Page 51 of A Thousand Painted Hours

Dear Tanveer,

[In Urdu]: One small beauty is the smell of oil paint on my fingers. The texture is so rich and vibrant! I feel I have discovered an entirely new world.

[In English]: Despite my joy in the paint, I am struggling in some of my classes, and today, I have had the most horrible day. A few days ago, we turned in our projects, and I felt I had done well—I worked most diligently on a portrait of a vegetable wallah in Nainital, and I was pleased with it, though it could have done with more time. The green of his tunic, the glare of his eyes, his heavy mustache.

But to my dismay, my professor hated it. Or perhaps didn’t hate, but even worse—hedisdainedit. He went on at length about my “Orientalist” style, my unsophisticated palette, even my “quaint” subject. It was all I could do not to burst into tears right there.

Of course I did not. We’re learning to be tough, to say thank you for the feedback, even if it’s terrible. Naturally, Helen, the pet of every single teacher in the place, was praised to the heavens for her portrait of an old man and his pigeons. Her palette is all soft browns and golds, and I do quite admire it, but it isn’t the only palette to be had. The world is not only one kind of light.

I am crushed, and I fear that I’m only a dilettante.

This is the second time I’ve been criticized for using an “Orientalist” style. Honestly, I don’t see my work that way at all. Orientalism makes a fairy tale of the people and landscapes of India (and other places). I am painting what I saw, what I knew, the true faces of the chai wallah at the bazaar with his missing front tooth; the girls walking to school with their heads together, the library and the bakery and the tiger. (Oh, how they hated the tiger series, and I was devastated because I thought I’d done very well. How much did we practice?)

It appears I have overestimated the extent of my talent, and I do not know what my life will be if I am not a painter. Perhaps I am only meant for the vapid life my brother has plotted out for me, a socialite giving teas and balls and vying for the attention of duchesses.

I’m sorry not to add more cheerful notes to this. What am I even doing in this cold, wet, miserable place with all these cold, judgmental people? Am I a fraud, Tanveer? Tell me the truth.

Your friend,

Elsie

January 1914

Talwarpur Palace

Dear Elsie,

[In Urdu]: One small beauty—a boy walking with his tiny sister down the rows of vegetables at the market. He was so gentle with her, laughing when she picked up an aubergine or potato.

[In English]: Of course you are not a fraud, and by now I am sure you have somewhat recovered from the blow of the criticism.

You do not yet know who you are as a painter. That will take time to develop. Perhaps your taste for painting the images you remember of India will grow, or perhaps over time it will fade, but your worth as a painter does not come from outside validation. It must come from you. You know this, but you are feeling lost because they are not fawning over you the way everyone always has.

Which sounds unkind, and I do not mean it so. Give it time. Win them over with your great capacity to learn.

I have other news. Gurdaya is to be married next month to a raja of great wealth from near Amritsar. She is very unhappy that she will have to go so far away, but my father has had enough of her protestations and rejections of suitors, and he has put his foot down. The marriage will be advantageous for both families. He is unfortunately a bit older, and a widow twice over, but has not yet produced an heir. That will be Gurdaya’s task, it appears.

Seeing her unhappiness, I cannot help but think it does no favors to allow girls to be educated whenthey must marry anyway. How can she be happy now? Would it not be easier for her to have been left to the ordinary amusements of women, knowing she would have to serve in capacity of wife and mother?

It grieves me on her behalf. I am quite sure she would love a letter from you.

Your friend,

Tanveer

January 1914

London

[In Urdu]

Tanveer, I have sometimes known you to be dense over the rights and wishes of women, but I cannot believe you would actually say Gurdaya would have been better off if she had not been allowed an education. Do you think her mind would be less, a mind at least as facile and bright as your own, if not more so (and you will argue, but I think you know it’s true)? It is a tragedy, an actual living tragedy, that she should be squeezed into such a narrow life. She is meant for bigger things, for the quest to solve a scientific mystery or discover a way to prevent illness. It is a waste that she cannot explore that part of herself, and it is a loss for the world. You are a man and cannot help your narrow-mindedness, but I am desperately disappointed in you.

I have cut my hair. Perhaps at least partly because I am angry with you.

Elsie

January 30, 1914