is rare and true.” He brushed my cheek. “We shall not be physically together, but that does not divide”—he swallowed, paused—“us. Our souls.”

I thought of all the days and months and years ahead of me, empty of his company. “I will miss you all the time, every day.”

“As I will.” He twined our fingers together. “Distance will not change us, what we share. It is eternal.”

I didn’t want eternity. I wanted now, but there was nothing to be done. As long as I stayed in the palace, the people I loved here would be in danger. I could not take Kirandeep away from the world he deserved, from his place and his father, so I would go alone.

Exiled.

On the morning of my departure, I nursed my son one last time, the two of us alone. I sang him a song from my childhood, about fairies and bluebells. He cooed at me, and I nibbled his fingers and forced myself to give him only joy in this moment. He smiled at me, gazing upward with love. I knew he would search for me in the days and weeks to come, crying for his mother, for my arms.

I also knew that he would be easily comforted by his other mother, who had not been able to bear a child in her own body, but had given me the gift of a child from mine.

When it came time, I nestled his soft, hefty body into her arms. She pressed her face into my shoulder, and I held her close. “Thank you,” I said. “I love you.”

“I shall miss you every day of my life.”

At last, I embraced Tanveer, fiercely. “One soul,” he whispered.

“One soul.”

I managed to leave without breaking down, and traveled to the train station with stoic dignity.

But on the train to Bombay, I wept so continuously that a porter brought me a towel and supplied me with chai and cakes I could not consume. Where once my heart had been torn from one side, it was now torn in three, and it did not matter that I knew I would survive. I also knew the wounds would not heal.

How could they?

A Terrible Night, Part Two

Autumn 1940

London