“My mother worried all the while I was studying that I’d become a bluestocking,” Alice grumbled. “Of course, I have done just that. I’m even wearing blue.”
Perveen regarded herself and Alice in the round mirror on the modish dressing table across from them. With them seated side by side, the top of Perveen’s wavy black pompadour hairstyle came to just above Alice’s shoulder. Because of their nine-inch difference in height, they’d always looked comical together. But now Perveen’s large hazel eyes looked more tired than merry. Perhaps it came from legal reading—or the shock she’d experienced that day. Perveen decided her face made her appear a touch older than twenty-three: fine for working with clients but injuring to her vanity.
Alice also looked changed. Her aquamarine cotton frock was heavily creased and stained as if she’d worn it more than once without laundering. The dishevelment could have been due to traveling or Alice’s discomfort with a warm climate. What was more concerning to Perveen was that Alice’s round, sunburned face showed a tension that hadn’t existed when they’d said goodbye a year ago in England. Not in Alice’s clear blue eyes, but around her mouth, which was unsmiling.
“What is it?” Alice asked, catching sight of the covert inspection.
“Blue suits you,” Perveen said hurriedly. Just as their intense college friendship had suited Perveen, a vulnerable young woman trying to forget her past.
Alice had made England tolerable and had also made it easier to stop thinking of the threat of Cyrus. But one evening, a drunk fresher had lobbed a bottle across the quadrangle when they were passing Balliol College. Perveen had screamed and run off into the dark. Alice had followed and uncovered the truth about why the sound of breaking bottles had sent Perveen back into the past.
Perveen had been grateful that Alice didn’t pity or judge her. She’d helped set her back on her feet, thinking about something other than a wall of glistening bottles falling—
Perveen caught herself with a shudder.
“Tell me. Something’s wrong!” Alice demanded.
Perveen longed to tell her about the possible reappearance of Cyrus. However, her thoughts about Alice’s likely exhaustion deterred her, as did the knowledge that the inquisitive Gwendolyn Hobson-Jones could walk through the door at any moment. If the woman sensed any trouble in Perveen’s life, she might think it too dangerous for Alice to spend time with her.
She said, “Just feeling a chill.”
7
A Bird Takes Wing
Bombay, February 1921
After indulging with Alice and her parents in a rabbit-sized tea—a small plate of sandwiches, plain sponge cake, and papaya slices—Perveen made her apologies and said she needed to start for home.
“You should have put out more of Perveen’s dahitan,” Alice said to her mother. “They were the best part.”
“Sweets in moderation. You look as if you’ve consumed plenty since I last saw you,” Lady Hobson-Jones sniped.
“I’ll never be thin like you. Why keep pushing?” Alice retorted.
“Miss Mistry, wouldn’t you like another ride in the Silver Ghost?” interrupted Sir David. “Sirjit can take you home.”
“That’s very generous of you, sir, but Dadar Parsi Colony is out of the way.”
“May I come along?” Alice said. “A colony of Parsis sounds fascinating.”
Lady Hobson-Jones shook her head. “Darling, you’ve been at sea for two weeks. How can you meet Perveen’s family without having a proper bath?”
“I’m free tomorrow after work,” Perveen said. “Could you come to my house for tea?”
“Mr. Martin is taking Alice to a welcome party,” Alice’s mother swiftly rejoined. “However, you could certainly make a date for the future.”
“Ring me. We have a telephone set at home and also in the office. That’s where I am most days from eight to six.” Perveen opened her purse and extracted her card case. She handed Alice a card, which her parents studied in turn.
“Is this your father’s business card?” Sir David asked with raised brows.
“It’s mine. I use my initials only for business—P. J. Mistry. It’s easier to attract new clients if they don’t know my gender.”
“So you’re actually working as a solicitor!” He looked from the engraved card to her face with surprise.
“Father, we talked about it in the car already,” Alice said.
