The Widows of Malabar Hill

by Sujata Massey

  After all the lanterns were lit, the street seemed brighter, and Ramchandra set off cycling. Perveen leaned forward, wishing she could make the weight of the carriage and her own body disappear. The journey felt slow—and they’d barely started.

  Turning off Bruce Street into a small lane, the rickshaw dragged even harder and then ground to a halt.

  Ramchandra’s voice floated back to her. “Sorry, memsahib. I must check the rickshaw. Something may be caught in a wheel.”

  What bad luck. How could there be a breakdown of his prized rickshaw on a night like this one?

  Ramchandra had taken one of his lanterns to use while looking at the tires. She saw him bathed in the pool of yellow light, looking up at her with a grim expression.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Both my tires have punctures.”

  Perveen stepped down from the rickshaw and walked over to the tire he was studying. “Two flat tires? But how?”

  Ramchandra’s voice was mournful. “As I was just coming along Bruce Street, I felt something rough catch underneath. It’s hard to see in the darkness, but I think something was there. I’m very sorry, memsahib. It will not be possible to fix these tires tonight.”

  Please help me. The urgency in the unknown woman’s voice rang in her head. “But I’ve got to reach Malabar Hill.”

  “There is the tonga stand, but a lady should not ride alone—”

  “I agree.” Perveen had another idea. She would call the Hobson-Jones house and ask for Sir David. She hated to ask him for a favor so soon after refusing to do something he wanted. But she couldn’t think of another option—and she knew he wouldn’t want the widows to come to harm.

  “I’ll go back to the office and make a call to see if someone else can go to the police,” she said. “Surely in the next half hour or so, Arman will return with the car. I’m so sorry about your tires. Take this rupee from me—no, you must accept it. You wouldn’t have ruined tires if I hadn’t called you into service.”

  Perveen ran off around the corner, realizing that she hadn’t moved this fast since her days on the tennis court at Oxford. But this was no game. Someone could be dying just a few miles away.

  It was dark, so she could not run at top speed. She also didn’t want to stumble over whatever had damaged Ramchandra’s tires.

  Slowing slightly gave her a chance to hear more than the pounding of blood in her ears. She heard footsteps, fast ones, coming from behind her.

  Instinctively, she moved to the side, but the fact that she stopped became her undoing. A rough cloth bag whisked over her head, and a thick, strong arm pushed her backward and hauled her upward. Perveen screamed, but her voice was lost in cloth as she felt herself lifted up as casually as a stevedore might carry a ten-pound box. She heard a male grunt as she kicked backward, trying to cause him to drop her.

  Suddenly the telephone call for help and Ramchandra’s ruined rickshaw came together. The call had been a ploy to get her outside, so she’d be vulnerable. All of it was planned.

  Someone didn’t like her meddling. She kicked again and again, hoping to put the man off balance, but all that happened was he paused, shifting the bag with her body in it up against a wall and punching her in the back.

  Then all she knew was a slow dripping sound.

  1917

  27

  The Jury Decides

  Calcutta, August 1917

  Water beat Calcutta, turning the city into a lake. As Perveen stood in the portico of the Grand Hotel, she could hardly see across the drive. She’d already heard Chowringhee was three feet deep and rising. The summer monsoon rains fell loud and hard, refusing to break for anyone.

  “Could the court close because of the rains?” she worried aloud to Jamshedji, who had been arguing with the doorman about why he couldn’t get them a tonga.

  “The weather is awful,” her father agreed. “But since Parsi matrimonial court has a very limited number of hearings, the pressure is for the jury to decide.”

  Human-pulled rickshaws were the only vehicles capable of negotiating the flooded roads. Jamshedji spotted one making a passenger drop-off and agreed without question to the driver’s fare. After a five-month wait, the Mistrys could not risk missing the scheduled trial. Perveen’s freedom was dependent on it.

  It was a bumpy, sloshy, and slow ride to the courthouse in Dalhousie Square. Perveen felt as if she couldn’t wait for the journey to end—and then she was hit by the realization that what could happen in court might make her want to drown herself. The court could rule for her return to the Sodawalla house, and if she stood in contempt of that, she might be thrown in prison.

