The Widows of Malabar Hill

by Sujata Massey

  Hardly a vote of confidence. Perveen studied Sakina, who was fiddling with the edge of her sari, giving credence to her description of nervousness. “Mohsen came back yesterday evening and was stopped straightaway by the police. Sakina-begum, did you receive the attar?”

  “No.” Sakina put her hand to her mouth. “If the perfume isn’t here, it might mean he didn’t go to Zaveri Bazaar! That he did—that terrible thing.”

  “On the other hand, he might have given the attar to Fatima to pass on to you just before he was taken away. I shall ask her.” Perveen paused. “Where is Mumtaz-begum?”

  “We haven’t seen her yet. She is always a late sleeper,” Razia said with a hint of disapproval.

  Perveen certainly hoped the widow was in her room sleeping. But she no longer thought that anyone could be safe at the Farid bungalow.

  24

  A Wife’s Secret Joy

  Bombay, February 1921

  Fatima was washing the carved marble baseboard running along the hallway when Perveen came out to visit Mumtaz’s room. Bending down, Perveen said, “I’m on my way to see Mumtaz-begum, but I’ve got a question. Did your father leave anything with you before the police took him away?”

  “No.” Fatima put down the rag she’d been using. “What should he have given me?”

  “I thought you might have the attar he bought for Sakina-begum. But never mind.”

  Fatima lowered her voice. “Did you hear Amina’s missing?”

  Perveen nodded. “Do you think she went to Oudh?”

  Fatima picked up the rag again and squeezed it hard. “But how could she go? She’s just a girl. And she was my friend. She wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

  “Is there a chance she’s hiding?”

  Fatima scrubbed away at the baseboard. “She hides because she listens to people—not because she’s playing. Maybe she cannot be found because”—she took several deep breaths—“the killer came back.”

  “I pray that’s not the case.”

  “It’s so frightening now, with Abba away. Zeid and I were alone in our hut last night. We put a rice bag against the door, so we would hear if someone was coming for us. And Iqbal gave us a knife from the kitchen for our protection. Zeid said he’d use it to save the two of us, but he’s so small!”

  A voice moaned from the other side of Mumtaz’s door. Perveen’s first instinct was panic, but she controlled the reaction. “Is that Mumtaz?”

  “Yes. She must have heard us,” Fatima said, putting down the rag and standing up. “I’ll go in with you. She’s not well in the morning.”

  Fatima tiptoed ahead of Perveen into the dark room to touch Mumtaz on the shoulder.

  “Sorry,” Mumtaz murmured as she pulled herself up from the bed.

  “No, I apologize for disturbing you again,” Perveen said while the maidservant pulled open the long curtains covering the jalis.

  “Mumtaz-begum, shall I bring your special tea?” Fatima asked. There was a note of tenderness in the girl’s voice that showed her obvious affection for the outsider wife.

  “Not yet.” Mumtaz groped at the bedside table, knocking over a brass tumbler of water. Perveen rushed to pick up the tumbler as Mumtaz hurriedly used the previous day’s sari to wipe at the spilled water. As Mumtaz moved, dressed in a blouse and petticoat, her rounded figure was revealed. Perveen looked away, trying to give the disheveled woman a bit of privacy as she covered up again with the sheet.

  Mumtaz sleepily rubbed her eyes. “Is there any news of Amina?”

  “The begums believe she went off to go to Razia’s family home in Oudh. Does that strike you as likely?” Perveen added, “Whatever you tell me can remain private.”

  “Amina is so interested in going places; she’s not fearful like the begums,” Mumtaz commented. “Many times she has told me about her trips to Oudh. But this is not good. How could a child like that get out of our gate and know what to do?”

  “I can’t imagine it,” Perveen agreed. “But if she had gone out, the neighboring durwans would probably have seen her—or someone else in the neighborhood would have told them.”

  “How would they know to recognize her? She’s always stayed behind the property wall.”

  “You’re right,” Perveen said, feeling stupid.

  “Bombay is a hard city for girls. Everywhere, there is a villain—oh!” Mumtaz put a hand over her mouth.

