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luthier_balloonistOriginally posted here
Translating was far more tiring work than Barir had anticipated. He had rarely had to hold two languages in his mind at one time, nor had he ever had to translate meaning so swiftly, and his head was soon swimming. Mr Dwivedi gave most of the account, and it took Barir a moment to adjust to the inflection of his Hindi. He learned that Miss Khan and Mr Dwivedi had indeed fled to Delhi at the earliest opportunity, and then to Bombay and a steamship. Aboard ship Mr Dwivedi had posed as her cousin, until they had reached Port Said. There they had stayed for a week, both because they were worried about potential pursuit, and so that they could marry; neither went into detail about how this was achieved, and Barir held his tongue against any questions. What was it to him, how they had managed it? They had, and it was done, and Miss Khan— Mrs Dwivedi, in fact— looked at her husband with a true warmth and affection that Barir knew could never have been his, and that he had never wanted. At least, it was not from her that he had wanted it.
A familiar jealousy twinged at his ribs. For all their troubles, for all the obstacles in their path, it had been possible for them to find a way to openly declare themselves. To sit here, on the other side of the world in this cold and dreary room, and touch one another’s hands in front of strangers. He missed Kay, all of a sudden, with an all-consuming ache. Where was he now? Hunched over some intricate carving in his workshop? At an orchestral rehearsal, long fingers dancing across violin strings? At home, sprawled across his sofa in front of the fire with his nose in a book, all long and languid?
Barir shook himself from his thoughts in time to pick up the thread of the story. Mr Dwivedi was talking about their difficulty in adapting to London; the poor, mean lodgings they had found; the difficulty in finding work. Mrs Dwivedi had been raised with no expectation that she would work in her life, but she had determined to do so if necessary. They had a little money left, and had a few things that could be sold, but it would not last forever.
“I read and write well,” Mrs Dwivedi cut in. Her voice was clear and firm, though she fidgeted anxiously with the edge of her very fine headscarf. “I write English better than I speak it; I made sure to learn. I can do arithmetic, I can sew, I can learn, if I am given the chance. And Jagadesh, he knows how to work. He cared for my brother’s hawks, and his horses. There must be something.”
“Horses,” said Jenny thoughtfully, when Barir translated. “That might be something; there are a great many horses in London, and good grooms are much sought after. References would be the problem, but it is not unsurmountable…” She drummed her fingers thoughtfully against her book while Barir relayed her thoughts back into Urdu.
By the end of an hour, Barir felt that they had made little progress, but Jenny seemed pleased. She had made notes of people she would call, about lodgings, about work, about English lessons, and promised the Dwivedis that things would soon look up – and if they did not, Barir thought, Jenny would soon force them to do so.
When the Dwivedis stood to leave, they looked easier than when they had first arrived. Mrs Dwivedi caught Jenny’s hand between her own and thanked her profusely, in both English and Urdu, and then she inclined her head to Barir.
“I hope you know, Mr Rizvi, that I was very sorry to hurt your family with my actions. As sorry as I was to hurt my own family. Your mother and sister were exceptionally kind to me; I hope I have not caused them any disgrace. Everybody only wanted the best for me, of course, but…” She trailed off, a flush on her pale cheeks, her gaze on the floorboards. She looked, for a moment, like the quiet and bashful young woman Barir had first met.
“Mrs Dwivedi, I have long experience of my family deciding they understand what is best for me without consulting me,” Barir assured her. “Our betrothal was simply the latest in a long line. I told you: I understand why you left, and I admire you greatly for it. I could never have been so brave, and I hope you and your good husband will be happy.”
She smiled, suddenly. She had a very pretty smile. “And I pray that you will find your happiness one day, Mr Rizvi. Jazakallah Khairan.”
Barir made her a short bow. “Baraka Allahu fika.”
Mr Dwivedi gave Barir a very long look. Barir held out his hand, and after a moment Mr Dwivedi shook it, a ghost of a smile on his lips, perhaps at the very English gesture. He put both hands together before his chest and bowed slightly. “Namaste,” he said, then did the same to Jenny, took his wife’s arm, and left the room. The candles flickered in the sudden draft.
Jenny sighed. “Well,” she said, “you would certainly have done well for yourself, marrying that girl. You’ll come back for a drink and some supper, won’t you? Carlos will be home by now.”
The idea of going back to Jenny’s warm and comfortable sitting room rather than to his own cold lodgings, waiting for Marcus to appear around every corner, was an enormous relief. Barir helped her gather her papers and pinch out the candles, and together they went out into the freezing air. Jenny tucked her hand into the crook of Barir’s arm and led him home. Barir kept his gaze determinedly forward, and did not look twice at any of the men they passed.
