The Widows of Malabar Hill

by Sujata Massey

  “Ay, Perveen!”

  Spinning around, she peered through the crowds to see her father dressed in the crisp white suit he always wore to the agiary. Right behind him were Rustom and Camellia, also bedecked in holiday finery.

  “What a surprise!” Jamshedji waved, looking at her with a cautiously hopeful expression.

  Camellia’s smile faded as she came close enough to see the yellowed bruises on Perveen’s face. “Darling! What happened?”

  “Perveen, did you fall off the bunk on the train?” Rustom teased. “Where’s your luggage?”

  “I have no suitcase, just this bag.” Perveen realized that her voice sounded dry from two days of not talking to anyone. People had kept a wide berth from her, even after she’d cleaned the blood from her face and back in the lavatory.

  “But why?” Rustom demanded. “What the hell happened?”

  “She will tell us later.” Camellia held out her arms, and Perveen collapsed into them.

  Because it was Nowruz, Jamshedji and Rustom had to represent the family at Uncle Gustav’s New Year’s lunch. Perveen was too tired to go, and Camellia said she’d stay.

  Once the men left, Camellia drew a bath for Perveen and told John to prepare poached eggs on stir-fried fenugreek greens for a meal afterward. Perveen drank five cups of water boiled with mint, which tasted so much better than the Calcutta water she’d drunk for the last six months. And then she went to bed and fell into a quiet, utterly safe blackness.

  When she woke, it was very dark. The houses nearby were bursting with sounds of merriment: Roman candles whizzing, Victrolas playing, people chattering and laughing over the New Year’s feasting in area homes. Perveen went out to her much-missed balcony, where she was surprised to find Grandfather Mistry’s pet parrot, Lillian, sleeping in her large brass cage. Perveen opened the door, hoping Lillian would favor her with a rush of affection, but the bird pecked her hand, looking for food, and then sallied off. As the bird happily soared toward the garden, Perveen heard the door to the bedroom opening behind her. Camellia had come with a tray containing two cups of tea.

  “Finally you are ready for tea,” Camellia said. “I wanted you to get water inside you earlier.”

  Accepting her cup of the milky ginger-lemongrass brew, Perveen said, “I hope Lillian will return. Why is she on my balcony and not at Mistry House?”

  Settling down on the swing, Camellia gave Perveen a sorrowful glance. “I know you’ve had your own concerns, but did you really forget about your grandfather?”

  Perveen was taken aback by the gravity of her mother’s words and demeanor. “I’ve never forgotten him. But what exactly do you mean?”

  “Grandfather Mistry died in his sleep February twentieth. I wrote to you about it! The funeral was a month ago—the twenty-second.”

  Perveen’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh my God, Mamma! I did not know. He passed away? It can’t be true.”

  Camellia bowed her head. “Yes. He is in heaven now.”

  Tears pricked the corners of Perveen’s eyes as she remembered the last time she’d seen her grandfather. It had been just before she’d traveled to Calcutta, when he’d spoken in strict tones about the importance of adjusting her behavior to the expectations of the in-laws. It was almost as if he’d known what would happen, just as he’d sensed the rotten core within the Sodawallas after hearing a description from Mustafa.

  “He went without pain,” Camellia said. “But it was a big sorrow for all of us.”

  “Why didn’t I know?” Perveen asked, a sob breaking loose. “When did you write?”

  Camellia put a light hand on the shoulder of her weeping daughter. “Pappa sent a telegram on the twentieth, and I sent letters afterward.”

  Perveen went rigid with anger. “During that part of February, I was in seclusion. I couldn’t be downstairs to hear when the post came. Perhaps they didn’t give me the telegram and letters because they didn’t want me to go to the funeral.”

  “How would they know what was inside the letters?” Camellia asked.

  “Because somebody opened the letters and read them—yet didn’t say anything!” Perveen looked up, wiping tears from her eyes. She felt betrayed—even more so than when she’d realized her in-laws had solicited money from her parents.

