“The earrings and the pendant all are made with four-carat emeralds from Burma and two-carat diamonds from India. The bangles are studded with five single-carat emeralds and five single-carat diamonds each.” Sakina’s eyes glowed as she looked up at Perveen.
Perveen still couldn’t guess how much wealth was lying in front of them. “Have you had an appraisal done?”
“Never. As a young bride, I saw how much my husband valued me with this gift. But now he is gone, and there is no use for such extravagant jewelry. It’s better to gift it all to the wakf.”
Perveen nodded, taking note of what Sakina thought about her late husband’s feelings. Perhaps Perveen’s earlier thoughts of love between the husband and his three wives had been too sentimental. She wrote in her notebook, Consented. “Now, what about the five thousand rupees that are coming to you as the second half of the mahr payment?”
“That can go to the wakf. All of us are giving it up; we’ve agreed.”
Perhaps Sakina’s attitude was natural in a joint family with multiple wives and children. Everything was shared. But Perveen sensed the widow didn’t understand the implications of giving up such an asset. “How much have you heard about the rules of Muslim charitable trusts?”
Sakina gave an apologetic smile. “Razia is the one who concerned herself with it—she doesn’t speak much of it to me.”
“I suppose the best thing is for you to read it. I brought the official document explaining the wakf’s purpose, including the shares distributed to your family. It’s in English, though.”
Smiling again, she said, “Just explain it to me, then.”
Perveen summarized the wakf’s purpose of contributing fifteen thousand rupees each year toward necessities and continuing care for wounded army veterans. As she’d discussed with Mr. Mukri, the wakf paid each of the Farid wives one thousand and one rupees per year. The same allotment would be granted to each of the Farid children from the age of eighteen onward.
At the end of the complicated report, Sakina sighed. “Fifteen thousand is a lot, isn’t it? When my husband was alive, he donated to the wakf every year! Perhaps he was too generous. The trouble is how to keep funding the wakf with his income gone.”
“There will still be income flowing to you; he didn’t sell the company,” Perveen explained, surprised she hadn’t known that. “Did Mukri-sahib mention a plan for the wakf to start a madrassa?”
“Yes. He spoke of it when we met at the jali screen last month. It is a sensible thing to do, since the war is over. Also, so many poor Muslim boys cannot afford schooling.”
Perveen looked at Sakina’s open, sweet face and wondered whether her own schooling had ended at age fifteen, when she’d married, or even earlier. Gently, Perveen said, “Literacy is valuable for both boys and girls. Did you know the literacy rate for Muslim girls in India is less than two percent?”
“My girls will read well!” she retorted. “They must learn the important prayers and to converse politely in Hindustani and Urdu. They also learn stitching and fine needlepoint from me.”
“Amina is learning different things,” Perveen said, watching her for a reaction.
Sakina smiled. “It’s her mother’s choice—and she had the advantage of a governess for more years of study. After the estate is settled and we know our financial situation, Mukri-sahib can seek a new governess—but in the meantime, Razia and I can give them their religious training.”
Perveen realized Sakina could not picture a life for girls different than what she knew in her home. “I understand you trust Mukri-sahib greatly. However, there’s a problem with his desire to use the wakf to fund a school. The law is written so that a wakf cannot change its charitable purpose. Because the wakf was defined as a foundation to benefit injured veterans, only a judge can allow the funds to go elsewhere.”
Sakina was silent for a moment. Then she looked at Perveen. “Does this mean a lawyer could help us—you could do that?”
Perveen shifted uncomfortably on the settee. How could she answer? Of course, she was there to do all she could to help the family. However, she couldn’t go against the law. “Such work would be done in steps. Firstly, the plan to change a beneficiary for a wakf must be ordered by the mutawalli—the person who is the wakf administrator. And then comes the decision to hire a lawyer.”
“Mukri-sahib has already done the first part, by speaking to you, hasn’t he?” Sakina queried.
Perveen saw that Sakina was missing the obvious point. “Actually, he’s not in charge. Razia-begum has always been the wakf’s mutawalli.”
Sakina looked as if she’d been punched. Taking a shaky breath, she said, “What do you mean? Razia helps with the wakf—but it was my husband’s foundation. And now Mukri-sahib has naturally taken it over.”
“No. Her name is listed in the paper as the mutawalli—the administrator in charge of everything.”
Sakina still looked disbelieving. “A woman can do that?”
“Mohammedan law allows for a mutawalli to be any religion or gender. I shall ask Razia-begum about whether she thinks both missions can be accomplished. I imagine that if she looks at the accounting, she might realize two projects could deplete the wakf’s funding.”
Sakina’s look toward Perveen was pleading. “What should we do, then?”
Perveen felt awkward because she could not steer Sakina, and her confused, unhappy state was clearly the result of the new information. “One thing at a time. Do you still wish to give up all of your mahr to the wakf?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was shaky, as if she were about to cry.
“I’m terribly sorry to have surprised you like this, Sakina-begum.” Perveen was belatedly realizing her explanation of Razia’s status could become the start of a family feud. “I thought this was something you already knew.”
