The Widows of Malabar Hill

by Sujata Massey

  Seeing an opening off to the room’s west side, Perveen went a few steps and found herself in a small room about eight feet square that was dominated by a six-foot-high, ceramic-tiled niche. The niche was fitted out with hundreds of tiny mosaic tiles that formed pictures of flowers and curving arabesques in shades of blue and violet with touches of yellow. Gazing into it, she was overcome by a sense of an old, elegant culture that seemed somehow familiar. Zoroastrians had ruled Persia before the Arab conquest in the middle of the seventh century, and a shared aesthetic came through in the ornate floral tiles.

  A soft swishing sound made her quickly turn.

  “Do you wish to pray?” A thin girl who looked about twelve was regarding Perveen with curiosity. The girl’s salwar kameez didn’t fit well, but it was of a fine embroidered silk that made it clear she wasn’t another servant.

  “Amina!” A petite woman with luxuriant black hair coiled into a top-knot rushed up behind the girl. “Don’t say such things. The lady is not Muslim.”

  Perveen was embarrassed to be caught wandering. She made a quick adab gesture to the woman, who had long-lashed, beautiful eyes and an unearthly fair complexion that was evidence of life lived indoors. The lady who appeared close to Perveen’s age was dressed in a borderless black sari, which should have been grim but was elegant due to its silk chiffon.

  Feeling flustered, she said, “I didn’t know this was a holy place. I’m sorry.”

  “No need for apology,” the lady said in a markedly sweeter tone. “The mihrab is our central point for worship. You are Miss Mistry, aren’t you? I am Sakina.”

  Her courteous response eased Perveen’s tension. “Adab, Sakina-begum. My name is Perveen. I’d like to offer a very belated condolence on the passing of your husband. My father said he was such an honorable man, always treating everyone kindly.”

  Sakina nodded soberly. “Your condolence is gratefully received, and it is not late at all, for we are observing the mourning period.” As she spoke, two other women in black arrived, their beaded slippers making light sounds on the marble. “May I introduce Razia and Mumtaz? We will do whatever you wish.”

  Perveen repeated her adab gesture, and both ladies reciprocated. The tall, slender woman with gray streaks running through black hair pulled into a tight bun must have been Razia. Although the papers at the office revealed her to be thirty, Perveen thought she looked slightly older due to long frown lines running between her nose and mouth.

  Mumtaz, the third wife, was quite brown: natural for someone who’d not been sheltered her whole life. She was not as alluring as Perveen had expected. Her hair was scraped into a messy braid, and her face was puffy and tired looking. Another difference between her and the other wives was her dress. All the wives wore borderless black saris. But while Sakina wore silk chiffon and Razia tussah silk, Mumtaz wore a baggy sari of cheaply dyed black cotton—a fabric more likely to be worn by a poor woman than a rich one.

  “Thank you for coming. I am Razia, the mother of Amina, who was the first of us to greet you.” The senior wife’s voice was lower-pitched than Sakina’s and had a reassuring gravity. “She has been very excited about your arrival since Mukri-sahib alerted us yesterday evening.”

  Perveen was distracted by the sound of small feet running. Within seconds, two young girls in white, lace-edged frocks had appeared.

  “It’s time for playing music with Mumtaz-khala!” the older of the girls sang out. She looked about six years old and was likely Sakina’s first-born daughter.

  “Nasreen, you are interrupting Perveen-bibi, who is our guest,” Sakina said, tapping Nasreen on the head. “And Mumtaz-khala cannot play music with you and Shireen today. She is busy.”

  Five-year-old Shireen hopped up and down. “Who is our guest? Where does she come from?”

  “None of you girls should be downstairs. This is time for grown-ups talking. Go to Ayah.” Razia’s tone was reproving.

  Perveen sensed the widows were anxious about her presence, and this feeling would pass to the children. There was no need for it. Smiling at the children, she said, “Might we all say hello to each other? The judge will ask whether I’ve seen the children and if they are in good health and spirits.”

  “All right, then,” Razia said with a nod. “You girls are lucky to have this chance.”

