The Widows of Malabar Hill

by Sujata Massey

  “But he asked for me.” Perveen held out the letter that she’d had the foresight to bring.

  The nurse’s eyes lit up. “Ah, very good. I posted the letter some days ago. We had almost given up hope.”

  “Is Mr. Patel close to death?” Perveen was suddenly anxious that she’d missed her chance to know the truth.

  “Time will tell. He can speak, although he suffers from confusion.” As the two young women looked inquiringly at her, the nurse shook her head. “I am not at liberty to give information about his diagnosis, just as I cannot admit anyone to see him except for the solicitor he requested: Miss Perveen Mistry.”

  “At least let me stay outside the door,” Gulnaz pleaded. “He could do something terrible!”

  The nurse looked at Gulnaz as if she were insane. “Mr. Patel is a very weak man. He needs your prayers, not your fear.”

  Gulnaz took a seat in the hallway while Perveen followed the nurse into a patient room that smelled heavily of disinfectant. There were two beds in the room. One contained a teenaged boy and the other a hideous man speckled with red spots and lesions. “This is Mr. Patel,” the nurse murmured to Perveen. In a louder voice, she said, “Mr. Patel, the lawyer you wrote to has come.”

  A stranger bearing no resemblance to the man she’d loved. Perveen chided herself for assuming the letter writer had to be connected to what Mr. Ghosh and her father had learned about Cyrus. But because she’d shown up, he’d expect her to help with the will.

  The head nurse drew a curtain between the two beds, giving Perveen and the spotted man privacy from the boy.

  “Miss Mistry is here,” the nurse said loudly.

  The man’s eyes fluttered and then opened fully. Perveen caught her breath, because now she saw the hazel eyes were just like those of Cyrus.

  “My wife.” The man spoke between wheezes. “Perveen.”

  Perveen felt blood pounding in her ears. The sick man had Cyrus’s voice, but she saw no trace of his former beauty: just a body covered in pockmarks.

  Perveen shot a look at the nurse, who was gaping. “This is a lawyer-client meeting,” Perveen said. “It requires privacy.”

  The nurse’s expression was indignant. “But my patient—”

  “I shall call if he needs you.”

  After the nurse had stiffly exited, Perveen asked, “Why are you calling yourself by another name?”

  “So you wouldn’t stay away,” he rasped.

  Softly she said, “I should not write a will for you. I am still considered a family member; it would be a conflict of interest.”

  “So be it.” He sighed. “I am glad to see you again. I wanted to see you one more time.”

  “Do your parents know you’re so ill?”

  “Yes. My father told me to stop work. They wished me to have treatment far from Calcutta, so people won’t know. ”

  “Do you have smallpox?” she ventured.

  “I’ve got syphilis. Do you know what that is?”

  “I do.” It was the most terrible venereal disease. Swallowing hard, she asked, “Is there a treatment?”

  “First, I was injected with malarial blood. But the fever I had didn’t kill the disease. Now they are giving me medicine with arsenic.”

  Cyrus fell into a coughing spell. Noticing a pitcher and glass on the bedside table, Perveen poured a glass of water.

  After drinking a small amount, he gave her back the glass and spoke in a stronger voice. “The doctors say the arsenic may cure me; but it could also fail.”

  “Imagine yourself becoming well, and the strength will pull you through.” She was stunned to hear herself saying words of encouragement. She’d spent so many years thinking of him as a threat—when the only one he’d harmed in the end was himself.

  “Maybe the medicine will work, but what is the point? All my life, I have run after false gold. You were the only treasure I ever had—and then I lost you.”

  Perveen was startled to hear him sound as sentimental as in their courting days. “How long have you been following me?”

  “Last October, my cousin sent me the Bombay Samachar article about you. It wasn’t till this year I fell very ill. And then I came here. I only wrote about the will to get you to the hospital. I want you to help me.”