  Perveen, Camellia, and Jamshedji left their sodden umbrellas in an overfilled stand and walked through the slippery marble halls to the designated court chamber. Perveen ignored the portraits of sober English gentlemen and scanned the benches packed with people. Did all of them have cases waiting? Perveen thought she recognized Mrs. Banaji and her daughter, who were friends of the Sodawalla family. She’d probably come to collect a story for gossip. Still, the sight of those two wasn’t as bad as the news Jamshedji brought when he came back from the bench.

  “Our barrister, Mr. Pestonji, isn’t here,” he said, looking soberly at Camellia.

  “Maybe he’s caught in the rain,” Perveen said. “He could arrive any moment.”

  Jamshedji shook his head. “His junior associate managed to get through the roads to tell me that Pestonji was double-booked for today and has given priority to another case.”

  “Oh dear. Does that mean we go with the junior—or that we must postpone?” Camellia asked in a low voice.

  Perveen was too stunned to say anything. It was as if their lawyer had conspired with Cyrus’s family to give her the worst possible outcome. Logically, she knew this couldn’t be true—but it was a rotten hand to be dealt at the last minute.

  Jamshedji grimaced. “I spent some time talking with the junior barrister and was not impressed. He isn’t even a Parsi, so he won’t be especially convincing to the Parsi delegates serving as the jury. I told him I’d rather represent you myself.”

  “Has your brain snapped?” Perveen asked, too shocked to be diplomatic.

  “No,” Jamshedji said flatly. “We will not delay. I was the one who prepared every detail of the case. The junior brought the file with all necessary papers—it’s a bit damp, but I have what I need.”

  “It’s good of you to offer, but how can you do that, when you’re not recognized by the Calcutta Bar?” Camellia objected. Her voice was as soft as usual, but she had a tense expression Perveen wasn’t accustomed to seeing.

  “As you both know, I was called to the Bar at Lincoln’s Inn. Having an English law credential gives me entry to any court in India. The largest challenge will be convincing one of the other lawyers to lend me a wig and gown.”

  “Oh my God. My father representing me, in borrowed clothes!” Perveen moaned. “You will not only humiliate me, but we’re bound to lose!”

  “Hush, Perveen. Are you sure they’ll let you, Jamshedji?” Camellia now had a sparkle in her eyes.

  “I’ll have to ask.”

  “Pappa, no!” Perveen’s voice came out in a screech. “Postponement is what I want. And I’m the client!”

  “How can you speak to your father like that? He’s your hero,” Camellia said, favoring her husband with a final smile as he departed to register himself as Perveen’s advocate. “How many fathers can stand up for their daughters in such a manner?”

  Camellia and Perveen settled together on a bench close to the front. She wanted to see the jury, who were filing into their special section that faced the judicial bench.

  “I recognize a juror,” she whispered to Camellia. “Mr. Sodawalla’s friend who works at a bank. How can he possibly sit on a jury and be fair to me?”

  “The del
egates on any Parsi matrimonial court are pillars of the community,” Camellia whispered back. “Very likely, every plaintiff in this room is connected somehow to at least one juror. The whole body listens to everyone’s cases.”

  “What if the rain keeps the Sodawallas from coming?” Perveen asked. She’d kept careful watch on the courtroom and was convinced they hadn’t arrived.

  “I don’t know,” Camellia said, putting an arm around her. “Perhaps the jury would rule in your favor. But the judge might just wish to postpone.”

  The Sodawallas had not arrived by the time an English magistrate named Moody called the session to order with a bang of his gavel. Sad-looking plaintiffs hung their heads while their advocates detailed their grievances. As Perveen listened from her position between her parents, she realized all the other plaintiffs had filed for divorce after decades of misery, not six months. The only other plaintiff who looked close to Perveen’s age was a recent bridegroom, whom she learned during the testimony was seeking a divorce due to his wife’s inability to consummate the marriage.