  “Do you feel sick again?”

  “The bucket—” Mumtaz gestured to the floor, and Perveen saw a small bucket that she quickly grabbed and brought to Mumtaz. Mumtaz bent her head and vomited a watery stream into the bucket.

  The sickly-sweet odor curled inside Perveen’s nose, and she adjusted the fan’s speed.

  Putting the bucket aside, Mumtaz said, “Get Fatima again. This is too dirty for you.”

  “No, it is not.”

  Things were coming together in Perveen’s mind. Mumtaz’s weakness—her rounded figure. She had spent many months living with Omar Farid. Perveen would have thought him too weak for sexual activity—but she could be wrong.

  “Have you seen a doctor recently?” Perveen asked.

  “No, because it is still iddat.” She paused. “If I tell you something, will you tell the others?”

  “I promised your privacy,” Perveen said, her suspicion growing.

  Mumtaz gave a half smile. “I’m going to have a baby.”

  “That is a most blessed event.” Perveen was shocked, trying to do the calculations in her head. “You must see a doctor. He can tell you when your baby will be born.”

  “I know that myself, based on when my husband and I came together,” she said.

  Perveen nodded, thinking again about the two glasses in Mr. Mukri’s room. Perhaps Mr. Farid wasn’t the father. “How many months until the birth?”

  “Six months. Insha’Allah, my baby will be born during the rainy season.”

  So it was likely that Mr. Farid was the baby’s father. She would not automatically doubt Mumtaz. On the other hand, Perveen remembered how Sakina had spoken dismissively of Mumtaz’s knowing Mr. Mukri from Falkland Road. He could believe Mumtaz owed him something for introducing her to Omar Farid.

  “What are you thinking? Are you displeased there will be another baby?” Mumtaz sounded aggrieved.

  “I’m happy for you,” Perveen said, trying to hide all the worries she felt. “I was only thinking you probably should tell Sakina-begum and Razia-begum, who may have guessed already. They were pregnant before. They know the signs, and they’ll make you feel better.”

  Gingerly, she lay back down in bed. “I would fear that kind of assistance.”

  “Why?”

  Lowering her voice to a whisper, Mumtaz put a hand on her stomach. “Imagine if I’m carrying the household’s next son. Another heir. They will be jealous—Sakina-begum because she has a son and Razia-begum because she doesn’t. They might say it’s Mukri-sahib’s child and throw me out.”

  She’d addressed what Perveen had been thinking about. Given Mukri’s power, his abuse of any of the wives was a possibility. And Mumtaz was lowest in the hierarchy.

  For now, Perveen would not jump to that assumption. Mumtaz had shared a bedroom with Omar Farid for the five months leading to his death. “Your husband was still alive ten weeks ago. If the baby comes in August, there should not be any doubt.”

  “It is many months until then. They could make my life very hard. I could lose the child or even my own life. How can I not feel endangered after the evil deed that occurred?”

  Feeling a chill, Perveen pressed her arms around herself for comfort. If Faisal Mukri was the only one who could contradict Mumtaz’s claim of impregnation by her husband, she’d had reason to kill him.

  “You are looking so angry,” Mumtaz said. “What are you thinking?”

  Perveen
loosened her grip on herself and forced a smile. “Sorry. I’m not angry; I’m thinking about many things. You have the worry for your growing baby. Razia has the sorrow of a missing child. And Sakina . . .” she trailed off, thinking. “Sakina is worried for everyone in the house. And her children are at risk, too.”

  “Things will change for everyone after iddat finishes,” Mumtaz said. “Once the mourning time has passed, a widow can remarry. Probably both of them will do that. I shan’t, because my son will keep me too busy. As long as I can stay in this house, I don’t need a man’s support. And that could make those two very angry.”

  Perveen tried to caution her. “You are just guessing that—”

  “How will it be for Sakina, watching me all these months and wondering if I have a boy to compete with hers? And Razia-begum counts every paisa. There are four children now—a fifth would cause great expense. Better to get rid of me.” Mumtaz pressed a hand to her brow as if she were a film actress showing great agony.