  “Could it have been Cyrus?” As she said his name, Camellia’s mouth made a small expression of distaste.

  “He was gone so much, I can’t imagine it was he who kept the letters. It must have been Behnoush.”

  Camellia leaned forward in her chair and looked intently at Perveen. “Tell me who hit you. And how often did it happen?”

  “It was Cyrus, not Behnoush. And it happened just once.” Perveen explained how she’d rushed off to find Cyrus to ask if his family had been trying to get money from her parents. She spoke about the woman she’d seen in her husband’s office and how he’d gone wild with rage when Perveen had confronted him.

  Camellia held out her hand to Lillian, who had chosen to fly back. Stroking the bird gently, Camellia said, “He might have thought hitting you, and having other women, made him a strong man—but all his behavior has revealed weakness. But what exactly did you say that made him so angry?”

  Perveen hesitated, not sure whether her mother could handle the final hard truth. It was something that was so sordid that it might make Camellia think Perveen didn’t belong at home anymore. Slowly, she said, “He left another mark. He gave me a disease.”

  “A disease?” Camellia sounded taken aback. “You caught TB or—”

  “It’s what they call a venereal disease.” Looking down in shame, she said, “I can’t bear to say its name. I was treated early, so I will live, but the damage inside may be permanent. Not that it matters, as I won’t be having children with Cyrus,” she added sadly.

  Camellia looked at her steadily. “I have heard of venereal illness, and I know just the female doctor, Cambridge trained, to make sure everything is cleared. I will get an appointment for you. How do you feel about my telling Pappa about all of this?”

  Perveen was suddenly wary. “Do you think he’ll want me to go back?”

  “If he knows the full story, he most assuredly will not.” Camellia’s voice was acid.

  “I wasn’t sure how he felt when I saw him at the station. I don’t want to be married anymore, Mamma! There is no point in trying.”

  Camellia stroked back the hair that had fallen across Perveen’s brow. “What happens now shall be your choice, just as that marriage was.”

  “I love you so much, Mamma.” Perveen wiped the tears that had come with news of her grandfather’s death. “I don’t deserve this after what I put you through last year.”

  Camellia took her hand away. She looked uneasy for a moment and then said, “I have my own confession to make. I did not share all your Calcutta letters with Pappa, because I thought he would be too vexed. I thought everything would resolve itself when Cyrus spoke up to his parents. He seemed such a pleasant, strong-minded young man—and I know how much you loved him.”

  Perveen nodded. “Once I started going into seclusion, we both changed. I was becoming sad and anxious—and he was spending that time apart from me drinking and, now I understand, carrying on with other women. I could have told Pappa this myself—but I did not want him to hear anything from Calcutta except good news. I wanted to make amends for the big disappointment I’d turned out to be.”

  “We were both trying to protect him,” Camellia said, looking pensive. “But don’t forget that he’s one of Bombay’s most successful lawyers. Now it’s his turn to protect you.”

  The next morning, Jamshedji asked Perveen if she felt well enough to accompany him to the office.

  “Gladly,” Perveen said, putting down the knife she’d been using to butter a paratha. “But it’s still Nowruz, and you always take a holiday.”

  “No clients
are coming today,” he said, stirring sugar into his tea. “This is a convenience that provides time to discuss your predicament.”

  As she watched her father drink his tea, Perveen had no idea what he had in mind. “Pappa, did Mamma tell you how I felt? That I wish to file for divorce?”

  Jamshedji’s face was studiedly calm. “She told me your intentions. I assure you that we both are against you returning to Calcutta, even though we received a ridiculous telegram from Bahram Sodawalla two days ago asking us to help restore the marriage.”

  Perveen almost choked on the paratha. After recovering, she said, “When you came to the train station, you didn’t say that!”

  “I would hardly wish to greet you with such news. And I was still very disappointed about your not coming to Grandfather’s funeral. I wanted to hear your explanation for that.” Looking soberly at her, he added, “Among all of us, too many things have gone unsaid.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, feeling emotion swell inside her. “It can never be that way again.”

