“No. He must have a higher position in the firm before my parents will let him.”
“Aha! Perhaps your brother will build the Sodawallas’ next bottling plant and meet one of our girls. Wouldn’t that be fine?”
“Oh, I’d adore it if he could come for a long visit. But Mistry Construction is only in Bombay. Imagine the difficulty in transporting cement and such—”
“Yes, yes.” Mrs. Banaji’s three chins nodded. “But even if they can’t come, they can pay for it.”
“Of course!” Behnoush smoothly slipped wool over her fingers. “The in-laws are so generous. We tell them we need nothing, but they only give more.”
Perveen went rigid. “What are you talking about?”
“The new bottling plant,” Behnoush said, tightening the fibers on her loom.
Perveen hadn’t known about this. Behnoush’s statement was likely an exaggeration. But it created a new, awful thought that the Sodawallas expected a return for their son’s love match.
“What is it, Perveen? You aren’t watching the weaving anymore,” chided Mrs. Banaji.
“Daydreaming of her handsome husband!” Tourna giggled.
“Behnoush-mummy, have you or Bahram-pappa written to my parents about this matter of this new bottling plant?” As the words left her mouth, Perveen realized how direct they were. Everyone looked up from the looms.
Behnoush’s eyes sparkled with irritation. “Let’s not talk of men’s business. This is a time to make friends and learn about our religious traditions.”
Enough had been said, though, that Perveen finally understood. The Sodawallas had allowed Cyrus to marry her not because they recognized his love—but because of her family’s money.
Now she felt frantic. Had Cyrus gone after her in the first place because Esther Vachha had dropped a comment about the Mistrys’ money? She recalled the way he’d gazed up at Mistry House after they’d come out of Yazdani’s. And he had brought his parents there, rather than to her family’s modern duplex in Dadar Parsi Colony.
But she and Cyrus had had a love for the ages. They had connected so beautifully, with both understanding and passion.
But now what did she have to show for the marriage? A husband who thought she was shrewish. The gonorrhea infection. One quarter of every month spent in stinking solitude.
Perveen stared at her mother-in-law’s loom and thought about the unseen threads that had spun around her, creating an unbreakable trap.
“Good evening, Bahram-pappa. Where is Cyrus this evening?” Perveen asked her father-in-law at seven when he came into the house alone. She was desperate to see Cyrus and clarify her fears.
“He is staying late tonight,” Bahram said, taking off his fetah. Perveen put it on the high hat rack in the hallway and followed him into the parlor.
Mohit had already set a whiskey-and-soda for Bahram on the little table next to his easy chair and was winding up the gramophone. Every evening, it was her father-in-law’s custom to drink his highball while listening to Beethoven. Perveen knew he preferred to enjoy this routine alone, but that night she felt a sense of urgency. She had to find out about the funding for the bottling plant.
“What is it?” Her father-in-law looked distracted.
“Bahram-daddy, excuse me, but I’m a bit nervous.” Perveen perched gingerly on the settee across from him. “I must ask you something.”
Giving her an indulgent smile, he said, “Yes, my dear. But it is time for my music and drink.”
“I’ll be quick. When I became engaged to Cyrus, he mentioned you had taken over an existing factory.”
“You are speaking of the place across the river in Howrah.”
“Are you trying to build another factory?”
“Yes, in Orissa. Why so curious?”
“I wonder if you and my father chatted about building the Orissa factory.”
His answer was gruff. “I’m sure we did.”
Her suspicion was growing. “Did you ask my father to finance it? Or are you going to ask?”
“Ah, you would like to help,” Bahram said, smiling knowingly. “Leave the business dealings and talking to me. Your work is with Mummy, isn’t it? Nowruz is in a few days, and she says so much is left to do. She is too tired, and here you are chattering to me. She is the one needing your help.”
“Yes, Daddy.” Out of rote courtesy, she had mumbled her assent. But inside, she was boiling. She had no intention of going into the kitchen and begging Behnoush’s permission to help cook. Perveen would find Cyrus.
