Page 53 of A Thousand Painted Hours

There are free women here. Only look at Mrs. Ganguly, but it seems a woman must be a widow to gain power, and for all that he’s ancient, I do not see my husband expiring in any near future. By that time, I shall be old as dirt and unable to do any of the things I so dreamed of.

I am so angry!

And I am sorrowful, too, the weight of a river of tears running through my blood, making me plod along like an ancient elephant.

This is not what you want to hear. I do not know what else to say. It is terrible, and I am grieving, and I do not know how to move forward.

Thank you. I miss you. Be well. Be free. Dance for both of us.

Gurdaya

March 17, 1914

London

[In Urdu]

Dear Gurdaya,

You are a poet and a writer and a scholar. Surely there is a corner where you might place a table, an inkpot and paper to write, a shelf for books to read and study.I am sending you a collection of essays I believe you shall enjoy. I would love to read anything you write.

Tanveer and I are studying books together so I do not lose my (thin) facility with Urdu. Perhaps you and I could practice this, as well?

Be well,Pyari Saheli.

Elsie

[EnclosedEssays and Leaves from a Notebook, George Eliot]

March 20, 1914

London

[In Urdu]

Dear Tanveer,

I cannot ever be angry with you for long. Your heart is truly one of the kindest I’ve ever known, and whatever flawed thinking you exhibit over the lives of women, I do know you have been taught this way and can be untaught.

And I must admit I was chagrined to have you turn the tables with my paintings. Could they be tainted by my own colonialism?

Am I so blind? I feel I have painted out of deepest love, for the landscape I grew up in, for the things that fueled my artist’s soul, for the faces and people who inspire me. Is that colonial? Or is it love? I don’t know how to tell the difference!

It is very complicated and makes me feel weepy and foolish. I do not know how to see what I cannot see. In this way, perhaps it was wrong of me to expect you to see things in light of women’s desires.

I do wish we could thrash these ideas out together in person. Youmustcome with your father to England! It would be so wonderful to see your earnest, honest face again. The vision of you giving baby tigers a bottle gave me such joy, and made me miss you all the more. Because I do miss you, still, all the time. I have yet to meet anyone in my world who supplies what you give—your good nature and your good mind, but also the ease I feel in your company, the acceptance (and challenge!) you offer me, and that I hope you feel in return.

My heart is suddenly seized with a fear that our connection will be faded in person, that we shall be so changed by time that we barely recognize each other. What if we have nothing to say?

No, I cannot imagine that. Oh, do please come, Tanveer!

As to my hair—I cut it for purely practical reasons. It is very heavy and thick and takes a long time to dry and care for. Many of the women students at Slade have adopted a shorter cut, and it’s liberating. A few have also adopted a costume of trousers, and I’ve followed suit while in the studio, where they give greater freedom of movement, though it is also true that I am awfully fond of my frocks, and do not miss a single chance to wear them.

I considered your gentle prod about whether India will fade for me over time. Perhaps it will, and I do find now that I love portraits of all manner of people, so I can focus on who is around me, though I suspect the faces I find fascinating are still not the illuminated beauties my professors seem to want. Ever I am drawn to people who are not like myself, not onlythe Indian world of my memory, but the fishwives hawking their wares with their missing teeth, and the African girl in service at Nina’s townhome, in the ancient drunks begging near the docks, and in the fine Muslim shopkeeper with his sharply pressed kurta. Painting is sometimes an exploration, a way to really look at anything, and when I look at each of those beings, I see another petal of the flower of humanity.

I have made portraits of my fellows, and more than once one of these bohemian artists have offered up their own bodies for us all to draw. Rocky has modeled for the ladies’ life drawing, safely draped. I have not yet got my nerve up to model for others, but I have modeled often enough for myself.

And perhaps I am being indiscreet, so I will halt now. Be well, my dearest Tanveer. I miss you more than I could possibly say.