Translating was far more tiring work than Barir had anticipated. He had rarely had to hold two languages in his mind at one time, nor had he ever had to translate meaning so swiftly, and his head was soon swimming. Mr Dwivedi gave most of the account, and it took Barir a moment to adjust to the inflection of his Hindi. He learned that Miss Khan and Mr Dwivedi had indeed fled to Delhi at the earliest opportunity, and then to Bombay and a steamship. Aboard ship Mr Dwivedi had posed as her cousin, until they had reached Port Said. There they had stayed for a week, both because they were worried about potential pursuit, and so that they could marry; neither went into detail about how this was achieved, and Barir held his tongue against any questions. What was it to him, how they had managed it? They had, and it was done, and Miss Khan— Mrs Dwivedi, in fact— looked at her husband with a true warmth and affection that Barir knew could never have been his, and that he had never wanted. At least, it was not from her that he had wanted it.
A familiar jealousy twinged at his ribs. For all their troubles, for all the obstacles in their path, it had been possible for them to find a way to openly declare themselves. To sit here, on the other side of the world in this cold and dreary room, and touch one another’s hands in front of strangers. He missed Kay, all of a sudden, with an all-consuming ache. Where was he now? Hunched over some intricate carving in his workshop? At an orchestral rehearsal, long fingers dancing across violin strings? At home, sprawled across his sofa in front of the fire with his nose in a book, all long and languid?
Barir shook himself from his thoughts in time to pick up the thread of the story. Mr Dwivedi was talking about their difficulty in adapting to London; the poor, mean lodgings they had found; the difficulty in finding work. Mrs Dwivedi had been raised with no expectation that she would work in her life, but she had determined to do so if necessary. They had a little money left, and had a few things that could be sold, but it would not last forever.
“I read and write well,” Mrs Dwivedi cut in. Her voice was clear and firm, though she fidgeted anxiously with the edge of her very fine headscarf. “I write English better than I speak it; I made sure to learn. I can do arithmetic, I can sew, I can learn, if I am given the chance. And Jagadesh, he knows how to work. He cared for my brother’s hawks, and his horses. There must be something.”
“Horses,” said Jenny thoughtfully, when Barir translated. “That might be something; there are a great many horses in London, and good grooms are much sought after. References would be the problem, but it is not unsurmountable…” She drummed her fingers thoughtfully against her book while Barir relayed her thoughts back into Urdu.
By the end of an hour, Barir felt that they had made little progress, but Jenny seemed pleased. She had made notes of people she would call, about lodgings, about work, about English lessons, and promised the Dwivedis that things would soon look up – and if they did not, Barir thought, Jenny would soon force them to do so.
When the Dwivedis stood to leave, they looked easier than when they had first arrived. Mrs Dwivedi caught Jenny’s hand between her own and thanked her profusely, in both English and Urdu, and then she inclined her head to Barir.
“I hope you know, Mr Rizvi, that I was very sorry to hurt your family with my actions. As sorry as I was to hurt my own family. Your mother and sister were exceptionally kind to me; I hope I have not caused them any disgrace. Everybody only wanted the best for me, of course, but…” She trailed off, a flush on her pale cheeks, her gaze on the floorboards. She looked, for a moment, like the quiet and bashful young woman Barir had first met.
“Mrs Dwivedi, I have long experience of my family deciding they understand what is best for me without consulting me,” Barir assured her. “Our betrothal was simply the latest in a long line. I told you: I understand why you left, and I admire you greatly for it. I could never have been so brave, and I hope you and your good husband will be happy.”
She smiled, suddenly. She had a very pretty smile. “And I pray that you will find your happiness one day, Mr Rizvi. Jazakallah Khairan.”
Barir made her a short bow. “Baraka Allahu fika.”
Mr Dwivedi gave Barir a very long look. Barir held out his hand, and after a moment Mr Dwivedi shook it, a ghost of a smile on his lips, perhaps at the very English gesture. He put both hands together before his chest and bowed slightly. “Namaste,” he said, then did the same to Jenny, took his wife’s arm, and left the room. The candles flickered in the sudden draft.
Jenny sighed. “Well,” she said, “you would certainly have done well for yourself, marrying that girl. You’ll come back for a drink and some supper, won’t you? Carlos will be home by now.”
The idea of going back to Jenny’s warm and comfortable sitting room rather than to his own cold lodgings, waiting for Marcus to appear around every corner, was an enormous relief. Barir helped her gather her papers and pinch out the candles, and together they went out into the freezing air. Jenny tucked her hand into the crook of Barir’s arm and led him home. Barir kept his gaze determinedly forward, and did not look twice at any of the men they passed.