Everyone knew it was dangerous to take a rickshaw or tonga when you were a lady on your own. One might be cheated by the driver or set upon by street criminals. But Perveen had seen the proud-looking elderly Sikh tonga-wallah several times. Saklat Place was his station; he was obviously reputable.
He had noticed her, too.
“You are the Sodawallas’ new daughter-in-law,” he said after she’d requested that he drive her to Howrah.
“Yes. I want to go to the bottling plant.”
His expression was grave. “Your family wishes you to travel alone?”
She realized how suspicious such a journey might look. “It’s only because I’m bringing something my husband needs. ”
After a pause, he nodded. “I shall take you, then. When one or the other of them is away with the car, I’ve taken the other in my tonga. I know the place.”
It was just after seven, and the moon was rising. Its pale light and flickering street lamps were the only illumination as the tonga moved steadily out of central Calcutta.
After they had crossed the bridge into Howrah, the rough, dark roads were brightened only by roadside fires. Figures were gathered outside ramshackle shelters made of cardboard and cloth.
She wasn’t surprised to see a chawl established next to the Sodawallas’ bottling plant. Perhaps only a few men had jobs inside, but plenty of people would seize discarded bottles for their own purposes. In fact, as the tonga passed, someone was standing on the edge of the rubble selling dark brown liquid in what she recognized as Empire raspberry soda bottles. It was probably toddy, the poor man’s homemade alcohol.
The plant was a long, dark box of a building with several lit windows. Their golden glow reassured her that Cyrus very likely was at work. Although she’d flown the house on wings of anger and fear, she was beginning to calm. She’d be able to explain to Cyrus her anxiety about her parents being pressured, and he would do something about it.
The driver stopped so Perveen could address the two uniformed durwans guarding the entrance. The pair waved her through, though she imagined from their desultory air they would have allowed entry to almost anyone. She resolved to warn Cyrus about this.
The massive main door was bolted shut. Perveen banged several times, paused, and saw through the glass window an elderly servant dressed in a vest and dhoti coming forward. He unlocked the door, looking frightened as he stood before her in the scuffed wooden hall.
She realized her jaw was clenched. Now she relaxed it. “I’m here to see my husband. Mr. Cyrus Sodawalla.”
“Not here!” he said, nervously bobbing his head.
Perhaps he hadn’t understood her accented Bengali. Patiently, she said, “He is working late.”
“Nah, nah.” He shook his head with the jerky movements of a puppet.
She heard a rumble of voices through a half-open door down the hall. Ignoring the man’s mutterings, she walked toward it and pushed the door open all the way.
She was inside a neat waiting room with chairs and a vacant secretary’s table. A framed portrait of Cyrus smiling and holding a bottle of raspberry soda hung on the wall. A second door marked operations manager was closed.
She heard Cyrus’s laugh through the door, as well as the rumble of another man’s voice.
Perveen knocked sharply.
“Finally you’re here!” Cyrus bellowed. The door swung open so quickly she almost fell forward. Righting herself, she stepped into Cyrus’s office, moving her eyes from her jovial, rumpled husband to the rest of the room.
How different it was from her father’s office. Bookcases along the walls were filled with bottles: a display of all the sodas, fruit drinks, hard liquors, beers, and medicinal drinks sold by the Sodawallas’ company. Even the big desk had bottles standing on it, as well as glasses.
A typewriter stood on a desk in the corner, but surely the young woman tipped back in the chair near it could not have been anyone’s secretary. She was bronze colored, about sixteen, with long hair that flowed over her filmy pink sari. Realizing she had Perveen’s attention, the girl turned her head sharply, hiding her face. As the young woman shifted, she revealed the curves of a bare breast.
“My God,” Perveen said. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing it not to be true. But when she looked again, the half-dressed woman was still there, along with two other people. She recognized one man slumped in a lounge chair as Cyrus’s close friend Dexter Davar. The other was a Hindu named Bipin Dutta she’d briefly met at the wedding.