  She crouched to get on eye level with the two younger girls. “I’m Perveen; call me Auntie or Khala if you like. I live in Dadar Parsi Colony, and I work with my father in an area called Fort. We are lawyers, which means we help people keep what belongs to them. We promised your father we would watch over your family to make sure you were fine.”

  After Perveen spoke the word “father,” Amina rushed forward and put a protective hand on each of the other daughters. “Don’t say that.”

  “I’m sorry—” Perveen felt alarmed.

  “Abba is still watching us,” Amina said reprovingly. “From heaven.”

  Parsis and Muslims both believed in heaven and hell. This was a major difference from Hindus, who believed in reincarnation. “You must miss him very much.”

  Amina nodded. “I do. He talked to me every day, even when he was sick. Shireen and Nasreen don’t remember him so well, because they didn’t go in the sickroom.”

  “Abba is happier in heaven, Ammi says.” Nasreen reached out a finger to eagerly stroke the border of Perveen’s sari. “Your sari is very pretty. Not black like theirs.”

  For a moment Perveen was confused, but then she remembered “Ammi” was the Urdu word for mother. “I don’t think they will always wear black, but it is the custom now.”

  “We mourn for four months and ten days,” Razia said flatly. “After that, we dress as we like—but there really is no reason for festivity.”

  Perveen had the sense Razia was heavily grieving her husband. Perhaps she felt the burden of the whole household upon her in addition to the emotional loss. Mumtaz and Sakina both looked somber. It made Perveen wonder about how Omar Farid’s relationship with each woman had been, whether he had shown a different side of himself to each one, or if he had loved one more intensely than the others.

  “Why have you arranged your sari so strangely?” Shireen chirped, interrupting Perveen’s thoughts. “It’s not correct.”

  “Shireen!” Sakina reprimanded her with a soft laugh. “Please excuse my daughter’s rudeness.”

  “It’s a good question!” Perveen said. “I am a Parsi, and it is our custom to wear saris this way.”

  “May I please?” said Nasreen, stretching out her fingers to touch the embroidery.

  “Of course.” Perveen stood like a mannequin, feeling the way she had when the women in her family had rushed around draping her sari for her wedding.

  “What is a Parsi?” asked Amina in slow, studied English.

  “A Zoroastrian born in India.” Seeing Amina’s small brows drawn together in a questioning way, Perveen elaborated. “We worship God, but we call him Ahura Mazda rather than Allah. My people came on boats from Persia a very long time ago. Other Persian Zoroastrians have come in the last hundred years. They call themselves Iranis, because that is the country’s name in Persian. ”

  “Ah. It is like British calling us Mohammedans. We are Muslims.” Amina’s gaze was bright. “My ancestors came from Arabia. Also on very long boats.”

  “Amina, are you studying English?” Perveen was surprised both by the girl’s swift logic and the fact that she kept answering Perveen’s Hindi words in English.

  “We were learning until our English governess went. May I properly say to you: ‘Good afternoon, Miss Mistry’?” Amina put out a slender hand for Perveen to shake.

  “I am very pleased to meet you,” Perveen said, shaking Amina’s hand and thinking that all three girls had a sparkling energy. She turned to Shireen and Nasreen and spoke in Hindi. “The only one missing is your brother. I’d like to meet h
im, too.”

  “He’s napping upstairs. Now that all have been acquainted, shall we sit down?” Sakina suggested with the air of a comfortable hostess. “Fatima, go to Iqbal and ask him to make a pitcher of falooda.”

  The young maid nodded and hurried out the door.

  The hospitality was enticing, but Perveen couldn’t allow her consultations to become a family affair. Gesturing at her briefcase, she said, “I am very much looking forward to talking with all of you, but I should speak with each lady alone.”

  “In the zenana, there are no secrets. We are all sisters!” Sakina said with a friendly laugh that revealed a mouthful of sparkling teeth. How was it that Sakina looked so well when Razia and Mumtaz did not?