  Everyone’s story was miserable. She listened to a tale about a businessman who’d moved a prostitute into his marital bedroom, forcing the wife to stay in the room’s corner. Another woman complained that her husband of twenty years was having an affair with his cousin. The judge asked some questions, and the eleven-man jury sat stone-faced, listening to the responses.

  In the middle of the third case, the Sodawallas arrived, thoroughly soaked from head to toe. The three of them walked up the aisle past Perveen and seated themselves. A man bustled over to sit down with them. He had to be their barrister, N. J. Wadia. Her father had found out that Mr. Wadia was a vakil, a lawyer with traditional Indian law training rather than a modern law school degree. N. J. Wadia was, in fact, representing clients in two other cases that day. When he left the Sodawallas to step forward and present the case of a woman trying to prove her husband had committed adultery with a neighbor lady, his accusations were pointed and powerful.

  “Wadia knows this court,” Jamshedji muttered to Camellia and Perveen. “But nobody will be as motivated to present a strong case as a father representing a daughter.”

  Perveen wished her father had been able to secure a Calcutta vakil for her. Surely that would make a better impression on the local jury. But nobody Jamshedji had spoken with would take the case.

  Sodawalla v. Sodawalla was on the docket just after two o’clock. Perveen hadn’t been able to eat during the lunch recess; now she realized that her empty stomach and dry throat were causing dizziness. She followed her father to the plaintiff’s bench. He appeared eccentric in the black coat that was a bit too short and a wig that looked puffier than his own finely made one that sat on a wig stand in the Bombay office. A few people even snickered.

  Perveen sat down, feeling the gaze of hundreds of eyes on the back of her head. Was it her imagination, or was Judge Moody looking contemptuously at her? Her father had already warned her not to look into the faces of the jury. Doing so would make her seem overly confident of success.

  Using his best Oxbridge accent, Jamshedji Mistry introduced himself to the jury as a barrister-solicitor with twenty-five years’ experience in Bombay now serving in place of Mr. Pestonji, who’d been unable to attend.

  Mr. Wadia promptly pointed out that Jamshedji was father of the plaintiff, a revelation that resulted in a chorus of laughter and whispers.

  “It is true that I bring the vantage point of lifelong knowledge of the plaintiff—of both her honesty and her tendencies to do what she believes is right, no matter the consequence.”

  Jamshedji went on to present a picture of Perveen being tricked into marriage by a stranger. He spoke of his opposition to the marriage but acquiescence due to his belief in the Sodawallas’ enthusiasm for the two to unite. He’d trusted them and paid for the children’s wedding in Calcutta. That trust was broken, he said, when the parents turned a blind eye as Cyrus indulged in prostitution.

  It was an unusual strategy to bring the parents into the case. Perveen heard some disapproving mutters come from the gallery.

  Mr. Wadia called out, “Objection. Councillor Mistry is new to Calcutta. Is he also new to the fact that Parsi marital law does not consider a husband’s recreational behavior as justifiable cause for the dissolution of a marriage?”

  “Your Honor, my point is to lead to section thirty-one. The sad fact is the defendant’s behavior resulted in the transmission of a serious disease to his wife. I should not like to offend any sensitive ears with the name of this illness. But everything is here on paper.”

  Perveen longed for the rain to break through the ceiling and wash her away. She was aghast at what her father had introduced to hundreds of strangers.

  “If it’s true, why not speak it aloud?” challenged Mr. Wadia. “There is no fit reason to libel my client.”

  This was a clever action—if the disease was stated, it would label Perveen as damaged and unclean for the rest of her life. Perveen could barely watch as her father laid two papers in front of the judge—the medical diagnosis she’d received in Calcutta and the results of a follow-up with the physician who’d treated her in Bombay. Mr. Wadia leaned in to look as well. Then the papers were shown to the jury, whose expressions grew dour.

  “To add insult to injury, the defendant, Mr. Sodawalla, continued his immoral activities,” Jamshedji said after the rustling subsided. He closed his argument with a dramatic description of Perveen’s visit to the Sodawallas’ factory, her discovery of the prostitute in Cyrus’s office, and Cyrus’s ruthless physical attack—something that he called attempted murder.

