—66— #2
The one thing we did not do was read or speak of poetry.
Beneath our civility ran an unspoken simmering, one that flared to high heat if the bare skin of our hands brushed or an exchange of repartee strayed ever so slightly too far into the risqué, or something reminded us both of a memory that held a heat or story of its own.
There were so many markers of that shared time, of our braided life, braided time.
Sometimes at night, I could see the lights burning in his chamber, and it pained me to know he was there, alone, and I was here in my own room, alone except for Topaz, who slept next to my pillow.
For his part, Tanveer gave no indication that he felt anything other than friendship for me, which made me feel ashamed for the fleeting desire that speared me in odd moments.
Thus we had achieved that mature friendship we’d sought. For me, I was only grateful to be in his company again. To hear his voice and see him laugh. It felt like dawn had risen in my life again.
One late morning, I helped Channan downstairs for a rare luncheon appearance.
She’d been feeling well, and I helped her settle in a wide, soft chair she loved in the parlor.
Finishing his durbar of the morning, Tanveer walked into the corridor outside the room, trading jokes in Punjabi with a local man, both of them taking pleasure in the kind of one-upmanship so many men seemed to enjoy.
Tanveer abruptly laughed, a sound as large as the sun.
Channan and I both looked up. Tanveer slapped the man’s back and led him to the gate.
“I have not heard him laugh so much,” Channan said. “He is so much happier with you here.”
“Oh, I am quite sure that is not true.”
She looked at me quite seriously. “I assure you that it is. I have never known this Tanveer.”
I sat next to her, smoothing my salwar kameez, for I had taken to wearing the simple outfit. The style was as comfortable as my brother’s trousers, if not more so. “How so?”
She gathered her hands to herself. “He has ever been kind and good, of course. But never particularly happy.” She shook her head. “And never playful.”
I hardly knew how to respond. It seemed an intimate observation of a wife about her husband, and I did not think it my right to comment.
I remembered him as a boy, full of energy and light, as a young man, teasing and alive, in England, and then the sorrowful man he’d been after the war.
But I could not offer those memories here.
“Perhaps it is simply that we are connecting to our childhood selves.”
“No.” She took my hand, a little smile on her mouth. “You must listen, Elsie.”
I opened my face to show I was receptive.
“My father was a forward-thinking man, just as Tanveer’s father was, and he saw to it that all his daughters were well educated. I speak six languages, and read four with some proficiency.”
“Like Gurdaya,” I said, smiling. “Do the two of you trade Latin asides?”
She gave an appreciative chuckle. “She is even more accomplished than I. My Latin is poor.” She passed a thumb over my knuckle, back and forth. “No, but I do read Arabic, which you may not know is very close to Urdu script.”
“I have only recently learned that, when I was in Cairo.”
“I do not think Tanveer quite realizes.” She swept a hand over her skirt, brushing away a leaf that had fallen in her lap. “He writes ghazals in Urdu,” she said. “Poetry. All of them are about you.”
I flushed deeply, and could not think what to say. At last I managed, “Perhaps he did at one time,” I said softly. “But it must not have been for many years.” And that seemed not quite right, and I added, “I am so sorry if that caused you pain. We met long ago.”
“It did not cause me pain,” she said in her sensible voice. “From the beginning, our marriage was a clear agreement.” She pressed her lips together. “My injuries caused more damage than my face. I was scarred within, as well.”
The implication of that simple confession burned through the core of me, but I would not insult her dignity with overt emotion or even a whiff of pity. I covered her hand where it rested on the chair.
“We will not speak of it again. Not even Gurdaya knows, or any of the servants. But I would not let Tanveer marry me until I told him, for not only will I never have children, Elsie, but I cannot participate in the acts that will create a child, either.”
I swallowed hard, willing myself to simply be a witness.
“He married me to give me a good life. My dowry was helpful, but it was not enough to make even a splash into this”—she waved her hand toward the ceiling—“crumbling place.”
At that, I could not help the tears that spilled from my eyes. It seemed a very quintessential Tanveer act, not a sacrifice but a stand.
“He told me at the time that his heart belonged to another, so we have been very honest with each another,” she said. “The ghazals are not old. He is laughing and alive in this new way because he is alight with you here.”
My heart beat too hard, too loudly. I did not let go of her hand.
“He loves you. I believe you also love him.”
Again the flush rose in my cheeks. “There has been nothing untoward between us, Channan. I would never betray you, nor would Tanveer.”
“I do know.” She took a breath. “What I am saying is that you will not betray me.”
A small low trembling began in my legs. “What do you mean?”
“Allow him to love you. Love him in return. A man should not be so long without a woman in his bed.”
My breath disappeared, and for a long, long moment, I had no air in my body. My vision prickled at the edges, and I tried to imagine what this could mean, how it would even be possible when both Tanveer and I loved Channan, and we had found this peaceful, loving existence.
And yet, a song began to hum along my nerves. What if? What if I could kiss him again? Touch him again? Lie with him?
I heard him enter the room, feet shushing over the floor in his slippers. “What is this secret conversation?” he said, dropping to an ottoman.
I looked at him, my ears roaring. So many conflicting emotions swirled through me that I would have leapt to my feet and fled immediately if Channan had not increased her grip on my hand, holding me there.
He looked back at me with a tilt of his head, and then to Channan.
In the instant before she spoke, he seemed to sense the intensity of the moment. She held out her hand and he took it.
“I have just been telling Elsie that I read Urdu script. And I apologize for reading your ghazals, but they are enchanting.”
“You read my private papers?”
“I did,” she said without apology. “That is not the matter here.” She sandwiched our hands together between her tiny ones, his on top of mine, hers above and below. “The truth is that you share a deep love, and it deserves life.”
Tanveer met my eyes, and I had no sense of what he was thinking. My discomfort was so high I would have gladly slipped out of my skin to run away, but the weight of our entwined hands held me there.
And, too, what held me was a longing to slip into his flesh, find again that place where our souls met.
We stared at each other. Possibility rose like lavender smoke, wafting through me, between us, circling his head. He was as surprised as I, and after a moment, he said, “What exactly do you mean?”
She laughed. “You both know what I mean. Shall I say it? You should be lovers.”
He closed his eyes, as if steeling himself. For a long moment, he stayed in that posture, and the tension of the moment nearly squeezed the life from me.
And then he abruptly pulled our pile of hands forward and bent to kiss them. His lashes fell over his cheek, and I saw a single bright tear slide free. I looked back to Channan, and there was no conflict in her face at all. Only love.