“There’s a difference between training in the law and practicing it. I haven’t seen any woman lawyers in British or Indian courts,” Sir David told Alice.
“Working as a solicitor doesn’t require going to court,” Perveen said. “I do the discovery work on court cases and write contracts for our clientele. My father appears in court, and we hire barristers to present our cases.”
“My goodness,” Lady Hobson-Jones said, pouring a glass of sherry. “I find your set quite inspiring.”
Alice sprang on the comment. “Mother, I’m glad to hear you believe in women working. Apparently there are plenty of teaching opportunities in Bombay.”
“But you worked so hard at that dirty grammar school in North London! Don’t you want a small holiday?”
Perveen sensed that a storm was brewing. Placing her silver fork across her empty cake plate, she said, “Sir David and Lady Hobson-Jones, please excuse me. It shall soon be dark, so I’ll just walk down the hill to the rickshaw stand.”
“As I said, you must ride in the Silver Ghost!” Sir David huffed. “I review crime reports. Over the last year, a number of women traveling in cars and rickshaws have vanished.”
Who was she to turn down what she needed? Perveen smiled and said, “That’s most kind. However, I have a quick stop to make to see a client in the vicinity. Would your driver mind terribly?”
The Silver Ghost departed the Hobson-Joneses’ bungalow gate and reached the entrance to 22 Sea View within two minutes. This time, Perveen waited for the Hobson-Joneses’ driver to open her door and signify authority to whoever might be watching.
Perveen approached the gate, a fresh business card already in hand. A broad-shouldered durwan wearing a worn green uniform hastened past her toward the Rolls’s other side.
“There’s no one else,” Perveen called after realizing the guard assumed such a grand car would contain a man.
He returned with a disappointed air. When Perveen told him she was there to speak to the Farid wives, his head shook vigorously, as did his fez’s limp tassel. “The begums are in mourning, not seeing anyone.”
“I received word from Mukri-sahib that they requested consultation.” This was stretching the truth just a little bit.
The man stood in silence, as straight and thick and unrelenting as the columns on either side of the property gate.
Perveen decided to wait out the durwan. She knew that the Silver Ghost had drawn the attention of the watchmen guarding other nearby houses. If she remained in place, these men would notice the rudeness of the Farids’ employee toward a woman who might have been sent by the governor.
Looking regretful, the watchman opened the gate and kept his head down, as if not wishing to see her go through. Perveen thanked him and moved confidently ahead on a stone path, passing a small family of peacocks who seemed to look after her with suspicion. The grass was high and uneven, as if a gardener hadn’t cut it over the last month.
Standing in front of the house, she noticed the stucco was deteriorating, and greenish mildew had bloomed in places. Gwendolyn Hobson-Jones was correct in her assumption the house wasn’t properly kept up.
The door creaked open on its heavy, rusted hinges. A young boy stood before Perveen wearing just a shabby vest and pantaloons. She couldn’t help noticing the giant black birthmark obscuring most of one of his cheeks: the kind of mark that many people still believed was a devil’s curse.
Perveen smiled encouragingly a
t the bearer, who couldn’t have been more than ten years old. “I’m Perveen Mistry, the family solicitor. I’ve come to see Mukri-sahib. Will you please give him my card?”
“Yes, memsahib.” The child took what she gave him and padded silently out of the reception room.
Removing her kidskin sandals, Perveen brought them to a carved camphorwood shelf where she saw some men’s European shoes and Indian chappals. She wondered if there were no feminine sandals because the family’s women didn’t go out. Perhaps they even had their own door leading to a zenana, a section of the house meant for wives and small children.
Perveen gazed around, taking the measure of the beautiful old bungalow. The diamond patterns of the blue and orange floor tiles were replayed in marble lintels that ran along the tops of the high walls, which had been painted a soft cerulean. The reception room had grand columns with inset panels depicting twisting vines and flowers made from semiprecious stones. She guessed the house was built in the 1880s, just a little bit later than Mistry House.