  “How so?” she asked apprehensively. If he asked her to come back to nurse him, she would refuse. No matter how selfish it would be, she couldn’t bear to go back. Or perhaps he thought the Mistrys should take him into their home. There was no end to the responsibilities a wife owed a dying husband—

  “Help me,” he croaked, interrupting her panicked thoughts. “Just a bit more medicine, and I will sleep forever.”

  Perveen felt relieved by the simplicity of his request. “I shouldn’t give you medicine; I don’t know the dosing. I’ll call for your nurse.”

  “No. I want you to give me all the medicine in the bottle right now. When I die, it will make you free.”

  As the meaning of his request hit, Perveen felt faint. “You wish me to poison you with arsenic?”

  “Please,” he said in a wheedling tone. “If I could reach from the bed to where the nurse has put the bottle, I would do it myself.”

  Perveen’s initial shock was turning into suspicion. He’d asked her to commit an act for which she could go to prison. A young man lay on the other side of the curtain; if he had awoken and heard all of this, he’d be a witness against her.

  Standing, she looked down at Cyrus. Once he’d been so charming; he had commanded her unquestioning love. And he was trying to tempt her, to give her the idea of forthcoming freedom that could cause her to hang for murder.

  “Won’t you do it?” he wheezed.

  “I will not,” she said, hearing the shakiness in her voice. “You must speak to your doctor. He might be able to adjust your medicines so you don’t feel as desperate. The journey to recovery could be a long one. But if you hold on to your life, you can change it.”

  “And if I die?” he asked pitifully.

  Trying to sound dispassionate, she said, “Under Parsi law, if you die intestate, your assets will be dispersed to your family members in set amounts. For this reason, you might wish to write a will with a solicitor and leave me out of it. I want nothing.”

  “But Perveen, I owe you everything.”

  Was this his true thought, or just another lie? She’d never be sure. He was so ruined that it was hard to hold on to the anger that had consumed her for the last four years. “I’m sorry that I cannot help you with what you asked for. You will be in my prayers.”

  Perveen left the room, knowing it would be forever.

  34

  A Cocktail at the Taj

  Bombay, September 1921

  It was a pleasant day in late rainy season when Perveen went to meet Razia and Mumtaz at the Taj Mahal Palace. As she’d walked in from the garden, she’d parked her umbrella in the long rack in the reception area but kept her briefcase in hand. It was light because all she had inside were a few checks and papers.

  She had reserved a table in the same dining room where her family had met the Sodawallas. But she told herself she wasn’t going to think about Cyrus, who wasn’t in Bombay.

  Gulnaz had found out that Cyrus left the hospital against doctor’s advice two weeks after seeing Perveen and, accompanied by a servant, taken the train home to Calcutta. She imagined that he might end his life there or perhaps was faring better than expected and would survive. Purshottam Ghosh was keeping an eye on things and had promised to report to Jamshedji if Cyrus died.

  “Your life will become a new book once you become a widow,” Jamshedji had said, sounding hopeful. “Marriage is once again a possibility. Who knows? You might bring me grandchildren before Rustom does.”

  She had nobody in her sights for a remarriage, though, and hardly wanted her parents to look. As she�
��d said to Gulnaz, she was looking forward to being an aunt.

  Perveen’s speculations ended as the maître d’ brought her through the dining room to the corner table where Mumtaz and Razia were already seated. Mumtaz wore a lovely orange-and-cream paisley-printed silk sari, and Razia was elegant in a soft blue sari shot through with silver embroidery. The saris covered their hair, just as Perveen’s did; a sign of modesty that crossed both their cultures.

  Smiling at the two of them, she apologized for making them wait. “You both look very well. I am especially thrilled you were able to come, Mumtaz. How is baby Aisha?”

  “She cries like a singer, even though she’s only six weeks old! Good thing Taiba-ayah’s hard of hearing. But I can’t be away too long—she will wake and want my milk in a few hours.” Mumtaz gave a happy giggle. “You know, I don’t mind at all that she isn’t a boy. Everything has turned out so well.”