Bipin jumped to his feet, looking horrified, but Dexter reclined farther in his chair, drunkenly grinning.
“Perveen—what is this?” Cyrus gripped her arm with a hand like iron.
“That is my question for you.” She struggled to keep her voice even. “When you opened the door to me, whom did you expect?”
“Our dinner delivery!” he said, his hot breath filling her nose with the fumes of bourbon. “Not you!”
“A delivery of food—or another woman?” Perveen had guessed that the long-haired girl came from the nearby chawl. Perhaps she was often with him in the evenings. Maybe the only reason the durwans had let Perveen through the gate was they had caught a glimpse of her and thought she was invited to the sordid gathering.
“What I do is my own affair,” Cyrus slurred. “You’ve no right to be here or to meddle.”
Still sprawled in his chair, Dexter hiccupped and said, “Oh, this is bad luck!”
“I only came because—” Perveen stopped her explanation. There was no point in addressing anything but the present. Snarling, she said, “It seems you’ve been selling me a lot of stories about why you’re staying late at work.”
“You know nothing.” Cyrus’s hazel eyes were on her, but they held contempt, not love.
Perveen broke their mutual gaze to inspect the female stranger, whose face was crumpled in terror. “Is she the one who gifted you with venereal disease? Or did you invite her for the first time tonight, which means you’ll soon infect her?”
His eyes shone with rage. “May you die.”
“Mrs. Sodawalla, please calm yourself,” Bipin interjected. “This person came on her own. Your husband did not request her—”
“Don’t lie for him.” Perveen turned back toward Cyrus, thinking she’d never been angrier in her life. Inside, she was truly boiling; not just with rage but humiliation.
Cyrus’s face was flushed a deep red, and his words were menacing. “You should have kept your mouth shut.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Perveen noticed the young woman had left her chair and was sidling toward the door. Sharply, Perveen called out, “Get to a doctor before it’s—”
Too late, she would have said, but she was knocked backward with a blow from Cyrus.
He had bashed her across the nose and cheekbones. Perveen staggered back a few paces. But there was no time to recover; in the next moment, Cyrus leaned in and punched her in the eye.
Pain exploded in her brow as she collapsed against a bookcase, which rocked hard. The display bottles began falling, and she felt them crashing into her back like rocks as she lay on the floor, the sharpness of breaking glass followed by the cool of spilled alcohol. As she shielded her wounded face with her arm from the tumbling bottles, she was dimly aware of shouting and the sounds of a scuffle. Bipin Dutta was trying to pull Cyrus away from her.
“Don’t do it, man—you’re insane,” Bipin said. “Her father’s a lawyer—”
“She’s my wife,” Cyrus roared. “I’ll do what’s needed.”
She was throbbing with hurt. She struggled up to a sitting position, and as she put her hands on the floor, broken glass sliced into them.
“You bastard!” she screamed, unleashing all her rage at Cyrus. “You never loved me, did you? It was all about money.”
She felt a tug on her arm and realized that the drunken other friend, Dexter, was pulling her up. In Gujarati, he said, “You shouldn’t have come. Please go now—”
Cyrus broke free from Bipin’s hold and was coming for her again. Dexter reached out to delay him. As the three men grappled, Perveen moved from a kneeling position up to standing. Her sari had come loose in the fall. She pulled the silk around her, trying to protect some modesty as she limped out.
The tonga-wallah sprang to his feet when he saw her coming slowly out of the building. “Memsahib! What has happened? I must send those durwans to call for the constables!”
“Please don’t call anyone.” Her voice came out like a croak. “Just take me back.”
“To home, then?”
Coughing, she said, “Yes. As quickly as you can.”
As the driver cracked the whip on the horse’s back, she flinched, reliving the pain of Cyrus’s attack. He’d kissed her goodbye that morning. She knew now that it had been the last time.
