“The only reason I’ve held off is our family business. But it’s paid off. Soon the Sodawallas of Calcutta will be bottling all the whiskey in Bengal and Orissa. Actually, I’ve got a sample.” He patted a small lump in his jacket pocket.
Gulnaz gasped. “How naughty to be going about our college with a flask!”
Perveen wanted to laugh because Cyrus seemed so different from the pompous prigs in the law classes. Still, she didn’t want to be part of a fawning flock. So she smiled briefly and said, “I’ve no time for cocktails. Please enjoy your time in Bombay, and best of luck finding a wife.”
“To walk off just like that is rather rude!” Hema snapped once the three were on their way.
“I’ve got a test in Hindu Law,” Perveen said.
“But you’re walking away from the law classrooms,” Gulnaz pointed out. “Aren’t they on the far side?”
“Damnation—sorry! I must dash.” In her haste to get away from Cyrus and Esther, Perveen had passed the place she needed to go.
Stepping inside the building, she paused in the dimness and looked up the stairwell. Not a student was in sight, which meant she’d arrive late for a second time in the same day. Hurrying upstairs, she felt the edge of her sari slip off her shoulder and into the crook of her arm. As she draped the pallu back in place, she realized the folds around her hips were loose.
Just outside the classroom door, Perveen set down her heavy satchel to adjust her sari’s unfamiliar folds. What she really needed was to strip the whole thing off and start fresh, but she was too far from the ladies’ lounge. As she concentrated on pinching new pleats at her waist, she heard Mr. Joshi saying something about the test. Perveen gave up on her costume and opened the door, the creak of it causing a number of students to turn. All of them were from her earlier class. Raised eyebrows, smirks, snickers, and worst of all, the lecturer’s reprimand.
“How good of you to join us, Miss Mistry.” Mr. Joshi’s voice dripped sarcasm.
Perveen mumbled an apology and kept her gaze low as she hurried to her place. This was a different room than before, and her seat was clean. A mimeographed paper with six questions rested on the desk.
The young men around her were filling their fountain pens and starting in on the exam as Mr. Joshi came down the aisle to address her. “Coming in so late, I’m not sure you’re entitled to take this test.”
“Entitled” was a word that grated on her. Because she was Jamshedji Mistry’s daughter, she was supposedly entitled to read law—even though the law school wasn’t yet giving women degrees.
“Everyone’s working, and you are not. Did you neglect to bring a pen?” Without waiting for her answer, Mr. Joshi said, “I don’t suppose anyone’s got a spare pen?”
“There is no need, sir!” Perveen’s pen and some pencils were nestled in an embroidered silk pouch she carried inside her satchel. Reaching down, she hefted the heavy bag up onto the surface of her desk. Retrieving the pouch, she was surprised to find the pen missing. But the outside of her satchel showed a spreading black patch. Obviously, her pen had fallen out and was leaking. If she removed it, she’d just make a mess. And Mr. Joshi didn’t allow exams to be written in pencil.
As Mr. Joshi went back to the front of the room, Perveen sat in misery, staring at the paper she could not mark.
Forty minutes later, the paper was no longer blank. It was wet with a sprinkling of tears that had fallen fast and hard. As the students to her left began passing their completed tests toward the aisle, she didn’t bother putting it in the stack. She stayed in place, ignoring the irritated sounds of the men who had to brush past her to leave the classroom.
Finally, she was alone in the room. That was what she had been waiting for, because she didn’t want anyone watching her collect her things.
“What are you doing?” Mr. Joshi called out suddenly, startling her.
“Sorry?” She looked up, taken aback to see the lecturer hadn’t departed.
“You just put an examination in your bag—yes, I saw you do it.”
Perveen pulled out the damp, slightly crumpled paper. “Here it is. I had some trouble with my pen, so I couldn’t write anything.”
“But why did you put it in your bag?”
She answered honestly. “I was embarrassed to turn it in. The others would see.”