  “I understand that. However, the judge requires a different letter from each wife. It is just as your late husband made an individual marriage and mahr contract with each of you.” Perveen regarded each widow as she spoke. Both Razia and Sakina appeared startled; Mumtaz’s expression didn’t change. She looked as if she were accustomed to being told what to do.

  “Can’t we stay?” Amina asked. “It sounds very interesting.”

  Perveen paused, thinking how rare it must have been for the children to have a visitor. “I’ve an idea. If the children wish to play music with Mumtaz-begum, there’s no reason not to do that now. I will come for a performance before I have my visit with her.”

  “We can certainly do that,” Mumtaz agreed, giving the children a tired smile. “Let’s practice to make a lovely concert.”

  “But the falooda!” Nasreen whimpered.

  “You may have a small glass after you’ve practiced nicely.” Sakina gave her an indulgent look. “Perveen-bibi, I will speak to you first in my private quarters upstairs.”

  “Bibi” was the proper honorific to use with Perveen, who was a young single woman.

  But this was a very unusual household if the second wife decided to speak before the first.

  9

  Pierced Walls

  Bombay, February 1921

  Perveen followed Sakina up the wide marble staircase into the Farid widows’ private world. Here every window was shaded with a marble jali screen, casting dotted bits of light everywhere. It was beautiful but dim, reminding Perveen of what it was like to try to read on her balcony after the sun had set.

  The zenana hallways upstairs were in the shape of an L. Sakina led her through a long hallway and into a shorter one that ended with a metal jali screen. Drawing closer, Perveen noticed that the delicately tooled metalwork was made to resemble a trellis covered with clusters of grapes and their vines.

  “Such lovely metalwork; it reminds me of the doors of a cabinet in our office. I wonder if your cabinet was made by the same metalsmith.” As Perveen moved closer, she saw that the golden jali appeared to be locked on the other side and had a wide slot in the middle with a hinged covering. “What’s this?”

  Sakina smiled at the compliment before answering. “This jali makes a border between our zenana and the main house. The opening is a place where we may pass papers and other small things. It is a relic from the old days, but now that Mukri-sahib is here, we find it convenient to use it again.”

  “Is this the place where you sit when you converse with Mukri-sahib?” Perveen regarded a small bench covered in pink velvet.

  “Yes. There’s a seat on the other side for any gentleman who has been approved to come into the bungalow and needs to speak with us.”

  Perveen wanted a sense of how many personal connections the women had. “Besides Mukri-sahib, who has come recently?”

  “Many mourners came in December. Two weeks ago, a military officer came to discuss some matters of the wakf with Razia, but he could not enter the house because of our mourning period.”

  Sakina had referred to the household’s senior wife by her first name only—an act that did not show the respect that adding “begum” would have provided. Perveen wondered what Mustafa would think. “How often do your own relatives visit?”

  “My family is from Poona; therefore, visits aren’t frequent.” Sakina had straightened slightly, as if she were less comfortable. “But I’m not lonely. As you can see, we have a very lively home, and we can sit outside in our gardens when the weather is fine.”

  Perveen didn’t entirely believe her. “What about telephoning—can you ever chat?”

  The widow’s long-lashed eyes flared. “Telephone calls are expensive. And the telephone set is in the main section. It is for business matters only.”

  “Do you visit friends elsewhere in Malabar Hill or Bombay?” Perveen was worried that Sakina was putting up a brave front.

  “A few acquaintances.” Sakina gave Perveen a level glance. “I hope you don’t consider us poor, trapped females because we observe purdah? It is entirely by choice.”

  “I understand you’ve chosen to live this way.” But Perveen remained concerned about how little contact they had with others—and not even a telephone for emergencies.

  “I thank Allah daily that we are not on the streets surrounded by dangerous types and that our daughters are growing like roses in a walled garden. This is a special, peaceful life. If only we can keep together and stay in this home, I will have no worries.”