Sakina wiped a tear from her face. “Now I understand why you wanted to speak to each of us alone! Two of us have bad news and only one person good.”
Perveen felt apprehensive. “What does that mean?”
Looking down, Sakina murmured, “I thought our late husband had treated all of us well—but if he gave Razia the wakf, it means she was his favorite. And how can she decide sensibly on matters when she knows even less about the world than Mumtaz and I do?”
Mumtaz had surely experienced hard times if she’d had to support herself as a musician. She had to be street-smart, although her illiteracy would prohibit her from being able to perform the tasks of a mutawalli. But Perveen couldn’t understand why Sakina felt so righteous about her own powers. “Sakina-begum, weren’t you raised inside a zenana?”
“Yes—but our compound in Poona was large and always filled with relatives coming and going. It was a happy place. I learned everything from my father, my brothers, and cousins—” She broke off, her face pinkening.
Sakina probably was embarrassed to give the impression she was brought up with more freedom than she had now. Trying to sound understanding, Perveen said, “That must have been a happy time for you.”
Softly, she said, “Children are happiest if they grow up playing with many sisters and brothers. For this reason, I want my daughters and son to live with Amina and their aunts. That is why the wakf must stay strong. It keeps us together. No one of us wives should have power over the others.”
Perveen put her hand over Sakina’s, thinking she now understood why the second wife had referred to the senior wife by first name only—although, as a lawyer in service to the family, she herself could not. “We can’t change your husband’s decision to give guardianship of the wakf to Razia-begum. I urge you to speak with her about whether there’s any change in her intentions for the wakf. Take time to decide whether to sign over your assets. If you don’t give your jewelry and money to the mahr, they could be financial security for you, or an inheritance for your daughters.”
Sakina fl
icked off Perveen’s hand to take up the emerald necklace. She turned the elaborate piece this way and that so its stones flashed in the soft light coming through the jali. To Perveen, it didn’t look as if Sakina wanted to lose it. But she’d already made the point about choice—and the choice was the widow’s.
Perveen withdrew one of her business cards from her briefcase and laid it on the silver tray next to the glass of falooda that Sakina hadn’t touched. “My card has telephone numbers for my house and office and also my mailing address. I’m able to come back, if you’d rather speak in person.”
Sakina shook her head.
As Perveen took hold of her briefcase and stood to take her leave, she studied the woman, who’d stopped putting her jewelry away. Sakina was running her emerald necklace gently through her hands, as if weighing something a good deal heavier than twenty-four carats.
10
Secrets between Wives
Bombay, February 1921
Opening the bedroom door into the hall, Perveen almost tumbled over Amina.
Razia’s daughter was sitting against the wall and looked up with an innocent expression. “I shall walk you to my mother’s room. Won’t you please speak more English with me?”
“You couldn’t understand my Hindi just now?” Perveen asked, challenging her to deny the eavesdropping.
“Yes. But I want to learn English.”
Perveen was intrigued by the girl’s attitude. “Why is that?”
Amina paused. “Ammi went to a school. The teachers spoke English. Maybe one day I’ll also go to school.”
Razia must have been listening for them, because after they rounded the corner into the next hallway, she appeared in an arched doorway. “Please come in, Perveen-bibi. I’ve had a pot of tea brought up.”
Perveen knew that turning down a drink offered by any of the wives would be a slight. “How kind of you. Just a small cup, please.”
“I shall pour,” Amina said, hurrying to a tea table set with gold-banded Minton china.
Razia’s room was slightly smaller than Sakina’s but had the advantage of being on a corner, with windows on two sides cross-ventilating it. Its aged plaster walls were covered with framed sketches and tinted photographs of the Taj Mahal and some significant Bombay buildings: Victoria Terminus, the Secretariat, and the Haji Ali Dargah mosque.
While Sakina’s centerpiece had been her large, elegant bed, Razia’s room held twin beds covered by cotton patchwork quilts. The room’s piece of pride appeared to be a large mahogany partners’ desk with a Queen Anne style chair on each side. One side of the desk was covered with children’s books and colored wax pencils and pieces of chalk. The other had a stack of ledgers on a blotter and a stack of stationery and a line of old-fashioned fountain pens and ink bottles. Perveen could imagine the mother and daughter working together, the same way she and her father did in the law office.
Amina carefully carried two cups of tea over to a wide teak swing that hung from the ceiling by silk-covered cords. The swing was wide enough to seat at least four people. It hung close to the veranda, which was enclosed by a cast-iron jali that offered a hint of the blue sky and green trees outside.
Perveen had more to discuss with Razia than anyone, but she was determined not to rush. As she seated herself on the swing next to Razia, she decided to speak in Hindi, to be certain all she said was understood. “I appreciate your agreeing to speak with me. But wouldn’t Amina like to join the other children for the music lesson?”
“It’s a simple song. I know it already!” Amina stamped her feet as she made her way to the desk and sat down with her cup of tea. She kept her eyes on her mother.
Razia looked shyly at Perveen. “I don’t mind if she’s here. Amina helps me with my papers and knows all that I do. And it’s her legacy we will talk about.”