Perveen settled herself on a low divan and leaned back against a bolster. It was elegant indeed, although the velvet was almost worn through.
She straightened when she heard the slap of slippers on tiles. A well-built man in his midtwenties wearing a silk kurta pajama was proceeding from the passage toward her.
Perveen performed the adab greeting gesture Mustafa had taught her, touching her fingers lightly to her heart and then her forehead. The man didn’t reciprocate.
“Are you from Mistry Law?” he demanded.
Noticing the rudeness, she countered, “Are you Mr. Mukri?”
“Yes. Why didn’t Mistry-sahib come himself?” His voice was heavy with irritation.
Perveen’s back went up. “He sent me. I am P. J. Mistry—the firm’s other solicitor.”
His frown drew down the curled, waxed corners of his mustache. “I don’t want a change in representation.”
She sensed a subtle threat behind his words. “There is no change. We are a family firm working together to serve you best. My father dispatched me because, as a female, I can address the begums directly. I’d very much like to speak with them about the letter.”
Mr. Mukri waved his hand as if shooing away an insect. “There is no need for conversation. I have sent your father a letter with their signatures. That has always been enough.”
Her father hadn’t done a thorough enough job; that was why she’d taken over. But she could hardly tell this man that. “We have carefully reviewed the document, but there are some issues about the mahr—”
“They all wish to put their mahr in the wakf,” he said flatly. “Truly, what they receive isn’t much: one thousand and one rupees a year. This renowned wakf—the Farid Family Foundation—needs every bit of revenue. Funds are especially needed because the wakf shall now support a boys’ madrassa.”
“Oh? That’s a change!” Perveen was startled.
“It was Farid-sahib’s dying wish.”
She had never seen any mention of a religious school for boys in Mr. Farid’s papers; she’d have to ask the widows about this dying wish. However, Mr. Mukri controlled access to them. She needed to proceed carefully. “Sahib, you are taking care of the estate very well. But there are clear rules guarding the contracts already written for the ladies’ mahr and the settlement of the estate. We must be careful to operate within the strictures of Mohammedan law.”
“Yes.” Mr. Mukri seated himself in the chair farthest away, as if establishing a boundary. “First one must pay funeral expenses and the remaining doctors’ bills. All that has been covered.”
“Thank you for paying those bills.” Perveen’s smile stretched thin, because it had taken forever for him to forward evidence of those payments. She took out her notebook and her old Parker pen from her briefcase. “The next responsibility is to make sure all other debts are cleared. Have you had time to read the letters I’ve sent asking for the names of various creditors?”
“I have seen them, but do not worry. Those bills are paid. Farid-sahib appointed me because he knew I would take care of such matters.”
Perveen scrutinized him. She saw shrewd eyes set in a once-handsome face puffed from too much food. His relaxed clothing almost gave the impression he was living inside this household. Obviously, this was a luxurious world he didn’t want to lose. “I agree with you, sahib. However, it would be best if the merchants who regularly supply the household—tailors, grocers, builders, and the like—could provide evidence of paid accounts. I can gather this information, if I only have the names.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, twisting the ends of his mustache as if he was nervous. “I am doing it. But we need to fix the situation with the widows’ donations to the wakf.”
“You included a letter signed by all three begums,” Perveen acknowledged. “However, any judge considering the matter will certainly question whether anyone witnessed each woman signing her own name.”
His eyes narrowed. “You have a paper showing that they certainly signed their names.”
Perveen’s pulse began to race, because she intended to challenge him. “A judge would not believe this without anyone witnessing their signatures.”
“But they are forbidden to be in the same room as men. It is iddat, the mourning period for widows, which lasts four months and ten days.”
Here was her opening. “Of course you would not wish to violate religious custom. This is the reason I have come. It is quite simple for me to meet with each woman individually. If she states to me her wish to donate her mahr, I will then draft a special contract for her saying this.”