  “My daughter, Perveen, fled Calcutta in order to save her own life!” Jamshedji declared in his infamous rising tone. “Under section thirty-one, there are multiple reasons for this couple to be given a separation.”

  Perveen watched uneasily as Mr. Wadia asked the magistrate’s permission to approach the bench. Immediately Mr. Wadia began peppering Jamshedji with questions. Where was his evidence of continued visits to prostitutes? Where was the prostitute he’d accused Cyrus of bringing into the factory? Who were the young men Perveen had said were witnesses to the prostitute’s presence? What had become of the tonga driver who’d seen Perveen bleeding and taken her to Howrah Station?

  The questions were difficult. Mr. Pestonji hadn’t been able to find the tonga driver who’d helped Perveen. Cyrus’s friends had refused to make any statements against him, just as no prostitutes in the chawl would say Cyrus Sodawalla had ever requested services. The only evidence exhibits were three photographs a detective had snapped of Cyrus in the Sonagachi red-light district—and that was hardly useful, since prostitution wasn’t considered cause for divorce.

  Mr. Wadia announced he would not cause the young wife embarrassment by bringing her to the stand but asked for his client, Mr. Cyrus Sodawalla, to answer a few questions about her.

  Perveen stared at the tall, well-built man in a fine gray suit for whom she’d left Bombay. How had they come to this? He had loved her—and she him.

  Cyrus answered a number of prompts that suggested Perveen’s lack of interest in marital union, as well as her dislike of cooking and cleaning and typical wifely work. Perveen had constantly left their house without family permission. She’d come to his office and interrupted an important business meeting. He said the accused woman in his office had been only a poor maid who’d brought tea. His health was perfect; he had a letter from his own doctor that showed no evidence of any disease.

  As his testimony rolled out, she could imagine what the delegates thought: Perveen was a spoiled young bride who had shunned her husband and then been upset when he turned to others for his marital entitlement. She shot a look at her father, silently begging him for the chance to speak for herself, but he shook his head. He had warned her about this ahead of time. A woman who chose to argue back against her husband would appear arroga
nt and lose the pity she needed. She was angry, embarrassed, humiliated—but she turned her eyes back toward her lap.

  It seemed like forever until Jamshedji was offered the chance to question Cyrus. The vakil tried to dissuade Cyrus from allowing himself to be questioned by the opposing lawyer, but Cyrus shook his attorney’s advice off and smiled benignly at Jamshedji. It was as if Cyrus thought Jamshedji was bound to fail.

  Jamshedji began in a surprisingly casual fashion. “What do you think about all of this, my boy?”

  “I don’t know.” Cyrus looked taken aback.

  “Objection—” Mr. Wadia called.

  “Objection rejected,” said the judge.

  “If you were asked to describe your marriage, what would you say?” Jamshedji asked in a friendly manner.

  Looking startled, Cyrus said, “It’s been unhappy. Perveen has been nothing but trouble to me and my parents.”

  Perveen should have been happy to hear these words of release; but instead, she felt a great sorrow that the one she’d believed was her kindred spirit had turned out to be such an ordinary, closed-minded man.

  “She is the one who is trouble, yes?” As Cyrus nodded, Jamshedji gave him a mirthless smile. “You were almost twenty-eight when you approached Perveen; two broken engagements before you came to her. No family in Calcutta would accept you due to your reputation. Isn’t that the reason you went fishing for a wife in Bombay?”

  “Objection!” shrieked Wadia. “Irrelevant to any case for separation.”

  “Objection sustained,” Moody said. “Strike from the record.”

  “So you got the girl you set your cap for—someone you thought was rich and glad hearted, and not terribly intelligent. That was what you wished for—but you accidentally got someone with a good head on her shoulders. Perveen demanded you account for your behavior. As Parsis know, our marital law doesn’t permit every couple that doesn’t get along to have a legal separation. Therefore, I’m curious to hear how you will manage your life if Perveen stays with you again.”