Page 50 of A Thousand Painted Hours

Dost-e-Aziz,dearest friend,

Tanveer

[Enclosed one pressed sword lily]

October 8, 1940

London

Dear Tanveer,

[In Urdu]: One small beauty is a pot of red geraniums blooming in a puddle of sunshine amid a pile of dust and bricks.

[In English]: I’ve found a little cat. Or rather, she found me, with four of her tiny kittens. She must have been living in a nearby basement that was flooded when the water main shattered a few nights ago. I’ve named her Bastet, and settled her in Mother’s room. The lot of them have lifted her spirits magically, and she’s been able to come downstairs most days, and enjoys tea with Betty and me most afternoons in the sitting room. We no longer take shelter in the cellar—after the first two weeks, she was too weak to manage the steps during raids, and of course the public shelters are too far for her.

So we camp in the sitting room, pretending we are safe. I cannot imagine that anything would protect us from a hit, not even in the cellar. But what is one to do? We must make the best of it.

I admit the cellar had begun to make me feel panicky. I don’t fear dying, but I am terrified by the idea of being buried alive in a pile of rubble, unable to move. At least at street level, I feel we would be found quickly.

Such thoughts!

We see little of Peter, for, of course, he works. I will not bother to write with what as it will be censored. You know the gist of it.

Feeling restless, I took myself out today. It’s impossible to know what is happening from the radio or newspapers, of course—it’s all so understated. I took my sketchbook and my watercolors out to see what might be what.

Our little corner of London has only been modestly injured, and tends to be a patchwork of blocks alternating like a chessboard, this one with a crater in the middle of the street, and a trio of houses crumbled more or less completely, with a tumble of bricks piled up to one side. A shimmer of powdered glass glazes everything, sparkling on tree leaves and the iron railing standing guard around an unmarred home. Cross over one street and one would never know there was a war at all—children play in the street, and a dog barks from behind a fence, and a last stand of roses blooms around a cheerful doorway.

As I traveled toward the city, the damage became more apparent. Entire blocks have gone missing, and the storefronts show the damage. It is eerily deserted, empty in a way I have never seen here. Very little foot traffic, and there is a grime of soot and ash and dust on every surface, making all gray, beneath gray skies. My heels crunched over the pavements, and I feel heartbroken that London might never recover. I know you will tell me it has been built on the backs of the world, and, of course, you will be right, but I will still mourn the loss of each beautiful old building.

The bombings are relentless, going on for hours and hours and hours every night. It’s meant to break us down, and I fear it shall. We are terrified,hungry, and desperately short on sleep. It has been thirty-two nights!

And honestly, it is so distressing to see the wreck of it all. Why do we still solve problems of nations by flinging the bodies of young men into the void, by blasting entire cities of homes to pieces, and the little shops we shall miss always? I so mourn the bakery we lost last week—she made the cleverest little twists of bread, and it’s gone forever now. Nothing left of it but a pile of debris.

I am mindful that Mother and Betty need me to hold steady, so I do not let myself descend into my fear and anger unless I pour it out to you here. I made kheer for mother a few days ago, saving up the sugar from my tea (and the unused portion of Peter’s). We had saffron in the spice safe, and a handful of nuts. Betty is wonderfully resourceful about tracking down the source of fresh harvests, and she found the almonds when they first arrived.

And of course, my art gives me calm. Bearing witness to all of it in my sketchbook, the erased bakery, the empty streets, the surprisingly upsetting sight of a tree burned free of her leaves.

As ever, give my love to Channan. I’ve drawn her this little vignette of the yellow trees around Russell Square.

Be well,mere ham-nafas. Your letters are a lifeline, as they have been so often. I was remembering the challenge you gave me to examine my “Orientalism” when I struggled so that first year at Slade. How we sparred that winter over complicatedideas of colonialism and women and freedom. Do you remember?

Ever yours,

Elsie

[Enclosed sketch of the park, charcoal drawings of the geranium blooming amid the debris]

Paint and Other Bruises

1913

London

—28—

November 1913

London