—24—
Mayo College, Ajmer
[In Urdu]
Dear Elsie,
I offer my regrets that you did not know how to address me, for that was my fault in attempting to end our correspondence. I introduced the awkwardness between us when there has never been anything but purest trust.
Truth.
Let us keep to that truth now. More letters between us are a kind of madness, but I was so overjoyed to see your words that I cannot hold to my resolve. Please write to me. I will write back. Surely there is no temptation in words on a page, when we are parted by thousands of miles!
Thank you for sharing that vision of Venus shining on the sea. I could picture it so clearly, the fresh breeze and nose-biting cold, the sky stretching above, so vast and full of stars, and only the two of us, apart from the world.
I would that it were so.
Truth. In truth, Elsie, your absence has leeched my world of all color.
I taste no salt in the food, or sugar in my chai, essential things that make each day fine and good.
Everything reminds me of you—the lake, the kittens, a tangle of flowers, my own sketchbook, filled with things you taught me, even if I am a poor artist at best.
At least now I may think of Venus, and imagine you raising your hand to her as I am, and, thus, will we be connected for a moment.
I have returned to school and will devote myself to my studies.
I am most engaged with maths and discussions of economics, but I have also found a friend here, Sunil, who shares my love of literature.
We find ways to discuss books most deeply.
We are reading a novel of the Sannyasi Rebellion, which some say was the beginning of Indian independence.
Sunil believes as I do that the time will be coming in our lifetimes, sooner rather than later, that India shrugs off the yoke of the British and we make our own way into the future.
I suppose by attending my studies of economics and systems (along with the British way of doing everything), I will be more thoroughly prepared, much as I would love to study only astronomy and poetry.
I can take those up on my own. In this moment in history, there are more pressing questions.
How will India become her own nation? How can that best be accomplished?
Which is what our fathers discussed endlessly, I suppose. Will your father still support such ideas, or will he settle into becoming a bastion of English gentry?
And now you, too, are one of that number, Lady Elsie. How will that change you, I wonder? Because of course it must.
I hope it does not, at least very little. I pray you remain as fierce and independently minded as you ever have been. Your soul holds a great light.
Perhaps one day, while gazing at Venus, I will discover some new star. If I do, I will name her for you. Will that make up for my harsh first letter?
And at last, this—we can continue our poetry study and translations as easily here as in person. I have enclosed an Urdu ghazal for you to translate. Do not be afraid! It is quite simple.
Now I am off to post this and hope for a letter in return. Our paths have split in different directions, but it feels too much to ask that we not be able to continue the conversation of our minds.
Be well, ham-nawā,
Your own Tanveer
PS: One small beauty: watching a chestnut mare frolic in her pen, mane dancing the long light of afternoon.
[Enclosed Urdu poem]
December 12, 1911
Herewich Manor, England
[In Urdu]
Dear Tanveer,
When I saw your handwriting, and felt the solid weight of your letter, I was filled with such gratitude and relief that I wept. I can bear leaving India (just), but not if I am also required to sever our connection.
How well I understand the feeling of dullness you describe, that sense of lack—no salt, so sugar, no sun in the sky, not even the comfort of a peacock’s cry. Nothing but cold and wet, the skies endlessly weeping, not in the way of a monsoon, but just a constant, wearying rain.
There is not even the smell of spice from the kitchens, for we are now truly relegated to English meals.
I’ve never seen my father so happy at the table, but Mother and I are not.
I’ve promised to gather recipes to replicate the Anglo-Indian dishes we enjoyed, but for now I shall subsist on dull grains and colorless vegetables, boiled half to death.
Tanveer, truly—thank you for writing. Your letter gave me such a moment of joy, it was as if the sun itself had broken through the gray and poured gold into my heart.
I have drawn the moment for you. It is only me, and my paints in the window of my room, looking east to India, hoping to smell its fragrance on the wind.
One small joy: Mother has consented to my enrolling in the Slade School of Fine Art when I am old enough, which allows women.
My father does not yet know, but I have decided that I shall not marry, and will put at the center of my life the only other love I can bear—this work, my painting. A husband will only take it from me.
Of course, my brother (never to be called Willie anymore, only Will, and he now prefers the full William) has been plotting a wedding for me for years, thinking to shore up with a brilliant marriage the rather thin fortunes that accompany my father’s title.
The boy who caught frogs and came home with muddy feet is long gone, buried beneath a proper British education, unlike his sister with her wretched accent, which I wickedly make worse for his benefit.
Mother implores me not to tease, but I see her lips twitching.
She loves him so and is wildly overjoyed to be back in his company.
Because I love her, I don’t begrudge her this small comfort.
Here is my drawing. Send me something that smells of sunlight.
Tell me more of your reading and your thoughts of Indian independence.
Do you think it will happen in the next decade or two?
A worthy subject of study. I remember my father bemoaning a strike on English goods at some point.
Was that the division of Bengal? The details are lost to me—but I suppose children have no context for politics.
In honor of our truth, I will tell you that I also fear I will become some other person here, that somehow the weight of clouds and expectations and pressure will conspire to quench the fire that has fueled me to this point and I will become some limp imitation of myself.
What if I am sugared down to a wife who only cares for parties?
The lure of the ease in that life is tempting at times.
I hope you will help me hold fast to myself.
In hopes of sunlight and good friendship,
Elsie
PS I have attempted a translation, poor though it may be. I’ve included a sonnet from the bard himself to challenge you to capture the cadence in Urdu.
[Enclosed drawing of Elsie with her paints looking toward the horizon]