  Rustom had found an apartment for Mumtaz in an immaculate modern building on Nepean Sea Road. Her sister Tanvier often came to visit—but as Mumtaz said, there was no reason for her sister to move in when Taiba-ayah was living with her and doing such good work. Fatima and Zeid slept in the apartment, too, helping out in small ways after they’d finished their school day.

  After the ladies had ordered the day’s lunch special—veal with mushrooms, rice pilaf, and ice cream—Perveen opened her briefcase. She handed each of them the papers outlining their disbursements from the Farid estate. Razia silently read the English document Perveen had given her, but Mumtaz looked anxiously at Perveen.

  “Will you please tell me what it says?” Mumtaz asked.

  “First, it says that I paid off all outstanding bills to the household’s creditors, so there’s nothing more to worry about,” Perveen said. “As far as your inheritances, you and Razia each are receiving seven thousand three hundred rupees. Both of you are entitled to a small percentage of residual profits from Farid Fabrics, if it begins to do well again.”

  “By the way, I don’t wish to try to claim the land and factories for myself,” Razia said. “I wish to build a future for all the children.”

  “I understand that,” Perveen said. “But if you wish for your daughter to be secure, we should put the land in your name and allow the company to pay you something for rent each year. The separation of land value and mill value is important. If the mills ever close, you can sell the land for your and Amina’s benefit.”

  Razia pondered Perveen’s words, and then nodded. “We could also use such a profit to help the wakf. It seems sensible. Will you file the papers for me?”

  “I’ll do it tomorrow.” She turned her attention back to Mumtaz. “The largest asset isn’t yet dispersed. That is the bungalow. You and Razia-begum share its ownership along with Jum-Jum and the girls. Sakina-begum is due a portion as well.”

  Razia grimaced. “To think of sharing anything with her is dreadful; and I feel the judge’s punishment of just one year in prison is very mild. I do not mourn the death of Mukri, but I cannot forgive her plan to kill my only daughter.”

  Perveen paused, thinking about how Sakina’s world had crumbled—and with it, all her common sense. Now she would likely live the rest of her life with her parents—unless they could find a groom who didn’t mind a bride with a murder conviction.

  “What do you hear about Nasreen, Shireen, and Jum-Jum?” Mumtaz asked. “I cannot forget them. They became my family.”

  “They’re in good health and being raised by their grandparents,” Perveen said.

  “If it’s allowed, I will visit with Aisha. I would like her to know her half sisters,” Mumtaz said.

  “They will be delighted to see both of you.” Perveen had visited twice already, just to make sure the girls weren’t miserable. “Returning to the matter of the bungalow, what do you wish to do with it?”

  “I think we should sell,” Razia said. “Mumtaz agrees that there are too many bad memories for us to ever go back.”

  “And why would we stay behind all the jali windows?” Mumtaz added with a shudder. “I don’t ever want to live without a clear window again.”

  “As you know, because of inheritance law, the property is chiefly owned by the children,” Perveen said. “Your children and Sakina’s are collectively entitled to more than eighty percent of its value. For you to sell the bungalow now, rather than wait years for the children to become old enough to fully participate in the decision, requires an exemption of sorts.”

  “What is an exemption?” Mumtaz looked anxious.

  “It means that a judge will allow a rule to be broken, if there’s good cause,” she explained. “To get an exemption to sell the property now requires authorization by a male relative. I’ve met your late husband’s cousin, Muhammed, who is running Farid Fabrics. Based on several conversations, I think he’d make a trustworthy and kind estate executor.”

  “But do you really think he will let us keep the money?” Mumtaz looked skeptically at Perveen. “He could do the same thing as Mr. Mukri.”

  Razia smiled gently at Mumtaz. “We shall meet him and ask that before we permit Perveen-bibi to make him executor. In fact, we could demand he set down his intentions in writing.”

  “Goodness! You have the makings of a lawyer,” Perveen said, impressed.

  Mumtaz blinked. “I think it’s a clever idea. Razia, will you really go with me to meet him?”