  “Of course, we will try to ensure that, Sakina-begum.” Feeling chastised, Perveen followed Sakina through the doorway that was closest to the golden jali. Inside was a sumptuously decorated bedroom dominated by a big four-poster dressed in pink silk. The drapery color was exactly the same as that of the roses in the blue-and-pink mosaic tiled borders around the windows and doors.

  “What a charming room. And it looks like another room is attached.” Lowering her voice, Perveen said, “Is your baby son sleeping there?”

  “All the children stay in the nursery with Ayah. Jum-Jum is always sleeping this time of day—he’s just turned one. I use the other room for taking tea with visiting relatives or friends, for simply enjoying some rest,” Sakina said with the gracious smile that Perveen realized was her hallmark. “Let’s go in together.”

  “How many servants work in the house?” Perveen asked, settling down on a purple velvet settee while Sakina took a matching wing chair. A black lacquered curio cabinet was filled with English and French china figurines, and a grand mahogany commode was topped by an arrangement of lilies and tuberose in a bowl. There was a feeling of luxury and peace in the room. “Did you make the lovely flower arrangements?”

  “Yes,” Sakina said, looking a bit startled. “I must take care of the flowers now. I go very early in the morning, when the sun is not strong. We did have a gardener, but to conserve funds, we let him go, as well as the governess Amina mentioned, the cook’s assistant, and our head bearer.”

  “You are very talented at it,” Perveen said, realizing that Sakina seemed ashamed to be performing an art that many other ladies would have prided themselves in. “If so many staff are gone, do Fatima and Zeid take care of the cleaning?”

  “Yes. Their father, Mohsen, is our durwan. We still have Iqbal—our cook—and Taiba-ayah, who has been with the family since my late husband’s childhood.”

  Fatima came in, awkwardly carrying a silver tray weighed down with two tall crystal goblets brimming with a pale pink beverage. The fruit-and-milk punch was room temperature, not chilled, and Perveen realized the house didn’t have an icebox.

  “Delicious,” she said after sipping. “And is Mukri-sahib staying in the house or visiting when needed?”

  “He has taken a room in the main section of the house. Having a responsible man inside the house was my husband’s wish; it keeps us safe. We hope he will continue living here, although it is certainly an imposition for him.”

  Because of Mukri’s casual clothing the day before, Perveen had guessed he lived in the home. But it certainly was unconventional for a man who wasn’t their blood relative. She wondered if
he had anyone to keep him company on the other side of the house. “Has he a wife and children?”

  “No. That is the reason my husband thought he would be able to dedicate himself to helping us.” Sakina carefully set down her own glass of falooda on an embroidered cloth on the table before them. “Perveen-bibi, were you going to explain about the necessary papers?”

  “Sorry,” Perveen said, realizing she’d strayed too far into the personal. “I’d like to start by reviewing the mahr papers your husband signed in 1913.”

  Perveen opened her briefcase and presented the Urdu version of Sakina’s mahr agreement. Sakina’s eyes ran slowly over the lines. “I understand. The paper describes the jewelry set that I’m planning to give to the wakf.”

  “I assume such valuable jewelry is in a vault at a bank?” Perveen said, taking a legal pad out to begin her notes.

  “No bank,” she said dismissively. “My father-in-law built safes in all the bedrooms, and that is where I’ve always kept my jewelry.”

  “Oh! It’s right here, then.”

  “Would you like to see it? I haven’t looked at it since before my husband’s illness.”

  “Certainly.” Perveen was pleased that verification would be so simple.

  Sakina rose gracefully from her seat and went to the wall, where she shifted aside a small painting of orchids. Behind it was a brass plate with two round dials. After a few seconds’ work, the door sprang open, and she pulled out a drawer with boxes. Sakina returned to Perveen and set down a series of velvet boxes on the table between them.

  “What beautiful pieces,” Perveen said as Sakina brought forward a gleaming necklace of emeralds, diamonds, and delicate gold links. She opened a smaller box, showing the matching bangles and yet another one with fine emerald drop earrings. The size and clarity of the gems was astounding. Perveen was not the same kind of jewelry connoisseur as her sister-in-law. She suddenly wished Gulnaz was with her.