His eyes narrowed. “Stealing an examination is a violation of the honor code. I shall have to report it.”
Whispering from behind her informed her that the hall had not completely emptied.
“Sorry, but I was not intending to do anything with the test. As I said—”
“If you were prepared to take an examination, you could have had a pen. You refused one.” Mr. Joshi’s voice rose. “What game are you playing today—or have you been playing games all along?”
Steadying herself, she said, “It’s not a game, sir. Just a mistake.”
The lecturer drew himself up; his face was flushed. “I said to the dean that allowing a female in the law school would be a mistake. I will repeat this truth when I write the notice of your honor code violation.”
Perveen’s whole body felt tight. “An honor code violation? I did nothing.”
“You intentionally stole a test that I’m sure you would have filled out at home—perhaps with your father’s help.”
Now she was furious. “I won’t answer to any charges that are unjustified.”
He cocked his head to one side and studied her with a cold smile. “It seems you believe your status is exalted enough to hold you above university law. Why is that, Miss Mistry?”
Rising to her feet, she spoke in a trembling voice. “I’m not answering to any such charges because I’ll have resigned.”
After the words had left her lips, she couldn’t believe it. What had she done? The proper behavior would have been to continue apologizing. But Mr. Joshi’s formidable expression had told her what was coming. He would have enlisted Mr. Adakar and the other law faculty to ensure she was convicted.
Mr. Joshi looked taken aback. After a moment, he said, “With resignation, there is also a formal process. But first there is my outstanding charge. My statement shall be used by the administration to consider whether to convene a hearing—”
“Have you a brain, or is it sawdust?” The offensive slur flew out before she could stop herself. “I’ve quit!”
Going down the staircase, she felt as if she were afloat. What was the expression? Yes—a dying man clutches at sea-foam. Like that man, she was moving in a soft, cool cloud that carried her away from the outraged, gesticulating Mr. Joshi. Although the sea-foam was enough to bring her safety, she was still sure to drown.
Emerging from the building, Perveen headed for a dustbin. Discreetly pulling her handkerchief out of the edge of her blouse, she covered her hand with it and fished out of her satchel the leaking mother-of-pearl Parker pen her mother had given Perveen to celebrate her entrance into law school. It was useless. But then she hesitated. To throw it out would be to discard her mother’s generosity and hopes. She wrapped it doubly tight in the handkerchief and returned it to the bag.
“Miss Mistry, is that you?” a pleasant male voice inquired.
Startled, she turned around and saw that Esther’s cousin was lounging on the same bench as before near the fountain.
“Hello again.” Cyrus Sodawalla raised a hand in greeting. “Esther abandoned me in favor of Chaucer.”
Holding her satchel protectively against her drooping sari, Perveen nodded at him. “Kem cho.”
Switching to Gujarati, he said, “Sit down. You’ve the face of one who’s drunk cheap oil.”
Perveen realized that she did feel faint. She lowered herself onto the bench, being careful to leave several feet of space between them.
“I don’t need your whiskey,” she said in a warning tone.
Cyrus
laughed shortly. “Esther already made it clear that was a poor joke. I’m sorry.”
Perveen’s faintness was slowly subsiding. “You’re forgiven.”
“You still look like death,” Cyrus said, his expression serious.
“I’ll be fine after a cup of tea.”
“You also need something to eat.” Brightening, he added, “Esther’s parents showed me a very good bakery a few streets from here. It’s called Yazdani’s.”
Perveen was impressed that this visitor to Bombay had heard of her favorite bakery-café in the city. But she also knew a decent young woman should not walk with a man unchaperoned. “There’s no reason for me to leave campus, Mr. Sodawalla. I can have a cup of tea in the ladies’ lounge.”
“But I can’t go inside there! And the truth is, I’ve missed a meal.”
The little-boy way his mouth turned down was endearing. And she’d rather leave the campus quickly after what had just happened. Didn’t the fact that her family knew the owner of Yazdani’s make going there a bit like having a chaperone? Slowly, she said, “That bakery is close to my family’s office. I could stop with you on my way there.”
