Page 40 of A Thousand Painted Hours

He kissed my forehead. “Never faded.”

In the distance, someone shouted, and we broke apart. Holding hands, we looked toward the voice, then back to each other. Tears shimmered in his eyes, and flowed freely down my cheeks. In Hindustani he said, “My life, I love you always.”

In the same language, I said, “You are my heart, my soul, my sun.” And then I turned and ran, afraid I could never find the courage if I didn’t move.

I didn’t look back.

The day before we left for Bombay, his letter was delivered, the one I tucked into my pocket and carried onto the ship.

My life,he’d written,we knew this day would come, that our paths would come to this place of parting, that I would go on to my duties and you would go to yours in another world. It grieves me more than I expected. I am sensible and clear sighted, but my heart seems not to recognize the presence of reason. It only wants what it wants, to hold you always, to have you as my own. I cannot bear the idea of a husband for you that is not me, nor awife for me that is not you. It is a great tragedy. And yet, we are dutiful. We must each serve the lives we were born to live. I do not think it wise for us to continue to write to each other. It will only sear my soul each time I see your words, but know that I am always your love, until the stars no longer shine. Tanveer.

The Refugee in the Garden

Autumn 1940

London

—20—

September 25, 1940

Talwarpur Palace

[In Urdu]

Dear Elsie,

Your letters take longer to arrive than they did in the past, which is to be expected. I’ve just read the letter in which you feared invasion and were planning to find chicks for eggs.

I hope by now you have found that Betty is healthy and well. I hope you have found hens. I pray there will be no invasion. For all my criticisms, the British are a stalwart lot, and I cannot see how Churchill would countenance an invasion of London.

I wish most desperately that you had been able to flee back here to Talwarpur before it was impossible to escape. Or even not here, but somewhere safer.

Although what land is safe now? Each day I think the news cannot be worse, and each day it is.

Your painting stirred a memory of when you painted the flowers at Herewich so long ago. Whata rich pocket of peace those days were! Did we know how precious they were? I hope we did.

Here is a small beauty from my life: Last night I went to the roof to study the stars through my telescope. It was a clear, dry night, and I felt I could see into the farthest reaches of the universe. At such times, the petty dramas and sorrows of humankind seem very small, and I find reassurance in that vastness of space, and time, and the uncountable multitudes of stars.

All my best,

Tanveer

—21—

One dark, dry day, I swept the front walk, the steps, and porch of the dust that seemed to collect everywhere. In the air hung a taste of soot, and the cloudy sky held an orangish tinge. The climbing roses that wound round the balustrade drooped from dust. I tapped the leaves and late blooms to allow them some air, taking pleasure in the glow of pink, the sweet scent released.

Peter had pulled himself together once more and took himself to work most days. Like Jonathan, he worked in the foreign office. He was not allowed to speak of the work, of course, but it made him less fragile, and although I knew he was often desperately hungover when he went in, he managed well enough. It was unlikely he was the only one—it was a hard-drinking lot, and the only crime was letting anyone else know you could barely stand for the headache.

Snipping a few of the roses to take up to Mother, I was about to return to make tea when a voice said, “That’s a fool’s errand if I ever saw one.”

I whirled, and there stood Betty in her blue work dress, her hair wrapped in a chintz turban, as ever. “Betty!” I cried, and hurried down the steps, just barely halting before I flung my arms around her. Instead, I grabbed her hands. “Oh, my goodness. Are you all right? I’ve been so worried.”

“Well, it was a palaver, that’s sure,” she said. “Let’s get inside and have a cuppa, and I’ll fill you in.”

We made the tea, and then carried it upstairs so mother could hear the story, too. Taking center stage in a chair in the sunlight, she settled in. “So, there I was, heading home on the bus when the second siren rang out. The bus driver wasn’t about to stop, even though we were all shouting at him, until a bomb fell right on the street in front of us!”

The passengers had poured out of the bus, scattering to whatever place they felt safe, but Betty didn’t know where she was. The building that had been hit was set afire, expelling a pair of young lads who ran, yelling at her, “C’mon, lady. Shelter down the way.”