Page 142 of A Thousand Painted Hours

“Strong grip,” he said, and then seriously cupped a hand to my face. “They want someone to pay for this arrest, and they are furious with the British. I fear that anger will turn in your direction. Stay within the walls, and be wary.”

A ripple of warning burned through my gut. “Must you go?” I asked, even though I knew there was no one else who could carry the gravitas he would need. “Never mind. Be safe.”

“Stay with Channan in her chambers, and I will ask Shafi to stay nearby your doors. I shall only be a few days. I’ll come back as quickly as possible, and once they have Anand back, the village will settle.”

I nodded. He took us into his arms, and I leaned in, smelling his neck, his solid chest, and my son in the other arm, and everything that mattered was there, in that space of moments.

—74—

Channan and I played ludo and grazed on samosas. The day had been hot, but now a cool wind blew into her rooms, lifting the airy curtains, bringing a scent of jasmine and dung smoke. Channan held Kirandeep in the crook of her arm. He gurgled and cooed, moving hands and feet as if to test their range, and we laughed when he caught sight of his fingers and startled. When he tired and grew fussy, I took him and offered my breast, where he settled, gulping noisily until he found a rhythm. He made a low sound of humming contentment, his fingers gripping the edge of my scarf.

“If I were a painter,” Channan said, “I would paint your portrait just now, the two of you.”

Awash in deep contentment, I smiled, brushing my hand over his soft hair. I would paint it from this direction, the edge of my arm, the flesh of my breast, the rosebud shape of his tiny mouth. Why had there not been more paintings done of such moments, from the eyes of the painter, the mother? “I would paint this.” I touched his cheek, brushed his tiny eyelashes.

“You must.”

From outside came a sound of shouting, loud enough that Kirandeep unlatched, his arms flying out. It so startled him that he let out a cry. “Sughra,” I said, “look and see if you can tell what’s happening.” I pulled Kirandeep closer, covering myself. Through the openwindows, we heard more voices, much closer than they should have been. “What is it? Can you see?”

“It is villagers,memsahib,” she said with knotted hands. “They’re in the courtyard.”

“What?” I settled Kirandeep in Channan’s arms and hurried over. Below, in the main courtyard, spilled a dozen men, spreading out in different directions. Their cries were in Punjabi, but I heard a word I knew,firangi:foreigner. “What are they shouting?”

“I would not want to say.”

“Please say. It is important.”

Channan said behind me, “‘Firangi chudail.’” She clutched the baby to her shoulder. “Concubine. And witch.” Her wounded face did not show emotion easily, but I could see the terror in her eyes.

“They want me.”

Shafi came into the room. “Memsahib,come with me.” He gave a directive to Sughra in Punjabi, and Channan cried out in protest. “No! I will stay with Elsie!”

He gave me a slight shake of the head, and with a chill, I realized what he wanted. “Channan-ji,” I said, “stay with the baby. You’ll be safer without me.”

“No. I am afraid!”

Shafi said, “I will come right back. You are safe here.”

I gave her a quick hug. “Do not worry. There are men to protect you.”

She made a moaning noise. “There were men to protect me before.” She gripped my arm. “Do not leave me.”

I looked over my shoulder. “Can you take all of us together?”

He was not happy, but made a quick gesture for us to follow. Outside, there was a roar, and we hurried behind him. The hairs on my body stood up as we rounded a corridor that overlooked the courtyard and I saw three men knocking over pots and small tables, yelling, their fever stoked by each other. They did not see us.

Shafi led us down, down, down into a dark hallway, and opened a heavy door. Within was a small bed and a window high on the wall.

“Is this a dungeon?”

He shrugged. “It will be safe.”

We curled next to each other as he left us, drawing our shawls around us in the cold room. At the top of the stairs, I heard a door being locked, and a little panic fluttered in my throat. I hoped that if the mob killed everyone, Tanveer would know how to get us out.

We heard little, although every so often, a shout rang out, or a loud noise. I couldn’t tell if the fight was intensifying or they were being driven back. Channan shivered next to me, but eventually fell asleep in my lap. I couldn’t imagine what horrors she was reliving.

My back against the cold wall, my son sleeping in my arms, I wondered what triggered cruelty in humans. Why brutalize a young woman? Why drag away an old man and throw him in prison? Why did rooms like this one exist?