Perveen and Cyrus caught the sweet smell from half a block away.
Cyrus sighed. “Cardamom buns are my favorite.”
“What kind of cardamom buns?” Perveen asked.
“Meethi papdi. Is there another type?” he said teasingly.
Perveen was amused at how little he knew. “It might be mawa cakes we’re smelling, or dahitan, which have cardamom and saffron. Let’s find out.”
The scent was making Perveen feel stronger. A jolt of sugar and spice would strengthen her for everything yet to come.
Inside the black-and-white-tiled café, Cyrus looked around with pleasure and inhaled deeply. Despite the odd hour, more than half of the tables were filled with a mix of Hindus, Parsis, and Muslims wearing traditional and European dress. Perveen spied only one of her father’s colleagues who might recognize her, but he appeared consumed with a business conversation.
Pleased by Cyrus’s enthusiasm, she said, “I recommend the chicken berry pulao or kid ghosht for a late lunch.”
Firoze Yazdani had been following their exchange from his perch by the cashbox. Coming over to the table, he said, “I will bring those dishes and a bit more. We will discuss pudding and cakes later. Perveen-jaan, which cousin is this?”
The Mistrys were an old Bombay family, so the café owner’s assumption was natural. But one of the tenets of her upbringing was honesty. She hesitated, trying to think of what to say.
“I’m the hungry one from Calcutta!” Cyrus said with a big grin before Perveen could come up with a rejoinder.
“Hungry is what we like. Although you will not remain that way for long,” Firoze said, beaming.
After Firoze went off and the two of them had gone to the sink in the corner to wash their hands, Perveen addressed Cyrus in a whisper. “Why did you lie?”
He winked. “Esther’s your third cousin, isn’t she? That gives us some relationship.”
“My family and Esther’s aren’t so closely related. We don’t gather for holidays and weddings.” She wasn’t going to explain their longtime rivalry.
“I had to say it. That bhawa would have tossed me out if he thought I was a masher.” Cyrus leaned across the table covered with red-checked oilcloth. “So, what happened at the university that set your hair on fire?”
Reflexively, Perveen’s hand went to her temple. Her long, wavy hair was, in fact, slightly disassembled from the braided coronet that her ayah, Jaya, had made hours earlier. “Why should I tell a stranger anything of my life?”
“It’s because I’m strange that you can tell me. I don’t care about the same things that Bombay people do.”
Perveen should have stayed silent, but she was aware that, ever since they’d met, Cyrus had been watching her and listening to her. She sensed that he would be interested, and maybe even sympathetic. In a low voice, she said, “Swear that you won’t tell anyone. Not your cousin—not anyone.”
He put his hands together in a prayerful position. The familiarity of it made her smile and helped get the next words out of her mouth. “I quit the law school half an hour ago. Though I’m a special student, so I’m not sure if it really counts.”
His thick eyebrows rose, and he looked almost admiring. “Congratulations.”
“What the hell are you saying? I don’t know how I’ll tell my parents!”
“You could say you’re saving them a pretty penny.”
Perveen shut her eyes, remembering the past. “They were so proud when I was admitted to the law school. The only institution that would have pleased them more would have been a college in England. But I didn’t want to go so far.”
Cyrus nodded sagely. “I wouldn’t go to Britain for all the whiskey in London. And colleges and universities are such a waste. Everything I needed to learn for business I learned on the street side of Presidency College’s fence.”
Perveen could not imagine one of the young men in her classes ever saying such a thing. She recalled her classmates’ self-importance, their comparisons of private high schools and class standings. They would not hang about with flasks of whiskey; they would not talk sincerely with a woman.
Firoze Yazdani was approaching with the tea and their dishes. After he’d spooned out food for the two of them, Cyrus tucked into it with enthusiasm. After half his plate was cleared, he paused. “Such light rice, sweet and spicy all at once. And the mutton is soft and spiced with something I can’t recognize. I suppose it is Bombay masala.”
