—56—
Greylake, England
Dear Mother,
It grieves me to write this letter, but I have had a telegram about William, who survived the war only to succumb to influenza on his way home to England.
A friend of his wrote to me (I am enclosing the letter) to say he went very quickly and did not suffer, but I do not think that will alleviate your sorrow very much.
I made arrangements for his body to be interred at Herewich with his ancestors.
I weep as I write this, knowing how hard it will be for you to hear.
It is terribly cruel that he managed to get though the war and then fell to illness so close to the end.
I am sorry that he did not have a chance to marry, or test all his grand theories on how to build Herewich into the thriving estate it once was, and I am desperately sorry that I cannot ever embrace him again.
Of course, the estate now passes to cousin Harold, a feat that once would have seemed impossible, but the war has killed so many more than our William that a distant cousin is the only male of our line left to inherit.
I am furious that we shall both be left without a dime, when I am alive and breathing and as much my father’s child as my brother was.
But what is there to be done?
For now, I’ve gone to Nina, and you must stay where you are, living cheaply with your husband. There’s nothing left in England for us.
I love you, and I wish I could be there to share your grief.
Elsie
[Enclosed letter and a sketch of William’s grave site]
March 29, 1919
Palace of the Raj
Lahore
Dear Elsie,
I am enclosing two things for you today, perhaps to cheer you up. One is a newspaper article about Tanveer and the Indian National Congress. He gave a fine speech last week and is highly respected as a member of the party. His time in England made him a fiery warrior. It’s quite thrilling to watch.
The other is a bit of a surprise. Please check page 16 in the enclosed magazine.
Your friend,
Gurdaya
[Enclosed newspaper article about Maharaja of Talwarpur and his speech]
[Enclosed copy of The Bombay Storybook Magazine, with an older woman in spectacles and a dupatta peeking through a curtain with a spyglass in her hand. Aunty-Ji, Investigator, by Guriya Kaur.]
June 1, 1919
Greylake, Kent
Dearest Gurdaya! I could not be more proud of you! I cried with happiness. More, more, more!
Another letter soon.
Your friend,
Elsie
April 7, 1919
Talwarpur Palace
[In English]
Dear Elsie,
I am startled to hear from Gurdaya that your brother died. You could have written to tell me such tragic news, surely!
It has been one year to the day since I left England. I have picked up my pen a hundred times since then, but I wanted to give you space to consider your foolish stand. Perhaps I should proceed in the way we are meant to go on, as dear friends.
But I sit at my desk and do not know how to do that. How to pretend you are only my friend, when that is not true, has never been true, will never be true. I miss you most desperately.
I heard that you had to vacate Herewich. Please come to India where I can give you a home. It might crumble to nothing around us, but it will be ours.
Please forget this ridiculous prideful plan of yours and come home.
Ever your love,
Tanveer
April 29, 1919
Greylake, Kent
[In Urdu]
Dear Tanveer,
I am so relieved our year of abstention has passed. I thought of writing you a thousand times.
Yes, my brother died. I have landed with Nina and Jon in the country for now.
They’ve purchased a small estate not far from London so that Jon might commute easily.
Nina has given me studio space in a shed overlooking the river, where a towering willow tree bends over to trail her fingers in the water.
It makes me think of you, how delighted you were with the brook near Herewich and the bluebirds who drank there.
England feels like a hollow landscape. All I can do is paint and paint and paint.
I paint portraits of you because I miss you and it helps.
I paint scenes of Herewich, lost to me forever through some foolish ancient law that punishes women, and it makes me furious.
When I paint, I can own it again, my garden, my bedroom, the cozy, warm kitchen where we cooked and ate, the hearth where we took our cushions and read to each other.
I paint the great old claw-foot tub where we bathed.
I knew a woman at Slade who painted rooms where it seemed someone had just left, a glove on a table, a hat on a chair.
She had lost her grandmother, and it helped to think she might return momentarily, and thus I paint the possibility that we might be returning to those rooms any moment.
The coverlet and sheets still rumpled from our lovemaking, Topaz asleep in a little ball at the thickest part, the fabric of your dastaar draped over the chair.
I paint the table with our dishes still upon it, and a pot steaming on the stove.
I paint the garden with our shoes discarded at the edge, side by side.
You ask me to come home, and home truly would be you, wherever you are, but I also know that this time, it is I who must protect you from the quixotic gesture of marriage to me.
I hear the news out of India, and I know that the struggle for independence will continue to be central to your life in the next decades.
I know this because I know you and I love you more than mere words can possibly express.
I cannot be the wife you need at such a time, and I will not distract you from those tasks you were born to complete. It gives me joy to know you are unencumbered to do the work.
But I do question what forces made me love you with this unshakable depth if we must spend our lives apart.
What is the purpose of that? For either of us.
Does my longing imbue my work with some beauty it would otherwise not hold?
Does your love for me allow you to give more intently to the women of your world? I cannot pretend to answer.
I must admit that my resources are very close to nothing. I should have married at my brother’s urging when I still had some connection to the earldom. Now my worth is only that of a commoner, and I am hardly a spring chicken.
Please remember that I made a vow to young Tanveer, a vow to always put his happiness above my own. I am doing that, even if it does not seem that way to you. I hope we can continue our friendship as time eases our pain.
In the meantime, I remain yours,
Elsie
June 1919
Talwarpur Palace
[In English]
Elsie,
I write to you over a horrific event, that you will not have heard of and has shattered any faith I might have held in the possibility of a peaceful transfer of power.
There has been a massacre at Jallianwala Bagh.
These are the barest facts—during a festival in Amritsar, the army surrounded the enclosure of Jallianwala Bagh and blocked the exit, then fired upon the trapped crowd until their munitions ran low.
Thousands were killed and injured. It was said to be a warning against the protests that are breaking out over arrests of Indian leaders, but, Elsie, many of those people were there to celebrate a holiday.
They were there with their families, their children—
My ribs break with the pressure of my rage. I despair of the darkness in mankind that will allow us to rain such violence upon each other. It has awakened my dreams of the trenches, and I do not sleep.
This must end. It must end.
And what I have seen, at long last, is the truth of your stand against our marriage. I cannot do this work if I am married to you. I fear my anger would poison me against you in some twisted way, even if it was unfair.
I shall mourn what might have been forevermore, but thank you for your devotion to the vows we made to each other so long ago at the pond, to assign ourselves to the happiness of the other above our own.
I will offer my own devotion to them in this: You must marry and try to find some happiness in family life. I shall do the same.
Know this—my love will never alter. As long as I live, you will hold my heart. Hum aik jan hain. We are one soul.
When I feel I can write with sanity to Elsie my friend and not my lover, I will inquire toward your feelings, and perhaps we can continue our friendship, and share again our love of books and life and art and freedom. Until then, be well.
Always,
Tanveer