—74—
Channan and I played ludo and grazed on samosas.
The day had been hot, but now a cool wind blew into her rooms, lifting the airy curtains, bringing a scent of jasmine and dung smoke.
Channan held Kirandeep in the crook of her arm.
He gurgled and cooed, moving hands and feet as if to test their range, and we laughed when he caught sight of his fingers and startled.
When he tired and grew fussy, I took him and offered my breast, where he settled, gulping noisily until he found a rhythm.
He made a low sound of humming contentment, his fingers gripping the edge of my scarf.
“If I were a painter,” Channan said, “I would paint your portrait just now, the two of you.”
Awash in deep contentment, I smiled, brushing my hand over his soft hair.
I would paint it from this direction, the edge of my arm, the flesh of my breast, the rosebud shape of his tiny mouth.
Why had there not been more paintings done of such moments, from the eyes of the painter, the mother?
“I would paint this.” I touched his cheek, brushed his tiny eyelashes.
“You must.”
From outside came a sound of shouting, loud enough that Kirandeep unlatched, his arms flying out.
It so startled him that he let out a cry.
“Sughra,” I said, “look and see if you can tell what’s happening.
” I pulled Kirandeep closer, covering myself.
Through the open windows, we heard more voices, much closer than they should have been. “What is it? Can you see?”
“It is villagers, memsahib,” she said with knotted hands. “They’re in the courtyard.”
“What?” I settled Kirandeep in Channan’s arms and hurried over. Below, in the main courtyard, spilled a dozen men, spreading out in different directions. Their cries were in Punjabi, but I heard a word I knew, firangi: foreigner. “What are they shouting?”
“I would not want to say.”
“Please say. It is important.”
Channan said behind me, “‘Firangi chudail.’” She clutched the baby to her shoulder. “Concubine. And witch.” Her wounded face did not show emotion easily, but I could see the terror in her eyes.
“They want me.”
Shafi came into the room. “Memsahib, come with me.” He gave a directive to Sughra in Punjabi, and Channan cried out in protest. “No! I will stay with Elsie!”
He gave me a slight shake of the head, and with a chill, I realized what he wanted. “Channan-ji,” I said, “stay with the baby. You’ll be safer without me.”
“No. I am afraid!”
Shafi said, “I will come right back. You are safe here.”
I gave her a quick hug. “Do not worry. There are men to protect you.”
She made a moaning noise. “There were men to protect me before.” She gripped my arm. “Do not leave me.”
I looked over my shoulder. “Can you take all of us together?”
He was not happy, but made a quick gesture for us to follow.
Outside, there was a roar, and we hurried behind him.
The hairs on my body stood up as we rounded a corridor that overlooked the courtyard and I saw three men knocking over pots and small tables, yelling, their fever stoked by each other. They did not see us.
Shafi led us down, down, down into a dark hallway, and opened a heavy door. Within was a small bed and a window high on the wall.
“Is this a dungeon?”
He shrugged. “It will be safe.”
We curled next to each other as he left us, drawing our shawls around us in the cold room. At the top of the stairs, I heard a door being locked, and a little panic fluttered in my throat. I hoped that if the mob killed everyone, Tanveer would know how to get us out.
We heard little, although every so often, a shout rang out, or a loud noise. I couldn’t tell if the fight was intensifying or they were being driven back. Channan shivered next to me, but eventually fell asleep in my lap. I couldn’t imagine what horrors she was reliving.
My back against the cold wall, my son sleeping in my arms, I wondered what triggered cruelty in humans. Why brutalize a young woman? Why drag away an old man and throw him in prison? Why did rooms like this one exist?
Darkness fell. I nestled Kirandeep into a space by the wall at Channan’s back so that he wouldn’t fall, and stretched out on the floor to doze.
In that half-awake state, I thought I saw a fire flickering over the walls.
I heard a tiger roar in the distance, no doubt agitated by the smoke and shouting.
My imagination tortured me with visions of what might happen if they found us. I did not fear for my son so much, as I thought even a mob would spare a baby, especially the maharaja’s son.
But I saw Channan dragged away. I saw myself, captured by the angry villagers and—what? What punishment would befit the harlot foreign mistress of the maharaja? Did they burn women at the stake here? Drag them to their deaths? Stone them? The possibilities were endless for women who did not behave.
But I would die myself rather than allow anything to happen to Channan.
Lying there on the hard floor, praying to any entity that might listen, I begged for safety for all of us, and I offered the very thing I knew I had to deliver: I would have to leave. The pain of the knowledge flayed my very skin from my body.
In the dark, in the cold, with Channan safely asleep next to the cradled body of my son, I let my sorrow howl into the room so that I could be strong for what would come next. For the safety of my beloveds, I would endure whatever was required.
I didn’t know how long we’d been there when I heard the door above unlock, and footsteps coming down the stairs. Shafi appeared at the door. “It is safe now, memsahib. You may all come with me.”
We followed him without speaking into the gray dawn. As we walked along the corridor overlooking the courtyard, I looked down to see the destruction of anger—overturned furniture and savagely uprooted plants. I smelled smoke, but saw no evidence of it. “Did something burn?”
He nodded darkly, and gestured. “The ruins were set on fire.”
A thin line of smoke rose from the rubble, and Channan made a sound. I took her hand. “All is well, sister.”
We ate parathas and yogurt Sughra brought. I fed and changed Kirandeep, and we all fell into a restless slumber. Shafi stood guard, and the gates had been locked, but none of us would rest until Tanveer returned.
At last he rode into the gates, rushing to find us in Channan’s chambers.
That night, while Kirandeep slept, we made love with sacred intent.
I pressed into memory the taste of his tears, the fierce clasp of his arms around me.
In the darkness, with rain falling beyond the rooms, I lay against his chest and wept with such gravity I thought the river might carry us away.
When I was at last spent, I whispered into his neck.
“Why give us this deep love when we are forced to part again and again and again. What is the point of all this heartbreak?”
“It is the space between heartbreaks,” he said. “How many are so lucky as to know this connection we share? It is rare and true.” He brushed my cheek. “We shall not be physically together, but that does not divide”—he swallowed, paused—“us. Our souls.”
I thought of all the days and months and years ahead of me, empty of his company. “I will miss you all the time, every day.”
“As I will.” He twined our fingers together. “Distance will not change us, what we share. It is eternal.”
I didn’t want eternity. I wanted now, but there was nothing to be done. As long as I stayed in the palace, the people I loved here would be in danger. I could not take Kirandeep away from the world he deserved, from his place and his father, so I would go alone.
Exiled.
On the morning of my departure, I nursed my son one last time, the two of us alone.
I sang him a song from my childhood, about fairies and bluebells.
He cooed at me, and I nibbled his fingers and forced myself to give him only joy in this moment.
He smiled at me, gazing upward with love.
I knew he would search for me in the days and weeks to come, crying for his mother, for my arms.
I also knew that he would be easily comforted by his other mother, who had not been able to bear a child in her own body, but had given me the gift of a child from mine.
When it came time, I nestled his soft, hefty body into her arms. She pressed her face into my shoulder, and I held her close. “Thank you,” I said. “I love you.”
“I shall miss you every day of my life.”
At last, I embraced Tanveer, fiercely. “One soul,” he whispered.
“One soul.”
I managed to leave without breaking down, and traveled to the train station with stoic dignity.
But on the train to Bombay, I wept so continuously that a porter brought me a towel and supplied me with chai and cakes I could not consume.
Where once my heart had been torn from one side, it was now torn in three, and it did not matter that I knew I would survive. I also knew the wounds would not heal.
How could they?