“This is the best food outside of home,” Perveen said. She wasn’t hungry, but she managed to get some rice and meat into her mouth.
“Why did you decide to go for law? Was it even your choice?” Cyrus asked.
For years, Perveen had hung at her father’s side at supper, listening to his courtroom dramas. She’d been thrilled by all of it. “Actually, my father encouraged me.”
Cyrus finished a mouthful and spoke. “He’s a lawyer, then?”
“Yes—in fact, he’s at the High Court today. My father’s plan was for me to study at the Government Law School, because the law college is bound to grant degrees to women eventually. I’d have my coursework done ahead of time once the bar opens to us.”
Cyrus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What do you make of your law classes? Are they quite interesting?”
“At this point, it’s not supposed to be interesting,” Perveen said dryly. “But that’s not why I’m dropping out. My classmates were the hardest part.”
Cyrus rolled his eyes. “Tell me.”
Perveen told him about the sticky business in the chair that morning, the lost essay from a previous month, the many attempts to keep her from handing in work and taking tests. As she told her stories, his handsome face moved from compassion to anger.
“Parsi boys behaved like this to you?” he said at the end.
“Parsis and Hindus and Christians! Not every boy in the room is an active player, but at least two-thirds are following with amusement.”
He shook his head. “And what has your father done?”
“I haven’t told Pappa because I fear his reaction. He’s a big man in the legal community. He might try to fix things—and then it would be worse.”
“But the fellows who are bothering you are absolute bastards!” Cyrus wiped a napkin across his mouth and tossed it beside his plate. “And they would be the ones you’d have to work with in the courts later on!”
“Yes, most of them will practice here.” Perveen hadn’t thought about this detail.
“They won’t speak to you, although they might very well mock you when speaking to others.” His voice was heavy with anger.
Perveen realized she’d confessed too much. Not because he’d tell anyo
ne—but because he was making her think hard thoughts. “I’m not sure I should have told you. I’ve ruined our tea.”
“Perveen, I—” Cyrus stopped, and his fair skin reddened. “Sorry. I should call you Miss Mistry.”
“Not if we’re cousins,” she said archly.
Cyrus cocked a fist at her and laughed. “We’re both of us in the fight for our lives, aren’t we?”
“What’s your fight?” Now she was curious.
“Ensuring the rest of my life isn’t dreadful.” At her uncomprehending look, he added, “I’m talking about the heartless marriage arrangements driven by parents.”
“So you don’t wish to marry?” As Perveen said the words, she hoped her emotions wouldn’t betray her. She’d been feeling regretful that she’d have only this one meeting with Cyrus, who would very likely be engaged within days.
“I want to be with a woman who suits my taste—not theirs.” He looked intently at her. “Can you believe there are just sixteen acceptable Bombay girls that my family was able to arrange meetings with? I’ve got to agree to one of them and hope she’ll bear two sons or more and keep everyone happy for the next half century.”
Perveen giggled.
“What is it?” He sounded irritated.
“I thought there would be a thousand Parsi girls on your interview list. There are so many of us here.”
“Not of the proper age, complexion, family. And then we have to think of the proper horoscope!” he added with a grimace.
Perveen looked across the table at the young man who felt himself in a predicament but had achieved the work of his dreams and surely would be matched with a satisfactory woman. “Don’t feel sorry for yourself. My parents will arrange my marriage in a few years. It’s part of life.”
Firoze Yazdani reappeared to coax them to sample the café’s baked goods. Cyrus tried a sticky, golden dahitan. Perveen asked for the simpler baked mawa cake. Firoze added a complimentary date-and-almond pastry. Between the sweetness of sugar and the heat of tea, Perveen was beginning to feel renewed.
After Cyrus had forked up the last crumb, he pulled out a gold pocket watch. “Damnation! I was supposed to be at the Taj Mahal Palace twenty minutes ago. I’ll call for the bill.”
The Widows of Malabar Hill Page 4
