Page 94 of A Thousand Painted Hours

He did not reply. When I returned with a pile of thin towels and the last basin of water, I rinsed his hair one more time, then squeezed it dry. Using one end of a towel, I wiped his face, and dried it, and he allowed it.

Still in silence, I combed his long, long hair, smoothing out the tangles, and then left it loose. “It needs to dry before it’s wrapped again,” I said. “I don’t know that I can get this fabric clean enough, but I’ll see what I can do.”

He opened his eyes. “Elsie.”

I waited, my hands full with the basin and damp towels thrown over my shoulders. As lightly as possible, I echoed him. “Tanveer?”

He touched his chest, and the darkness filled his eyes. “I don’t know how to live with what’s in me.”

I took a breath, steeling myself. “I know.”

The very faintest of smiles played over his lips. “Clean hair will help.”

I smiled. “Right. Next up, a cup of tea.”

That evening, he sat up and, as he could not lift his right arm at all, instructed me in how to pull his hair into a topknot and tie it with a small piece of muslin the matron found, likely meant for bandages. This covered his head and secured the knot. I then produced the length of cotton lawn I’d hemmed. “Will this do for a turban? It was the most similar weight to muslin. There isn’t a lot of fabric available.”

He touched it. “You made this?”

“Every good Englishwoman can stitch a decent hem,” I said. “It’s no miracle. I only worried that you wouldn’t like the color.”

“The color is fine.” His tone was gruff. “I shall instruct you.”

It might have been an embarrassment—my face was hot a few times when I had to unwind it and start again from some early place—but he was as patient as Tanveer of old, although that Tanveer might have teased me.

I finished and stepped back. “I’m sure it isn’t the best. You’ll be up to it yourself in no time.”

He touched it with the hand he could lift. “Thank you. It feels quite tidy.”

“Do you want to look in the mirror?”

“No, thank you.” He stroked Topaz’s long back, avoiding my eyes, and I wondered if I’d done something wrong.

“Have I offended you?”

“No.” The word was fierce, but he kept his eyes lowered, and I realized that he was struggling to contain himself. “It was a great kindness. Thank you.”

“I’ll take Topaz then, and let you get your rest.”

As I reached for the cat, who leapt to my shoulder in a routine we’d established, Tanveer touched my hand with his free hand, and said so quietly I almost could not hear him, “Mujh se yeh sab kyuñ saha nahiñ ja raha...”Why can’t I bear any of this?

What answer was there to such pain? “Shall I read to you until you sleep?”

I thought he would refuse. Instead he said, “I would like that very much.”

The Elephant and the Sparrow

Autumn 1940

London

—48—

November 10, 1940

Talwarpur Palace

[In Urdu]