Page 35 of A Thousand Painted Hours

Channan is more frail than usual. She suffered a bout of influenza last month, and has recovered, but the onslaught of terrible news around the world dismays her deeply, to the point that I have insisted she must not listen to the radio, but instead play her recordings, the ragas and operas of which she is so fond. It has always been her hope that she could see the opera in Paris, and I think she grieves the loss of that dream, for who knows when it will again be possible? I fear she will not last the war, but her loss will be deeply sorrowful for Kirandeep. He adores his mother, and he is the light in her life. Without him, she would have left this plane long ago.

Kirandeep is becoming a vigorous athlete like my brother was. He loves polo and games of all sorts, and he has strong leadership qualities, including an ability to listen, which my father never did. He’s quite good with the tigers, the injured and ancient ones we care for on the estate, and I am glad to know they matter to him as much as they do to me.

I painted this watercolor not long ago, thinking of you. I hope you enjoy it. The body of cats has always been a conundrum, but I believe my mastery of human form is better.

I shall close now, but promise me you will try to stay safe. Keep writing, my friend. If I’m able, I will call again.

Your friend,

Tanveer

[Enclosed watercolor of Channan and a ginger cat by a window]

[Enclosed photo of Kirandeep in polo clothes. He has his father’s big nose.]

I read it twice, taking courage in the shape of his handwriting, the homey painting of Channan, the ease of a life still ordinary, far away from here. I tucked it away in my pocket, and made Mother a tray. She would like the photo and little drawings. “Peter,” I called out the door, “I’ve left you a bowl on the table. You must eat.”

He ignored me.

When I carried the tray upstairs, I found Mother’s window open to the day. The room smelled fresh and herbal, with omnipresent undertones of smoke.

Mother sat in her bed jacket, her hair in a long braid over her shoulder. She set her small tome aside as I entered, mustering a smile. “That smells quite wonderful, Elsie. Have you made me a curry?”

“Not quite so rich as that,” I said, settling the tray over her lap. “A thin dal to tempt you. I wish there were lemons, but I tucked some mint into the water for interest.”

“Sit with me, Elsie.”

I settled in the chair I’d dragged to her bedside, finding myself in a patch of sunlight falling through the window. It glowed yellow on the hem of my cotton trousers, and across the bare arch of my foot. My brain offered possibilities to mix the color—chrome yellow tinted with white, naples yellow for the shadows, cinnabar and blue mixed for the darkest shades. “How are you feeling now that you’ve slept?” She had been unable to make it down to the basement last night, so we’d sheltered in the sitting room instead. The blitz had gone until the wee hours.

“Well enough,” she said, her standard answer. “The water is delicious.”

“I’ve had a letter from Tanveer,” I said. “They are desperately worried about us, of course.”

“No doubt. How is Channan? Has she found relief from the tinctures I sent?”

“I do not know about the tinctures, but I shall ask. She has not been well, and mourns her chance to see the Paris Opera.”

She touched her fingers to her chest. “Perhaps after the war.”

After the war. If anything was left. If any ofuswere left. “Shall I read to you?”

“No, let’s just talk, shall we?” She managed the tiniest bite of khichdi, dabbed her lips. “That’s lovely, Elsie. I’ve been dreaming of India so often of late.”

“Maybe it was telling the story of the tiger.”

“Mmm.” She took another infinitesimally small bite, but I was cheered. “I think it’s just rising out of some forgotten place. I always thought I would return.”

“You went to America instead.”

“Yes.” A delicate smile lit her features. “And I would choose it again.”

“Even though it ended so sadly?”

“Oh, it wasn’t that sad,” she said. “I enjoyed Lawrence’s company for ten years, and I’m quite sure the time in the desert extended my life.”

“I am grateful.” I smoothed the edge of her bedcover. “What have you been remembering about India?”

“So many things,” she said quietly. “The sound of monkeys, and how mischievous and awful they are. And elephants, the poor things. And Nihal’s coconut cake!” She closed her eyes momentarily. “Perfection.”