—76—
Telegram
To: Tanveer Singh, Talwarpur Palace
From: Elsie Turner, Aboard Ss Eastern Star
Elsie
To: Elsie Turner, Ss Eastern Star
From: Tanveer Singh
Will Meet You Victoria Terminus. Stop
Love Tanveer
I stood on deck in a cold wind, watching Bombay approach on the horizon. My body felt hollow after the long journey on dangerous seas, but the sight of the city blew a wind of possibility through me.
At last. Again.
My meager belongings fit into a single bag, my shoes ill-fitting since it had been impossible to find a new pair before I left.
Jonathan had used his connections to secure the passage, and I traveled with a ragtag group of passengers, all of us war weary and escaping the madness of London, many Indians, of course, but a good many British as well.
We were a subdued lot, grateful for the modest meals, the quiet.
No sirens, no bombs, just the soothing swoosh of water against the walls of the ship, murmured conversations.
The weeks at sea gave me time to grieve. The house had burned to the ground. Mother and Peter were both found within, the fire blamed on incendiaries. Jonathan and Nina took care of the arrangements for Peter’s body.
Of course I had handled Mother myself, arranging for her interment next to my father and brother at Herewich, but I found I could not bear to remain in England one more week. She was gone and would not care if I attended her funeral.
On those long empty days on the open sea, I tried to collect myself, reassemble the jumbled jigsaw of my life. The piece I struggled most to fit was the betrayal of my mother, and perhaps even more, the way she’d held the secret from me for so many years. It was difficult to forgive.
And yet—would I do such a thing to protect my child? Her motives were ill-advised, but I knew in my deepest soul that she’d done everything for love of me. That was something I could understand. And truly, I would miss her the rest of my days.
Finally, I gave myself room to grieve Channan, who had slipped away a few weeks before my mother. Tanveer’s letter had arrived only days before I left.
November 13, 1940
Talwarpur Palace
[In Urdu]
Dearest Elsie,
I attempted a phone call to deliver this news more personally, but there was no answer. I shall worry until I receive another letter.
It is with a heavy heart that I must bring you the news of Channan’s passing.
She slipped away painlessly overnight. I know you share my feelings that she was one of the finest humans to have lived in this world, and my grief is deep tonight.
My only consolation is that she is at last free of the prison of her body.
Kirandeep has vowed we will honor her by taking her portrait (the lovely miniature you made of her) to the Paris opera one day.
Perhaps you shall be able to make that pilgrimage with us when better days have arrived.
None of us would be who we are without her grace, and the world is a poorer place tonight. I am a better man for having known her.
I also miss you deeply, meri jaan. Please write and let me know you are well.
Tanveer
Once more, I carried my meager belongings down the gangway, a small basket and my ancient carpetbag.
The terminus was a familiar wild cacophony of noise and color and humanity.
As I waded into the crowd, I felt the carapace around me suddenly split and fall way, leaving a revitalized version of myself, both fresh and raw, a woman ready to—once again—begin anew.
My spirit expanded, warmed my skin. I smelled fish and sweat and cardamom, and was jostled along, bumped and knocked, and I did not mind. Not one bit.
Home. The only home I’d ever wanted, filled with the humans I peered through the crowds for a glimpse of. Turbans of many styles and colors caught my eye, but none of them crowned the man I wanted to see.
And then, at last, he was there, looking anxiously over the crowd. He wore a pale-gray suit, his hair covered by a dastaar in a very similar color, and he looked dapper and modern and entirely himself.
Next to him was a youth, lean and tall, with a face so like his father’s I was transported back in time.
Kirandeep.
My breath left me, and for a long moment, I could not move, overcome by a tidal wave built of thousands of hours—ten thousand!—of longing that I had compressed and pushed away, knowing I had done the best thing for him. For my son.
But seeing him, I feared I might dissolve into the intense love that filled me. He was standing there, right there. Alive and loved and well.
He spied me first, and pointed. Urgently, Tanveer pushed through the bodies toward me, and hurtled into the space. It would not do for us to embrace in public, but he took my fingers and kissed them fervently. “You’re alive,” he said. His beard had small threads of silver in it. “You’re alive.”
I brought his hands to my lips, and as ever, tears filled my eyes, spilled over. He smelled of himself, and I turned my cheek to his hands. “I am alive.”
Our eyes locked, and it was as it ever had been, the river of our connection flowing from me to him and him to me in a weaving of deepest union the same as always.
In the basket, Bastet mewed. Tanveer said, “What’s this?”
“I couldn’t leave her.”
He laughed, that enormous sound that made people turn to look. Then he turned to Kirandeep. “He wanted to be here to greet you. Channan spoke of your return with great longing.”
At last I allowed myself to fill my soul on Kirandeep’s face—the straight brows, the dark eyes, Tanveer’s particular nose. “I am so happy to see you again,” I said. “I have not seen you since you were a small baby.”
He bowed. “My mother said to tell you she loves you, and she will always be grateful for the gift you gave her.”
Our agreement had ever been that he would never know I was his physical mother, and that would continue, but the words unleashed the emotion I had been desperately trying to rein in.
My tears spilled. “She loved you like the sun,” I said, and took his hands.
“One day, perhaps we will all take her to the opera.”
He nodded.
Tanveer touched my back lightly, and we walked to the car.
When Kirandeep was settled within, with the cats, which he took on his lap with great curiosity, Tanveer held me back.
Clasping my hand tightly, he cupped my face.
He seemed to struggle for words, but in the end, his thumb simply brushed my cheekbone, my eye, while the other hand held my hand so tightly our fingers might have melted together.
The recognition of the moment suddenly overwhelmed me, and I bent my head into his coat.
“You must never leave us again,” he whispered. “Promise.”
“Never.” I lifted my gaze. “Never, never, never.”