“Must all this extra truly be done? We plan for the madrassa to open this July. Builders need to be paid, and we require money for books, and the teachers must have their salaries.”
“Unfortunately, it cannot be avoided—and because this is the first I’ve heard of the madrassa, can you tell me its name and address?” As Perveen wrote notes on her pad, she saw Mr. Mukri’s face tighten.
“It shall be called the Farid Institution. It’s in the neighborhood where most Muslims stay.”
“I see,” Perveen answered, having realized he was building a wall against her as sharp as the glass-topped one outside the bungalow.
“How fast can you get the money for the school?” Mukri asked.
What she was going to say wouldn’t please him, but it was the truth. “Changing established agreements means we must file for approval in several different courts. Given the slowness of bureaucracy, I’m afraid we are speaking of at least three months.”
Grimacing, he said, “We are coming close to the hour of evening prayer, so you cannot see the women tonight. You may call on them tomorrow.”
Perveen didn’t mind the delay. It would give her a chance to gather the mahr documents to bring to the women and do a little more research at the office. Smiling gratefully, she asked, “Mukri-sahib, what is the best time tomorrow?”
“I’ll be at the mill for most of the day, but you may come to see the women anytime before four o’clock—late afternoon prayers.”
“I’ll come at two. And thank you very much for speaking with me today. Let me assure you, our interest is serving the honorable Mr. Farid in the manner he wished.”
Rising from his chair, he pointed a finger at her. “I expect your best effort on this, or I will surely report to your father!”
Mr. Mukri did not stay to see her out the door. This was another rudeness. Feeling irritated, Perveen bent to take her sandals from the shelf where she’d placed them. As she looked down toward it, she noticed something. The wall behind it was a jali made of marble with many geometric perforations. Through these small teardrop spaces, she saw a dark shape. As she stared, the dark shape moved to one side and slipped away.
The presence of jali walls and windows allowed a household’s women to observe the action from w
hich they were excluded. It was an intentional part of Muslim architecture, a way of including those who sat behind the screens.
Perveen couldn’t tell if the shape had been a lady, child, or servant. All she could guess was the individual hadn’t wanted to be seen.
It was barely a half hour to Dadar Parsi Colony, but the journey seemed to take forever. Perveen was anxious to talk things over with her father. She hoped she hadn’t given Mr. Mukri the impression that she’d influence the women to make changes he didn’t want. Having observed his dictatorial nature, though, she felt emphatic that the women needed to know about all their rights.
“My house is the large yellow one on the right with two doors,” Perveen said to Sirjit when he turned into Dinshaw Master Road.
As the driver halted before the Mistrys’ two-year-old stucco duplex, the neighbor boys who’d been playing in the park nearby laid down their cricket bats and rushed over to caress the car.
“Don’t touch! Can’t you idiots see it’s the governor’s car?” Sirjit barked at them.
“What has Perveen done—eaten him up?” a boy shot back.
Amid peals of laughter, the boys kept circling the car. Perveen wished Sirjit hadn’t been so specific.
“Get going before I turn your faces to cauliflower mash!”
Perveen looked up to see Rustom. Her older brother and Gulnaz were leaning over the curly wrought iron railings of the second-story balcony that ran along their bedroom and parlor. Both of them wore dressing gowns, and Gulnaz’s long, lustrous hair was not only loose but also uncovered.
Perveen felt a flash of irritation. Napping at six o’clock on a Monday! It was as if the two of them were still newlyweds and not married two years.
“What’s this about, Perveen?” Rustom called out.
“My friend sent me home in a borrowed car. If you were decent, you could come down and have a look.”
Now the car had attracted a few young men. Perveen saw Rahan Mehta and a couple of non-Parsi companions, all of whom were wearing Congress Party caps. Her father sarcastically called them the Freedom Brigade.
The Widows of Malabar Hill Page 7