  “They cannot throw you out,” Perveen said. “Legally, you have the same rights as they do.”

  In a trembling voice, Mumtaz said, “I could fall down the stairs in a terrible accident. I might die from eating bad food. This is the reason I keep to myself. They know that Fatima tastes everything for me before I eat it.”

  “I offered to help you find a place to live when we spoke yesterday,” Perveen said, feeling wary of Mumtaz’s sudden show of desperation. “You fear for your life, but you want to remain here.”

  “If I leave, my child’s claim on the estate becomes harder to prove; so I must endure.” Mumtaz’s voice was shaky. “I want him to grow up here, a Farid with wealth just like the others.”

  It seemed clear Mumtaz had a plan for the rest of her life and wouldn’t be swayed. Perveen sighed. “Take care of yourself, Mumtaz-begum. I wasn’t able to give you my card yesterday, but here it is now. Telephone if you need me.”

  The young wife nodded glumly. “I will do that. And I will make a prayer today for dear little Amina. May Allah protect her, just as I hope he protects me.”

  25

  The Scent of Rose

  Bombay, February 1921

  Before leaving, Perveen stopped in at the cooking hut to meet Iqbal, the elderly household cook. He had been at the market when the terrible event had occurred; he also had no idea about Amina’s disappearance. He was anxious to know how he could buy food for the house now that Mukri wasn’t providing any money. Perveen gave him ten rupees to cover the next few weeks’ expenses, asking him to write down what was bought. He smiled at the money but did not offer any more information.

  At her direction, Arman drove her down Malabar Hill and back into the heart of Bombay. Their first stop in town was the Telegraph Building, where she dictated the telegram for Razia and requested that it be delivered to her family estate in Oudh. Next, Arman drove to the Zaveri Bazaar. A. H. Attarwala’s shop was one in a line selling attars: the alcohol-free essences of the most fragrant and healthful flowers, shrubs, and trees. Even though the vials and bottles were closed, the shop was heavy in scent. Perveen stopped breathing for a moment as she thought that these myriad fragrances, just like the secrets at the Farid house, couldn’t be completely suppressed.

  Mr. Attarwala, the shop owner, was a small man in his eighties who wore a tall, stiff tarboosh that made him eight inches taller. He had a genial air and listened carefully to what she said.

  Perveen introduced herself as the Farid family’s lawyer and asked about Mohsen.

  “I know the fellow you speak of. His full name is Mohsen Dawai. He serves a gentleman who recently passed to paradise,” said Mr. Attarwala, stroking his long, flowing white beard. “Farid-sahib was a righteous man with good wives. Over the years, Mohsen has come to buy attar for the household members.”

  “Did Mohsen shop here yesterday?”

  “Yes, he arrived just after our late afternoon prayers. He purchased a vial of sandalwood attar.”

  Perveen recalled Sakina talking about needing a rose attar to calm her nerves. “Are you sure it wasn’t rose oil? Rose is the attar that brings sleep and relieves anxiety, isn’t it?”

  “I am an old man with an imperfect memory. Let me check that.” Mr. Attarwala invited her to follow him to a long counter crowded with bottles. From underneath, he brought up a large ledger book. “Here, here. Read it yourself.”

  He pointed to a line. He had sold sandalwood attar, one bottle for two annas. She could see listed next to it Omar Farid, 22 Sea View Road. Sighing, he said, “I will add this to the tally. Every month, I send a bill to the Farid house. Mohsen said that once a lawyer fixes the estate, the account will be paid.”

  Perveen went on alert. “Do you mean to say that Mohsen didn’t pay you yesterday?”

  “He has not paid in six months. He tells me to add the charge to the running household bill. He asked me if I could recommend a good jeweler, too; but I cannot imagine a jeweler would accept his promise of credit,” the merchant added with a frown.

  Mohsen’s interest in jewelry was significant; what if he’d robbed Sakina? In any case, if he was taking attar without paying, it might mean that he’d pocketed the money Sakina had given him for the errand. If this type of behavior had gone on for months, and bills were coming to the house, surely Mr. Mukri had known. Perhaps he’d confronted Mohsen about it—and this had led to the killing. “What is the exact amount you’re waiting for the Farid household to pay for all the past perfume expenses?”

