Page 119 of A Thousand Painted Hours

Enough.

—62—

Telegram

Handed in at:Ss Rajputana(Marconi Room) 25June1926

Received at:Plymouth Wireless Station26June1926

Forwarded via:Post Office Telegraphs

To: Maharaja Tanveer Singh

Talwarpur Palace

En Route to Bombay Stop

Arriving July 5 Stop

Please Advise Stop

Elsie

To: Elsie Turner

Ss Rajputana

Happy News Stop

Will Meet You at Terminal Stop

All is Well Stop

Tanveer

All I took to India were my paints and clothing. I withdrew every penny I had from the art account I had established, and it was enough to cover my fare with a small amount to live on for a few weeks. Once I arrived in Talwarpur, I could make arrangements for the rest of my English accounts to be wired. It was not a tremendous sum, but I’d saved it for just such emergencies.

On the trip, I found myself sleeping, unable to think about the past or the future, or even sketch. I read on the deck, letting the salt air sink into my pores. It wasn’t until we approached Bombay that the freeze began to crack.

India.

I stood on deck and watched the skyline of Bombay approach, feeling enormous waves of emotion I could barely even name. I felt my mother beside me, that long ago day, felt that girl I had been coming alive, rejoicing that I had, at last, brought her back.

In the terminal, noise of passengers and the general assault of humanity roared through the air. Shouts in a dozen languages, and flashes of color—the orange of a turban, a vivid turquoise sari, the embroidered collar around a goat. Small bells rang from ankles and collars. It smelled of dung and heat, coriander and smoke, urine and dog and sandalwood, a mix so heady it made me feel faint. Overcome, I halted, allowing some deep part of me soak it in, fill me up.

I looked for Tanveer eagerly and thought I spied him a dozen times, a tall man, a man in a suit, in a kurta, three times in turbans and beards.

And when it was finally him, he was so much older than he had been, wearing a dark-blue dastaar and a maharaja coat over his kurta and pajamas. His beard was thick and full. I halted, suddenly shy after so long a time. Breathing in, I willed my emotions to settle, but even as I fought for calm, it was the same as it had been years before at the ball. The more I tried to exert control, the more tears poured from my eyes.

I couldn’t move, and instead, he crossed the space between us. So close, I saw that he, too, was emotional. He took my hands, and said in Hindustani, “You’re here.” His tone was gruff.

I closed my eyes, feeling the pouring heat of my tears, and opened them again. He was still there. His fingers gripped mine tightly.

“I am so sorry,” I breathed. “It is just so good to see you.”

And then Gurdaya was there, arms flung around me, her enthusiasm much less controlled than ours. “Behen!” I was swept into her embrace, and hugged her back, feeling suddenly tethered to the world again. “I am so happy you have come!” She took my hand, lacing her fingers in mine. Her hair was tucked beneath an elegant dupatta, pale rose and embroidered with gold, and her silk salwar kameez was deeper tones of rose and yellow. She looked every inch arani.

I looked from one to the other. “I can’t believe we’re together.”