Perveen sipped the tea, which was blisteringly hot and sweet. Trying not to wince, she realized she could not go against a client’s wish when she was trying to make a reassuring impression. “Very well. But Amina, I am going to teach you a word in English. It is ‘confidential.’”
“Con-fi-den-tial,” Amina repeated back slowly. “The meaning?”
Looking intently at the girl, Perveen said, “The word ‘confide’ is a verb that means trusting another person enough to tell them something one doesn’t like telling many others. The lawyer that you share such talk with does not tell others, unless you’ve given permission. And that is how this conversation should be, for your mother’s sake.”
“It’s secret,” Amina said in English. “Why not say that?”
Perveen drank again to allow herself a moment to think of a sensible explanation. “Secrets are often about bad things. We are not trying to hide something bad. And it seems to me that secrets almost always wind up being told.”
“Agreed. There are few secrets inside a zenana,” Razia said with a weary half smile.
Perveen considered saying to Razia that she’d been very good at withholding the information that she ran the wakf from Sakina—but it wouldn’t have been a tactful way to start their conversation. “Thank you for granting me this time. It must be a very difficult time, since your husband’s passing.”
Razia shrugged her thin shoulders. “Actually, it’s not different than the last two years.”
This surprised Perveen, who’d painted a picture in her head of Razia as the most devoted wife. “Tell me about the last two years.”
“After Dr. Ibrahim diagnosed cancer, my husband began going in the evenings to Falkland Road. Mukri-sahib brought him. There he found relief of some sort.” Razia leaned back and started the swing slowly rocking. “He no longer stayed with me much. Then he brought a musician who worked there home. This was Mumtaz. He began to stay in her room only. So we could not see much of him.”
Perveen was astounded Razia had spoken in front of Amina about Falkland Road, an area known not only for music but prostitution and drugs. But the Farid females lived in seclusion, so Razia might not have understood. “Not seeing your husband during that time must have pained your heart.”
Razia looked thoughtful. “I’d lost him once before—when Sakina came,” she said quietly. “That was the time when he appointed me mutawalli of the wakf. I think he wanted me to be busy, to have something. And it has been worthwhile work. But it seemed terribly wrong that I devoted myself to getting good care for wounded men all over India, but my husband didn’t want my care.”
Perveen looked over at the desk where Amina was fiddling with the items before her: pens, pencils, a letter opener. She wasn’t looking at her mother, but Perveen thought she was listening closely.
Razia brought her heels down on the floor, stopping the swing. “Perveen-bibi, do you wish me to sign a new paper? Mukri-sahib said the document we signed was not enough.”
“Certainly,” Perveen said, picking up her briefcase. “Are you the one who had the idea of shifting all the wives’ mahr into the wakf?”
She shook her head. “Mukri-sahib spoke of it to me last week, explaining the financial duress we are under, and said we should give more to the wakf. As our guardian, he suggested we all put our mahr into the wakf. I thought it was a sensible idea, because we can do good for others yet not worry we will lose our home.”
“What is the current endowment?”
“Come. I’ll show you.” Razia stood and walked to the partners’ desk. Pulling out a large book, she opened it and showed Perveen columns of withdrawals.
“It looks like there are one hundred seven thousand rupees, and the last addition to the endowment was two years ago.”
“My husband was very set on building the endowment during the war years, when our mills were running day and night. We are losing ground because every year fifteen thousand flows to the veterans and three thousand to us wives. The family payout will rise to seven thousand rupees per year after the children co
me of age.”
Razia understood the mathematics. But how far into the future had she thought? “At the rate you’re giving, the endowment could all be gone in a few years,” Perveen said.
Razia’s expression was grave. “I know.”
There were so many things Perveen had to share with Razia—but first in her mind was what would happen if even more than fifteen thousand flowed out per year. “Have you estimated the extra expense of building the madrassa?”
Razia’s eyes widened. “Madrassa? What do you mean?”
Perveen had a sinking feeling she was spilling another secret. But this one needed to be known by the wakf’s mutawalli. “Mukri-sahib told me the wakf funds will build a madrassa for boy students. He plans to hire teachers soon and open this year.”
Razia was silent for a long moment. When her words came, they were spoken in a grim undertone. “I—I am shocked. He did not speak of any madrassa when he gathered us to ask for signatures for the wakf donations.”
Sakina had known. Was it because Mr. Mukri had told her, perhaps favoring her as the leader of the wives?
“Mukri-sahib told me,” Perveen said, trying not to reveal the unease she felt. “It was the reason he wished everyone’s mahr to be transferred quickly.”
“I suppose that if we gave all the mahr we had, there might be enough money to support two projects for a short time.” Razia’s voice was grave. “But truly, our wakf is for helping wounded veterans.”
Perveen needed to know more. “It sounds as if the foundation’s mission is still important to you. How did it come about?”
“It began with the war,” Razia said, shifting her feet so the swing rocked back and forth again. “In 1915, the government requested that Farid Fabrics produce thousands of bolts of khaki cotton drill cloth. For my husband, it was good business. But in my mind, we were dressing men so that they could fight—and very likely be wounded or killed. I didn’t like that.”
The Widows of Malabar Hill Page 10