  “Certainly. It’s not been as difficult to leave purdah life as I thought it would be,” Razia said, looking around the busy dining room with a confident air. “Amina is enjoying taking me to her school and showing me the sights of the city. Nobody has bothered us. I believe everyone must know that I’m a mother, because I am treated with respect.”

  “As it should be,” Perveen said.

  “I’ve enjoyed staying in your home, but I’d like to take a flat in the same building as Mumtaz,” Razia said, putting her hand lightly over the other widow’s.

  “We will have each other as friends—and our daughters can live as sisters,” Mumtaz said, her face finally relaxing into a warm smile.

  “I’m sure it will be easy to find a number of buyers to make offers on the house,” Perveen said, already thinking of Rustom’s connections. “But would you be sad if it is knocked down? That is the pattern with everything in Malabar Hill now.”

  Razia gave Perveen a serious look. “It is best for the house to be removed. Only then will the tragedy be erased.”

  “I should not like to see that house again,” Mumtaz added with a shudder.

  Razia lowered her voice. “By the way, even if I move into Mumtaz’s building now, I might be moving on in a year. I received a letter recently containing a proposal.”

  “You left such a surprise until now?” Perveen said with a laugh. “Tell me!”

  “Captain Ali, of course,” Razia said.

  After the widows’ iddat period had ended, Captain Ali had asked Razia’s permission to call on her at the Mistrys’ home. The Indian Army officer had turned out to be a gentleman with regal bearing and kind eyes. He had been most courteous to everyone and had insisted on Perveen and Jamshedji remaining in the room whilst he chatted with Razia as they sat in chairs placed exactly five feet apart.

  Perveen noticed that the two of them, who had maintained a long correspondence over the last four years and spoken twice before on opposite sides of a screen, had plenty to say to each other. The next visit included Amina, who had recovered well and was attending the same girls’ school that Perveen had.

  “If Ammi marries Captain Ali, we will travel all over the place,” Amina had confided to Perveen. “We could go to New Delhi or Peshawar, Burma or Mandalay. That is how life is for an army family. One is stationed and must adjust. One must learn the languages and see everything!”

  “You wouldn’t miss Bombay too much?” Perveen had asked.

  “We can always com
e back. Do you realize we could see all of India using the rail passes for Indian Army families? I do hope he proposes.”

  Now it turned out that he had.

  “What will you do, Razia-begum?” Perveen asked.

  “I would like to see him a few more times before deciding.” Razia sighed. “I don’t need to marry. But it might be very nice. And of course, I would have my own home to stay in whenever I wished.”

  After a convivial meal, Perveen presented each lady with her check from the estate, and Mumtaz and Razia agreed to accept a ride in the Mistrys’ car to the bank.

  “We don’t need you to come with us. We have bank accounts now, and I can help Mumtaz if needed,” Razia insisted as they stood at the hotel’s entrance, waiting for Arman to pull forward in the Daimler.

  Perveen was going to protest, but then she realized that they truly wanted to be independent. She had to let them try. “That’s a good idea. Afterward, ask Arman to take Mumtaz-begum straight to her flat. Why don’t you come back here, Razia-begum, and we’ll go back to Dadar Parsi Colony together? I’ll tell Arman to wait right outside for you while you’re there.”

  After seeing off the widows, Perveen glanced across toward the hotel’s outdoor Palm Lounge and the sea. The sea-facing veranda was fully occupied by British and Indian ladies enjoying themselves with tea and cocktails. She thought she recognized a head of windswept blonde hair.

  She went over and saw it was indeed Alice.

  “Glorious to see you, darling.” Alice stretched out her arms and enveloped Perveen in an embrace. “It’s not too early for a whiskey-soda, is it? I tried to order one, but the waiter brought me tea.”

  “Must be a language problem.” Perveen fluttered her hand to a young waiter, who came over to take the order. “One gin-lime and a whiskey-soda, please. And nuts—”

  “The hotel does not serve single ladies alcohol,” he said in an officious tone.

  “But not men, hmm?” Perveen commented in Hindi. “Tell me why this is.”

  He twisted his hands nervously. “The ladies who come here to drink tea wouldn’t like it.”