  Riding through Bombay with her father, Perveen could not get enough of the dear familiar sights. She’d forgotten what it felt like to have the warm wind ruffle her hair and to see the water shoot up from Flora Fountain, looking like a stream of diamonds. What a city she came from; it would be hard to ever leave it again.

  When Mustafa opened the door to Mistry House, his graceful adab felt like an embrace. With a smile, he said, “Perveen-memsahib, is it really you?”

  “I’ve missed you, Mustafa. How do you do?” Now that Grandfather Mistry was gone, Mustafa was the sole keeper of Mistry House. She imagined that it would feel lonely at times.

  He nodded to her. “Regarding my health, it is very well, thanks be to Allah. I heard from your father that you were not permitted to come for your beloved grandfather’s funeral. That must have been a sorrow. But he is here with us still. Just as large as he ever was.” Mustafa gestured toward a towering portrait of her grandfather, a new addition to the hallway.

  “That portrait certainly is a very grand likeness of my grandfather,” Perveen said. “Who painted it?”

  “Samuel Fyzee-Rahamin, who studied under John Singer Sargent,” Mustafa said. “He accomplished it just in the month before your grandfather’s passing.”

  “Then it’s very special,” Perveen said, regarding the stern expression on the subject’s face. She would happily live with her grandfather’s visage for the rest of her life, no longer taking it as a mark of criticism. She hoped he would watch out for her now, as he had when Cyrus has appeared.

  While she’d been reflecting on the portrait, Jamshedji was already halfway up the stairs. “Chalo, Perveen! Mustafa, we shall take our tea in about thirty minutes.”

  In the office, everything was as she remembered it. The desks of her father’s employees—the clerk, the solicitor, and the typist—were piled with work, but his own was spotlessly neat. It was a large partners’ desk, although he used only one side of it. Ever since Perveen could remember, he’d said that he was keeping the other side open for the city’s first woman lawyer.

  “Sit.” Jamshedji motioned her toward the desk’s vacant side, where there was no chair. She fetched one from the other side of the room and sat down.

  As if Jamshedji didn’t know of her churning emotions, he said, “You’ll see a row of texts I often use on the center of the desk. On the far left is a compendium of Parsi legal acts. It dates from 1865, but it’s still the most recent accounting of Parsi family law.”

  “Yes, Pappa.” Perveen located the slender red book and offered it to her father, but he didn’t accept it.

  “I know everything in those pages,” he said with a shrug. “I want you to read the entire text of the Parsi Marriage and Divorce Act of 1865. Then you shall explain which, if any, points of the act favor your case.”

  It was almost just like law school, except she wasn’t nervous. Perveen settled down and opened the book, keeping paper and pen at her side to jot down notes as they came to her. Section 31, “Grounds of Judicial Separation,” would be the basis of the argument. Here was a discussion of divorces being granted for adultery or adultery with cruelty. But the definition of adultery was troubling.

  “I have a question.” Perveen looked up from the book at her father.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Of course.”

  It was embarrassing to discuss sexuality with her father, but she had no choice. Clearing her throat, she said, “The law describes adultery as a married man’s act with a married lady who’s not a prostitute. It’s called an act of fornication if the fellow takes up with an unmarried lady who’s not a prostitute. What category does a prostitute fall under?”

  “Do you think the lady you saw in Cyrus’s office was a prostitute?”

  “I’m not certain, but—possibly. Why is there no mention of prostitutes in the legal codes regarding men’s behavior?” She pushed the text in front of her father and pointed at the pertinent paragraph.

  Jamshedji read through it and then looked back at her. “According to Parsi law, a husband’s engaging in relations with a prostitute is not cause for divorce or even legal separation.”

  Perveen felt disbelief. “But that’s unconscionable.”

  He nodded. “It has been our law since the Parsi Marriage and Divorce Act was passed in 1865.”

