The Widows of Malabar Hill

by Sujata Massey

  “It’s sad to die!” Amina commented in her know-it-all tone from her post at the desk. “So sad for the people you leave behind. Although if one leads a righteous life, he goes to heaven.”

  “I was haunted by the thought that men wouldn’t have been able to go into battle without our uniforms.” Razia was rocking the swing steadily now. “We can do nothing for the poor souls who died, more than seventy thousand from India alone. But the least we should do is give clothing, wheelchairs, and other necessary supplies to the wounded—and extend help to their families, since military pensions aren’t sufficient for living.”

  Razia’s words reminded Perveen of how she and Alice had seen the condition of some wounded veterans who were housed in some of Oxford’s halls. It had been horrifying to see their injuries. “What are some of the ways you have provided aid to Muslim veterans?”

  “We help all the Indian Army soldiers, regardless of religion. The soldier only needs a commanding officer or hospital worker or chaplain to ask. I know one—Captain Aarif Ali—who has made it possible to help many of his troops and others beside. May I show you some of his letters?” Razia went to a tall bookcase and brought back a heavy album with a letter pasted to each page. As Perveen leafed through, she saw the letters were written in a variety of scripts—Urdu, Hindi, Punjabi, English, and Tamil. Captain Ali had written many letters of his own, too—in English, likely because everything he wrote was subject to review by a commanding officer.

  Your kind transfer of 100 rupees of May 1918 was most appreciated. I was able to purchase clothing for five veterans, 10 walking sticks, and three wheelchairs. Per your suggestion, I am continuing to provide men returning home with a gift of 100 rupees to spend as they see fit at home, and encouraging family members with special needs to submit claims with specific details.

  Perveen turned the page and read another letter from Captain Ali.

  Your payment for the schooling of Private Bhatia’s son and daughter was received with heartfelt tears from Mr. Bhatia. His wife has sent a heartfelt letter to you that I am including with this. Mrs. Farid, your continuing questions to me about the needs of family members are no trouble at all for me. They have given me a greater understanding of the character of my men and how much they gave up to serve the government.

  “After the war ended, Captain Ali came to this house to pay his respects to my husband and me and explain about the ongoing need. Even though the war is over, soldiers are still coming out of hospital and have needs for equipment and physical therapy that are beyond what the army can give.”

  “Captain Ali came to talk to Ammi a few weeks ago, but Mukri-sahib did not allow it,” Amina said, repeating the story Perveen had heard from Sakina.

  “It is iddat,” Razia said crisply to her daughter.

  “I saw the captain through the jali, Ammi. He is handsome as a king.”

  “Amina!” her mother reproved.

  Perveen thought the women deserved to talk through the jali with men who had legitimate household business. But that was tangential to the matter at hand. “Razia-begum, because you are the mutawalli, all decisions about the wakf are yours. In any matter, the court will likely be hesitant to change the recipient of the wakf’s monies. I’m advising you based on previous cases decided by the court.”

  Razia looked almost angrily at her. “You speak as if it’s a simple matter. How can I push my wishes on Mukri-sahib?”

  “Don’t think of it in such terms,” Perveen said gently. “Your husband appointed him to serve the family.”

  “Mukri-sahib is the agent for the household—which means he stands as the man of the house. He manages everything. If he doesn’t like my behavior, what might he do the next time he goes to the bank to withdraw funds for us? The bankers allow him full privileges.”

  Perveen was suddenly uneasy. She’d seen Razia’s ledger—but it was a handwritten account. Mr. Mukri could already be withdrawing money without Razia knowing it.

  “What could happen with the allowances for food and clothing if he’s unhappy?” Razia’s voice rose. “Will there be money to pay for electric lighting in the house, for the fans to run? Already the children lost their governess.”

  “What are you thinking, Miss Mistry? Your face is so angry. Are you upset with Ammi?” Amina’s voice was anxious.

