Page 140 of A Thousand Painted Hours

He moved his hands over my belly. “No. It must appear to be Channan’s child. She will be overjoyed.” He paused, hand over my stomach. “I have so longed for a child, Elsie.”

I pressed my forehead into his neck. “Our child.”

Gently, he spread his fingers, looking, and he whispered, “A baby.”

The next day we found Channan in her room, sitting in a sunny spot with Topaz on her feet. She looked wan, as often happened, and I hesitated, suddenly afraid this evidence of our congress would be a bridge too far, that she would resent me at last. Tanveer sank next to her, took her hand, kissed her forehead. “We have news.”

The blaze of hope on her face was unmistakable. “A child?”

I moved close, and cupped my hands in a semicircle to show the growing mound. She lifted her hand and touched it, just as Tanveer had. She had tears in her eyes as she looked up at me. I pressed my hand over hers. “Our child. All of us.”

She kissed my hand. “I have prayed for this.”

The palace announced the happy news that the maharani was, at long last, going to bear a child. She took to her bed, as if to protect her pregnancy, and I stayed hidden, as well, and draped when I emerged into the palace. Only Sughra was allowed in her rooms, and she alone knew the truth. She had been loyal to Channan since she was a child, and could be trusted with the secret.

Near the end of my confinement, Gurdaya arrived with her midwife and servants who had no connection with the locals and took over the supervision of creating an environment supportive of a new baby.

Kirandeep was born at the end of May, a healthy, robust baby boy. When I had been patched up and cleaned and dressed in fresh clothing, Gurdaya placed him back in my arms. “I will fetch Tanveer.”

In the quiet, he looked up at me, as calm as his father, his eyes a rich amber beneath an astonishing thatch of hair. His nose was squished from birth. He took my finger in his tiny hands, and made a soft mooing sound.

My entire being filled with a kind of blaze, a ferocity of love that was larger than the earth, the skies, all of creation, a son born of love and generosity, a being so beautiful I could not imagine how I could even begin to capture him on canvas, a merging of Tanveer and myself, the most miraculous expression of all. “You are perfect,” I said.

Tanveer came in quietly and sat on the bed with us. “Look at his tiny fingernails,” he whispered, alight with wonder. “And his eyebrows!” He kissed each tiny finger, and Kirandeep regarded him solemnly. “Welcome.”

I do not think it would be possible to feel more love than I did in that moment.

“A son,” he whispered. “A new generation.” He took my hand and kissed my palm. “We are now truly woven into a new being.”

“Truly.”

His eyes shone. “What a blessing!”

We stayed where we were, admiring every inch of Kirandeep’s tiny self, wrapped in a joy that had no equal, not ever in the history of the world.

—72—

June 1927

London

Dear Elsie,

I have not heard from you for many months, but even in the absence of your letters, I must send you my news. My husband has died. His stomach ulcer was instead cancer, and I nursed him until his death two months ago.

I have no means of support, and have returned to London at Peter’s urging. He is generously supporting me by buying a house near Russell Square where I know he hopes you will live with me eventually. He has given up drink whilst in Kabul and is a much changed man. He asked that I send this letter to you. Please give him a chance, Elsie. I do fear what will happen to me if you continue to refuse his suit. I truly have no one else. I cannot possibly come to you in India. My health will not allow it, as you must know.

Please come home to England, my dear. I miss you terribly.

Love,

Mother

June 1927

Kabul

Dearest Elsie,