  “What if a husband hits a woman? Couldn’t that be grounds of divorce?” Perveen felt a surge of hope. “There were two witnesses in the room, and the tonga driver.”

  “Only if the violence is extremely severe,” Jamshedji said, looking soberly at her. “And then, the court might allow you a judicial separation. But the fact is, you did not lose an eye; you were not stabbed; you didn’t go to hospital. We can’t begin to present such an argument.”

  Perveen swallowed hard, not wanting to believe what her father was saying. “But he hurt me badly. His friends pulled him off me before he could kill me!”

  Looking grim, Jamshedji closed the book. “I don’t approve of the regulations built into the Divorce Act. However, one blessing is that it’s vague enough to be subject to many interpretations. We will think of something.”

  “I’m trapped,” Perveen said, feeling hollow. “Just as if I were still lying on that metal cot in that stinking room.”

  “Come now! You must stop brooding about what cannot be and realize the challenge we have even with a request for separation.” Perveen gaped at her father, who continued on in a businesslike manner. “If Cyrus complains you deserted him without lawful cause, he could sue for restitution of his conjugal rights!”

  “I don’t think he’ll do that—” Perveen began.

  “Why would he wish to be separated? He cannot ever remarry. You are a lost asset.”

  “What rot! You speak as if I am a jewelry set!” Perveen snapped.

  Her father held up a cautionary finger. “Let me explain the worst possible outcome. If the court rules in favor of Cyrus, you could be ordered to return to him. If you don’t go, it would mean a heavy financial fine or prison.”

  “But living with his family would be like going back to prison.” Perveen leaped up from her chair so fast it fell backward with a crash on the floor. “Why would a Parsi judge rule in favor of a man who struck me, consorted with a prostitute, and gave me a venereal disease?”

  Jamshedji closed his eyes tightly for a moment. Then, looking straight at her, he said, “Although a judge presides, the marriage court’s cases are decided by juries of Parsi laymen. And remember, this case will be heard in Calcutta, where you married a man whose family is well-known in a small, tight-knit community.”

  Her father was practically promising they’d lose. Shakily, she said, “I can’t go back. I’d rather take my life.”

  “Don’t speak like that!”

  Shaking her head, she said, “You already knew what was in the Act. Why did you
force me to read it when you could have just told me the bad news straightaway?”

  “You wouldn’t have believed it, had I told you the only possibility is judicial separation,” Jamshedji told her. “Of course, I will file for the separation, but I am anticipating they will file a countersuit demanding conjugal rights. We will have to convince them to let you live with us. And this is where I need your thoughts, Perveen. You know that family and what matters to them.”

  “All that mattered to them was that I’d bear children—and that I was well-off enough to provide money to them.”

  Jamshedji looked over the line of books at her. “If the Sodawallas read a doctor’s letter stating that the infection Cyrus gave you had nullified your ability to bear a child, they might not want you back.”

  “True,” Perveen said, feeling bleak at his casual prognosis. “But Cyrus can’t remarry either.”

  “They are stuck. The whole marriage is a stalemate until he commits adultery,” Jamshedji said with a faint smile. “We must keep our fingers crossed he will commit adultery with some foolish woman and provide us with grounds for a proper divorce.”

  “In Britain, if a married couple is unhappy, the husband goes off to a hotel with another woman, and a servant there provides testimony they shared a bed. Then they’ve got grounds for the divorce.” She paused. “What about me? Could I do the same with a gentleman?”

  “Absolutely not!” Jamshedji thundered. “Not only because it would ruin our family name, but also because there is no provision in Parsi law granting divorce to misbehaving wives.”

  “Never mind.” She turned from that to the last possibility she could think of. “I’ve got another idea. Behnoush told her friends that you would be sharing in the costs of a new bottling plant for them. Was that true?”

  His eyes flared. “They asked me to pay for everything, as if I were Lord Readymoney and not a simple city solicitor.”

  “What did you say to that request?”

  “I never answered that letter.”