  “No, I’m not angry. These situations happen all the time with household agents.” Perveen tried to relax her jaw. Her thoughts had turned to the possibility of the widows filing a suit for the removal of Faisal Mukri. The best chance of success would be if all of them agreed to participate, and they had hard evidence of malfeasance.

  It would take at least a month to prepare, and such a case could take months to reach court. And what would their living situation be like in the meantime?

  “There are so many things you can do,” she continued, picking up the mahr contract that had not yet been discussed. “We should discuss the issue of the dower that was promised to you when you married.”

  “A small amount of swampland near the mill district,” Razia said dismissively. “I don’t think it’s worth much.”

  “Actually, it is. The land was filled in, and two company mills stand on it.”

  Razia’s shoulders jerked in surprise. She looked hard at Perveen, as if trying to figure out if the words were true.

  “Does this mean Ammi owns the factories herself?” Amina asked, her voice rising in excitement.

  “A court would decide,” Perveen said, looking at Razia, who was still speechless. “The promise is in the mahr letter; however, your husband didn’t ever change the title on the land. But it can be done. You would have to instruct me, or another lawyer, to go forward.”

  Razia was silent for a while longer and then took a long, shuddering breath. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. My husband was using the land for the company, which benefits all of us in the family. Why should there be concern?”

  Her words gave Perveen the spark of an idea that could protect the wakf. Leaning forward, she said, “If the land is not titled to you, you cannot donate it.”

  Razia gave her an incredulous glare. “Sakina has her jewelry gift and Mumtaz the instruments. They are giving up these things—how will it look if I give nothing?”

  Listening to her, Perveen realized that perhaps the widows were close enough that they all used first names. Such a relationship might make Razia feel especially bad about having more. “For each of you, it’s an individual decision. And knowing what you do, would you want to give up this land to the mahr—or would you like to retain it as an asset for the protection of your daughter and yourself?”

  Razia hesitated again before speaking. “Sakina will be very jealous to know that I have land with factories. And what about Mumtaz? She takes joy in her musical instruments, but they are worth little next to what I have. I wish to be confidential about the factories on the land.”

  “It seems there are a great number of confidences that are being kept in this house. Sakina-begum didn’t even know you were the wakf’s mutawalli.”

  “If she had asked, I would have told her!” Razia sounded almost flippant. “But she had no interest. She enjoyed a rich life with my husband for many years. She never knew what it felt like to be ignored until Mumtaz came.”

  Perveen winced, realizing her earlier assumption of closeness had been naïve. Jealousy and resentment were the running themes in this household of women. “Razia-begum, it seems that you are chained to some people and a large old house that you cannot fully enjoy.”

  Razia looked warily at Perveen. “Is that not the meaning of family?”

  A shiver ran through Perveen. A few years earlier, she had felt exactly the same. Pushing away that memory, she said, “You three have the right to sell this house and share the proceeds. This would enable you all to live at ease wherever you might choose. Perhaps you would like to see you
r natal family again, or you could rent one of the new flats with seaside views right here in Malabar Hill.”

  Razia gave her a withering look. “A woman like you could live without protection—but I have no experience in the world. I have to worry about Amina’s safety, and the danger to me, too. This is all so difficult. I don’t know what to do about the mahr, and what you’ve told me about the wakf is distressing!”

  “Tell Mr. Mukri that he needs to speak with me. I’ll explain the needful,” Perveen said, handing her a business card. “I shall leave the translated copy of the mahr document for you to keep. Write to me if you wish to talk again—although I hear you have a telephone on the other side of the house. Both my telephone numbers are listed on the card.”

  Razia studied the card and put it in the central drawer on her side of the partners’ desk. “So now you are going to Mumtaz.”

  Packing up her briefcase, Perveen said, “What is your relationship like with her, now that she’s no longer caring for your husband?”

  “It’s all right,” Razia said with a shrug. “She nursed my husband without complaint, and she has been a good help with our girls.”

