Page 112 of A Thousand Painted Hours

I believe it is connected to his memories, which he will not share. I understand, for you, too, struggled with sharing your war experiences. It seems a common theme among soldiers of this age.

I wonder if you might have suggestions for another man suffering that particular hell. He will not write about his experiences, as I have suggested that. He only drinks.

I do apologize for digging into what are terrible memories for you. Forgive me. If you do not wish to discuss it, I will never mention it again.

[In English]: Give Gurdaya and Channan my love. It is such a joy to read Gurdaya’s stories and see her so happy!

Tell me how you are, what you are pursuing, what insights you’ve uncovered. I’m sending along a book I enjoyed most earnestly by William James, on the ways we experience religion. I would love to discuss if you read it.

Again, please forgive me if I overreach.

Best,

Elsie

January 2, 1926

Talwarpur Palace

[In Urdu]

Dear Elsie,

Happy new year, my dear friend!

You do not overstep. I am honored you would bring this concern to me, and I thank you for trusting me with such a delicate matter.

I do not have any insight into your husband’s particular troubles, but what you describe is not uncommon among survivors of the war. Despite the disdain with which many in society hold the sufferers, I do not think there has been war of this nature before now, where mechanistic horror made the always burdensome experience of battle a particularly torturous one. We have seen the lingering effects in India, too. Men who cannot hold a job, who fall into rages or alcoholic stupors. Men who simply do not function well.

As for how to help drain that boil, I do not hold hope for a man who will not quit drinking. I am sorry to be so frank, but alcohol seems to aggravate and increase the symptoms. Perhaps you might start there.

I ask you to protect yourself as you must. I shall worry if you do not reassure me, and I ask you to forgive my directness in that.

I will write again when I have read the William James. Please say more about your experience reading Müller, and the poets. Were there any poems you particularly enjoyed or did not enjoy? I’ve tried to engagemy sister in this discussion, but she is only interested in fiction. Poetry, she says, is for lovers and mystics, and she is neither.

Be well,

Tanveer

—59—

In March, the winds came into Cairo, picking up sand and dust from every corner of the desert and flinging them across streets and through any open window, and through the cracks of the closed doors. My teeth constantly had grit between them, and it was impossible to keep the floors swept.

The wind brought a kind of insanity to the expats. Peter had been remarkably stable since an invitation to visit Luxor, but the winds ruffled his nerves once again. I steered clear of his moods and painted trees bent in one direction and sand piled over a pair of shoes, only the toes still showing.

I’d rented a studio away from our little house, a set of rooms at the top of a colonial building, the windows enormous. Here, too, I had to sweep constantly, never left a painting uncovered overnight, and hired a girl to come in every morning and keep it clean. I kept a hot plate for tea, and a small number of groceries.

Peter disliked the studio, and he especially hated when I slept there. I gave him keys to the place so he wouldn’t suspect infidelity, and he often popped in on his way to and fro—to work in the morning, to zinc bars in the evening. He, too, spent nights away from home, but I did not question him.

Most nights, I did go home to sleep, and sometimes I cooked for him, for I was learning to cook Egyptian dishes. He enjoyed exploring the flavors, but I suspected that he most liked being tended by his wife.One night I had proudly made mulukhiyah, a green stew made with jute leaves and spiced with cardamom, cloves, and bay leaves. The scent of it filled the room, and I danced a little to the radio, an Egyptian woman named Umm Kulthum singing a mournful song I couldn’t understand and loved anyway.

Peter blew in, his hair askew with the wind, a restlessness in his pacing. He poured a gin, and drank it quickly, then made another. As if the wind fueled his speech, he tumbled out a series of anecdotes and stories from his day, bouncing from topic to topic in a way that warned me he was on the verge of an episode. “Peter,” I said, “will you dance with me?”

The radio had switched to “After You’ve Gone,” and he lifted his head with a smile. “We danced to this a lot at Nina’s, didn’t we?”

“We did.” I took off my apron and offered my arms.

His entire being softened. Unbuttoning his shirt a little, rolling up the sleeves, he stepped forward with a half smile that made me remember his young self, the earnest boy before the war. He had always been a nimble dancer, and that had not faded. It was a relief to sway, to spin, to laugh at some fancy dip.