Love's Demands

10 May, 1945

Dear Diary,

The war has ended. I have been faithful to you throughout, more faithful than Edward has been to me. You and I have kept his secrets tucked away in these pages. Perhaps, I should have burned it. Why did he even send it? Was it out of love or out of guilt. Did he mean to hurt me or set me free? Did he even survive the war? Is he imprisoned in a monastery or jail? Is he happy? It is not possible, he carries such a burden. Did he discover his truth in India, or did he always know? Was I nothing more than window dressing? Did he hide behind my skirts? I have not read this letter in since it first arrived. Back then, I could not stop reading it. Now, I can see the stains from my tears that fell upon the page. I see the crinkled lines that were left when I tried to crumple it up and throw it away and then, painstakingly tried to smooth it back out, feel those his fingers through the ink. I carefully tucked it into these pages, and did not look at it again. Now, two days after VE Day, as people celebrate in the streets and the blackout curtains come down from the windows, I will read it again with fresh eyes.

2 January, 1943

Dear Hazel,

As much as I complain about London’s rain and fog, I find myself longing for the dreary city. When compared to the heat and humidity here in Bundi, it is quite agreeable. The fetid air, the hot breeze, the overwhelming aromas of spice cannot suppress what I have discovered here in the British colony—Love.

I have endeavored to provide you with affection. So often, your love has been a balm to my soul. Still, I fear I have not loved you enough or loved you the way you deserve to be loved. It is only at this moment in is this foreign colony of the British Empire, that I have I been able to understand what Shakespeare meant by unrequited love—passionate love. While my admiration for you has not dimmed, absent does not, in fact, make the heart grow fonder. Instead, it provides opportunity for the heart to expand among the sights and sounds of an exotic land. It is as if I have discovered for the first time in my life the flame of unrequited love.

Oh, that it had just been a spark, it could have been squelched. The flicker at first sight became raging flames. The moment our fingers touched, I thought the flames would engulf me. I reached for. My canteen to quench my thirst and block the crimson blush on my face. If it was a fever that I contracted.

But it was not illness that consumed me, but something carnal. You have always known me as a tight-lipped, buttoned-up chap. But no longer.

Before I continue, I must know: Have you always loved me with an unextinguishable passion? It is an unfair question, I know, as you and I have been raised to contain one’s passion and desires. Here, I am not confined. I want you to know that feeling. Think hard of what you love most in the world. I am certain it is not I.

I apologize, I should not toy with your feelings. This unveiling of mine is excruciating. I have yet to admit all of this to myself. You, my darling, are the first to know my truth. The first to know the one who has usurped your place in my heart. His name is Ahan, Arav; his name means a peaceful calm. We are so well suited to one another that we are able to look at each other eye to eye. His caramel skin against my alabaster complexion is like the perfect cup of white tea. His lips are as sweet as sugar cubes.

I think I should burn this letter before I send it to you. The British area as harsh with men of my persuasion as the Nazis we fight. What if it was to be discovered? What if I was to be revealed. The punishment would be harsh. You are the one person whom I can entrust with my secret; but I appreciate that even your patience has its limits, that you may be deserving of revenge on me. Your trust is as attached to my heart as Ahran’s love.

This war is costing us so much. The people here are paying the price. First, the Bengal Famine, where millions died, and now conscription to fight in our war. India may gain independence from the United Kingdon in return for their participation in our war effort. If that is true, I may choose not to return to London’s lovely weather and your warm embrace. Word is that Ghandi is more tolerant of others and the path their lives take. I do not know what is next for my life. Perhaps I should take the robes of a monk and proffer myself to celibacy, away from all sexual attraction. It seems the most reasonable path, for as well as mating choices, I do not want to have to decide on a religion to follow.

I do not know my bath. There are still battles to fight. It has taken me these pages to try and explain the one thing I could have said in one sentence: You and I are no more.

I encourage you to go on with your life. I pray you will know the passion and desire you crave, and know the desire you deserve. It would be hypocritical of me to ask us to continue as friends.

With affection,

Edward

3 September, 1945

Dear Diary,

Although I burned Edward’s letter back in May, he still haunts me. Today, his sister Daisy called at our door. Her family has been fretful since the end of the war, having not heard from him for two years. Then yesterday, an emaciated Edward showed up on their doorstep. He had been imprisoned for heinous acts while serving in India. He did not say what those acts were, but Daisy had an idea, having discovered Edward with an older man in the park just before going off to university. I was relieved I had burned the letter. She asked him if he was going to call on me, but he told her no. He only wanted his family to know he was alive, and had made arrangements to join a silent order in Malta. I was relieved for him and for myself. I had recently accepted a marriage proposal from Lord Arlington and would be moving to the bucolic Cotsworld to live in my own sanctuary of sorts.