Page 52 of A Thousand Painted Hours

London

DearGudiya,

A drawing I have done for you, to always remember how mighty you are. Youaremighty, my friend, and wise. Continue with your studies as you are able, and remember, I am always here, your friend forever. I am here, in England, and I would so love to have you visit one day.

Your friend,

Elsie

[Enclosed drawing of Gurdaya on top of a hill]

February 1914

Talwarpur Palace

[In Urdu]

Dear Elsie,

Cut your hair! I do not even know how to address this calamity. I cannot imagine you without your yards and yards of night-dark hair. Why would you do such a thing?

Gurdaya is now married. She wept the entire night before we traveled to her husband’s palace. I took your words to heart, for you are right. She should have had more autonomy in determining her life, but while the rights and freedoms of women are emerging in Europe and America, here it is still a distant dream. I do not know how to address it myself—these structures of what men and women can do are deeply rooted and how can they be changed?

The Guru said we are all equal, men and women, king and untouchable, but that is hard to follow in the actual living world. My sister’s unhappiness reminds me to consider this in the light of other independence. If we struggle to free India, and yet women are not given the same rights to order their lives that men are, then are we truly free?

I shall think on this more.

Rather than being angry with me and taking me to task, you might remember that I, too, am a part of my society, and I have been trained to think and believe certain things about our roles. Your fierce ideas and my sister’s beautiful mind and her great despair are excellent teachers, but I am still a man of my world. I am still learning.

Perhaps in a way this is much like your inability to see where your work might give tribute to colonial ideals, and where it is authentic. No matter how you wish it not to be true, you are a member of the colonial class. You are as tainted by that as I am by my world of men.

Perhaps in this, as in so many ways, we teach each other.

My father has suggested he might bring me with him when he next visits London. If you were not there, I would have no interest, but he insists I must know what the mind of the Englishman holds if we are to navigate the coming decades. In private, he fiercely supports independence, but in public, he flatters and cajoles and makes bargains. I thought once that he was disingenuous, but I have begun to admire his tactics, at least in this mode. He tells me I am too earnest, that too much shows in my expression, and while I know this must be true, I do not know exactly how to hide those things. My brother is far better at these games, thoughI must say he has not my father’s character. He likes a fast life, with too many women and too much drink. Just now, he’s touring Belgium while his young wife languishes here in the palace, lonely and far from home.

Let us make peace, my friend. To that end, here is my small beauty:

We have acquired two more tigers as company for Chhoti Billi. Both cubs, again orphaned, these too young to be left on their own. I have been bottle feeding them for several weeks, and truly, that is a joyful thing, to hold a cub and give it the meal it needs, knowing it is alive because we have chosen to give ourselves to its nurturance. I think of you that first day with Chhoti Billi, holding her in your lap and weeping with happiness.

Which makes me wonder if you have acquired a cat of your own yet. Or perhaps not, living in a dormitory as you do.

Sending branches of peace, my friend.

Tanveer

[Enclosed sketch of a pair of tiger cubs]

From Gurdaya

February 27, 1914

[In Urdu]

Dear Elsie,

Thank you for your letter. At first I did not think I would answer, because I am so angry, and that made me angry with you. You say that so easily—just continue with your studies! As if I would be granted all the books and materials I should wish. That will not be my life,chiriya. It makes me furious that you are free, goingto art school while I am married to a man so old his balls swing like an old woman’s earrings. He smells of camphor, and I feel I shall scream every time he mounts me. How is this the life I am meant to live? Why wasn’t I born a man? Or a woman in a place where she is free?

It is not fair. Which is a child’s cry, and yet it is mine nonetheless.