  “Mumtaz-khala is my favorite aunt,” Amina said. “She says I’m very good on the veena.”

  “You must not say such things about favorites! We are one family,” Razia chided.

  Amina set her mouth in a firm line.

  Wanting to cut off an argument, Perveen gestured to the jali. “I hear beautiful music playing outside. I wonder whether that is Mumtaz-begum or the little ones.”

  “Mumtaz-khala, of course! May I bring you there?” Amina asked eagerly.

  Perveen smiled at her. “I’d be grateful for your guidance.”

  “Is it really safe for women to live outside?” Amina asked after they’d left the zenana’s second floor and were going down the stairs.

  “I’ve been fine.” More or less, she thought.

  “May I ask you another thing, Perveen-khala?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you . . . be confidential with me?”

  Stopping her progression down the stairs, Perveen looked at Amina. “I will—unless it’s something your mother must know to care for you better.”

  Amina looked at her intently. “I love my whole family very much. But . . .”

  “But what?” Perveen prodded gently.

  “I would like to go and live somewhere else, like you said.”

  Perveen asked, “Do you wish to see the outside world? Everything in the pictures on your walls?”

  The child hung her head. In a whisper, she said, “I don’t want to live here because of Mukri-sahib.”

  Fear rose up around Perveen like a chilly wall. “Why? Has he—has he ever laid a hand on you?”

  Amina shook her head but remained silent.

  Perveen had to figure it out. “Does he speak cruelly—threaten you in any way?”

  “He speaks terribly to my mother and me. But don’t tell him we said this, or things will be worse.” Amina started walking quickly, as if she regretted starting the conversation.

  Perveen followed her down the rest of the stairs. “Amina, does your mother feel as troubled about this as you do?”

  “I’m not troubled—I wish death upon him. Ammi is too good, too quiet. She is afraid.”

  Razia’s response to the idea of challenging Mr. Mukri on the wakf had already proven that. But perhaps there was more—something that could be used in a case against him. “What has he done to make your mother afraid?”

  “I can’t say now. It is confidential. Nasreen and Shireen are here.”

  Amina had run ahead into the garden, holding out her arms for the younger two to rush forward into them. She embraced her half sisters, laughing as if her short, disturbing confession had never taken place.

  11

  Concert in the Garden

  Bombay, February 1921

  Putting on a calm face, Perveen followed Amina and her half sisters to the thin carpet spread out in a stone pavilion, where several instruments were arranged. Perveen seated herself on a stone bench and watched Amina take a teacher’s place to the side of the two little girls. While Amina played with confident dexterity, Nasreen and Shireen were too small for their hands to range very far across the long wooden instruments. The girls plucked randomly.

  Perveen let her thoughts wander. At that moment, she had no request from Razia or Sakina to donate their mahr. Their explanations made it seem that Mukri was intent on both controlling and altering the wakf. There was a case for removing Mukri as the household agent; but it would have to be done very carefully, so as not to cause trouble for the widows.

  The girls finished with a wild twanging sound, and Perveen hastily applauded. “Beautiful singing and playing. Mumtaz-begum has taught you well. But where is she?”

  “She went under the almond tree to sleep.” Shireen pointed to a grouping of trees.

  Perveen didn’t see Mumtaz, so she stood. “I’ll look for her.”

  She shouldn’t have felt anxious—but she did. Quickly, Perveen moved toward the grove of fruit frees. Just past them, she saw a bit of gray.

  Mumtaz was lying slumped against a stone step on the other side of the garden, close to a marble jali.

  Perveen’s stomach lurched. Calling out, she asked Amina to bring a glass of water from the house. Nasreen and Shireen launched into their next song, seeming utterly unconcerned.

  Perveen went swiftly to the woman and crouched down to gently touch her shoulder. “My dear, are you all right?”

  Mumtaz groaned and slowly turned her head. “I was just resting. But I feel ill.”