As they rode past the chawl, she wondered if the young prostitute had run back to her home—or the man who’d sent her out. If she hadn’t gotten the pay from Cyrus tonight, she might get it tomorrow. Perveen didn’t care what happened between the two of them; she would never speak to Cyrus again.
“It’s not safe for women at night,” the tonga driver muttered. “Not safe anywhere! Your husband and father must catch the villain who did this. Did you see his face?”
She was too spent to tell the driver anything. And she wouldn’t tell Bahram or Behnoush either. Like tree, like fruit. They had made their son into a weak, corrupt man.
Perveen asked the driver to wait for her a few doors down from the Sodawallas’ home while she went in to get money. “Don’t return to your station because we’re going to drive again. I just need to go inside for a quick stop.”
“Will we go to the hospital?” he asked anxiously.
“No. Sealdah station.” She paused, thinking of the many things that could go wrong. “If I’m not out in five minutes, knock on the door and ask for me. Tell the bearer it’s an emergency.”
“An emergency.” Slowly, the driver repeated the English word she’d just taught him.
Gita opened the door just as Perveen approached. The maid’s hands flew to her mouth at the sight of Perveen’s injuries. Ignoring her, Perveen walked straight into the hallway and toward the stairs.
Behnoush must have heard the door opening because she rose to her feet and came out into the hall from the parlor.
“Arre marere!” she exclaimed. “What is this?”
Perveen didn’t answer because she was intent on getting what she needed and escaping before Cyrus arrived. He had the car—he could be back any minute.
As Perveen rushed past, a few blood drops spattered the floor. Catching sight of this, Behnoush moaned. “You are soiled! What happened?”
“I’m sorry,” Perveen said stiffly. She realized that if the truth of the evening’s circumstances came out, Behnoush might never be able to convince another family to provide a replacement bride.
Behnoush began weeping. “Why, why? Why do you go out like that? Why are you leaking blood everywhere? You know the rules!”
Was she mad?
Bahram’s voice called from the dining room. “What is that racket?”
Perveen wanted the two of
them together and away from her. Clearing her throat, she said, “I’m not well. I must go upstairs.”
“Yes, but clean yourself. And it’s better if you go to the little room.”
Behnoush probably thought a stranger had raped Perveen. Stifling her desire to scream out that the cuts and bruises were Cyrus’s work, she answered obediently. “Of course I will go there. I’m only stopping in my room for my diary.”
“All right. I will send Gita later with food.”
Perveen went straight up to her room. But instead of just reaching for her notebook, she grabbed a shawl from the almirah and wrapped it around her shoulders. She pulled out a small valise from underneath the almirah and stuffed in all her spending money and her jewelry—all the treasures her parents had given her and the wedding bangles from the Sodawallas.
Thinking again, she opened it and removed the ivory bangles, laying them out on the bureau. She would let her in-laws keep the expensive shackles.
She snapped the valise closed and came downstairs, not wanting to be seen.
Bahram’s loud voice on the telephone could be overheard. “You saw her tonight? She did—what?”
She was just stepping into her sandals when Behnoush rushed out and saw her. “What is this? You cannot go out. You are dripping blood! What will people think?”
“You don’t need to worry about those things anymore,” Perveen said evenly. “Tell Cyrus I’ve gone back to Bombay—and not to bother me again.”
As she left, Perveen stepped firmly into the stenciled chalk border, smearing her delicate powdered designs into dust.
1921
17
Black Fingerprints
Bombay, February 1921
At the Farid bungalow, Perveen sat on a rosewood chair and watched Sub-Inspector K. J. Singh shake black powder across the floor.
The dark powder, late afternoon heat, and the stench of blood had brought up memories of the Sodawallas’ home: both the horrible little room and the foyer where she had stenciled for hours over the months.
What was going on now felt like a nightmare. And although Perveen might avert her eyes from Faisal Mukri’s body, she felt a duty to remain.
The Widows of Malabar Hill Page 19