  “Let me go to the back of the book for that.” He turned pages of the book until he reached the right place, stabbing a finger at a line. “Yes. Last payment to us was made in October. The household owes four rupees sixty paise. And not just for attar: for skin oils and incense, too. If you are able to pay today, I will be pleased to give a receipt.”

  Perveen looked down the line of expenses. There had been several bottles of rosewater attar purchased in the past, but it looked as if in the past six months the choice had been sandalwood—an oil more often used for erotic purposes.

  Perveen opened her purse, examined what was left, and asked if he could please write a receipt for her in Hindi or English. Given the alacrity of his response, she suspected he might have been able to present a bill in German. She also requested him to write a statement detailing the time of Mohsen’s visit the day before, which he signed with a flourish.

  “I am grateful to you, madam. This is a small gift for your kindness.” Mr. Attarwala put a tiny vial of pinkish liquid into her hand.

  “What is it?”

  “The rose scent. Once you smell it, I’m sure you will come back to buy more.”

  Perveen hadn’t worn scent since she’d left her marriage—and that had been sandalwood. However, she thanked him for the attar and tucked it into her bag.

  From the Zaveri Bazaar, it was only twenty minutes around the bay to the Malabar Hill Police Station on Ridge Road. The tile-roofed, yellow-stucco station looked very modern next to its elderly neighbor, a stone Jain temple dating from the early 1820s. A steady throng of barefoot Jains was coursing around the temple, not giving way for the constables. It was as if the fellows didn’t even exist. Perveen couldn’t help smiling at the sight.

  Perveen stopped at the temple’s bakery window and bought a box of caraway-butter biscuits. Namkeen biscuits would be a practical item to give Mohsen, because they wouldn’t quickly spoil.

  Perveen had visited different police stations around Bombay with her father, so she knew to go straight to the duty sergeant and present her business card. She opened her purse for it to be searched, as well as the small paper box of biscuits.

  Taking one biscuit, the constable munched and swallowed before speaking. “He’s in the cell block.”

  Perveen longed to tell the man to take his fat, ink-stained fingers out of the box, but she couldn’t. The message was clear; she had to give
him something in exchange for service.

  All the prisoner cells were in the basement; Mohsen was in a hot, smelly chamber with four men of varying ages. He was the only one in a uniform; the others were in rags. The fact that the durwan still wore the long-sleeved green uniform—the symbol of respectability and the Farid household—struck her as poignant.

  Perveen couldn’t possibly speak to Mohsen in such an environment and in the presence of others. She made the point to the constable and a prison guard, who eventually agreed to allow Mohsen to accompany her to a nearby office room, which was better ventilated but had no amenities other than a table and two hard chairs.

  As they sat down together, Mohsen looked uneasily at her. It was almost as if she’d come to the gate and he was once again hesitant to admit her.

  “Do you remember me?” she asked. “I’m the Farids’ lawyer.”

  “I know,” he said gruffly. “Why have you come?”

  “Your children are very worried. I wanted to tell them what happened to you.” She handed him the box, which still had some biscuits in it. “You must be hungry.”

  Mohsen finished all that was within before he spoke again. “Thank you. They have only given me bread and water.”

  “What happened yesterday?” Perveen folded her arms on the table and settled in. There was no need to take notes yet; it might put Mohsen on edge.

  “Sakina-begum needed attar from A. H. Attarwala’s shop,” he said in a monotone. “I did not wish to go, because the burra sahib had come home. But then I thought that he was inside for the evening. How would he know if I went off for such a short time? And the begums expect my services.”

  And he needed money badly because he was no longer paid. “How did you travel to the bazaar?”

  “I walked downhill and then caught a tram.”

  “At Attarwala’s, you purchased sandalwood oil costing two annas. Didn’t Sakina-begum ask for rose attar?”

  He shook his head vigorously. “She did not say the type, but I know what she wants. It is always sandalwood.”