  “You must go inside.” Perveen let out the breath she’d been holding, relieved that the widow was strong enough to speak. She’d thought the worst when she’d seen the gray heap.

  “No, no, it is my time to play music with the girls. I was only taking a rest for a moment.”

  With Perveen’s help, Mumtaz struggled to a sitting position.

  “Amina is bringing water to you,” Perveen said. “Would you like some sweets?”

  “No, no, but—you? You are our honored guest,” Mumtaz croaked. “You must have refreshment . . .”

  Perveen was too worried to continue the etiquette dance. “I’m already full with tea and falooda—there’s no need for anything more. It doesn’t seem that you are well enough to talk with me. We can do that later.”

  Mumtaz peered at her through half-open eyes. “I must speak with you and—and fix things.”

  The words she’d chosen sounded strange. Perveen asked, “What do you know about the situation?”

  “If I give the wakf my money, it will let me keep living in this bungalow.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Sakina-begum says if we give the wakf our money, it will keep us living in the bungalow forever.” Mumtaz lowered her voice. “Isn’t that true?”

  “Not exactly.” Perveen paused. “Did you read the paper that was sent to me by Mukri-sahib and sign your name?”

  Her eyelids fluttered. “Why do you ask?”

  “You signed an X on your mahr agreement seven months ago.” Perveen was careful not to mention this was what illiterate people did. “But your name was spelled out on a paper that he sent me.”

  “I did the X for mahr because my writing is poor. Sakina-begum signed the other paper because it would look better.”

  The court accepted documents signed with fingerprints and X markings, but that was irrelevant to bring up. As Perveen understood it, Mr. Mukri had told Sakina to get the authorization from Mumtaz. But had Sakina explained everything so that Mumtaz realized what she was giving up?

  “If you feel well enough, I’d like to talk to you about what was in the letter,” Perveen said as Amina arrived and crouched down to give Mumtaz a bras
s tumbler of water.

  “Thank you, sweet Amina,” Mumtaz said with a sigh.

  Amina settled down next to them. In a whisper, she said, “Perveen-khala and Mumtaz-khala, you should know—”

  “Amina, please tell me later, when I’ve finished this talk. Will you go listen to the girls?” Although Razia had allowed her daughter to be present during her consultation, Perveen was determined not to compromise Mumtaz’s privacy. After Amina had slunk off, shooting her a look of annoyance, Perveen began. “The document Sakina signed for you said that you wished to give up your musical instruments and five thousand rupees for the family’s wakf, which is a charitable foundation—”

  “Lose my musical instruments? She didn’t say!” Mumtaz’s mouth fell open in an O of surprise.

  “Don’t worry,” Perveen said, responding in her most soothing tone to the stunned young woman. “If any wife wants to give up her mahr, she must write her own letter saying that. You haven’t done so yet.”

  “Music was what calmed my husband. He could only fall asleep when I played.” Mumtaz closed her eyes, as if to summon back those nights. “The sitars and veena are as dear to me as Amina, Nasreen, Shireen, and Jum-Jum are to their mothers.”

  “That’s fine,” Perveen said, glad that the decision had been easy. “I’ll make sure you won’t relinquish any musical instruments.”

  “I don’t mind about the five thousand rupees.” Mumtaz pinched her mouth into a pious expression. “Whatever little bit I receive from the wakf is enough.”

  Perveen was curious about the words she’d chosen to describe her wakf dividend. “That charitable fund pays each of you wives one thousand and one rupees a year to use as wished, for savings or personal expenses. Did you receive that sum last year?”

  “No. Razia-begum said five hundred and one was the proper amount for being married only one-half of the year. Isn’t that true?” Mumtaz pushed the hair back from her face as if she wanted to get a better look at Perveen. She had high cheekbones and a face shape slightly similar to Razia’s. Perhaps Mr. Farid had loved her for this similarity as well as the music.