The Widows of Malabar Hill

by Sujata Massey

  “My darling.” He kissed her hand.

  Pulling it away, she said, “You mustn’t call me by endearments!” She did not want memories of him promising her the moon to haunt the rest of her life. Better to cut things short.

  “Don’t fight it, Perveen. Just think how your life is opening—as wide as the sea,” he said, taking up her hand again. “Now that you’ve left law school, you are free to be with me!”

  She let him hold her hand, but she would not look at him. “I’m not. You’re going more than a thousand miles away.”

  “Stop talking for just one moment.” Cyrus’s voice rose. “I’m telling you clean that I want you to be my bride.”

  He had proposed. She was overwhelmed with happiness that was quickly followed by pain. Turning to look at him, she said, “But your marriage—your marriage is already—”

  “They chose, but I haven’t agreed. Now they are pressing me to explain why.” Cyrus gazed deep into her eyes. “I haven’t said anything about how we’ve been meeting. But I told them that Esther introduced me to a friend of hers at college who’s better than all the other girls.”

  His words gave her an idea: if he could stay a few weeks longer in Bombay, they could become acquainted under proper chaperonage. Hesitantly, she said, “Perhaps my parents would consider a long engagement. But I must earn some kind of degree first! I’m supposed to be an example for the rest of the community.”

  “My parents won’t wait, and yours won’t think I’m good enough! They would rather match you with Bombay old money: a Tata or a Readymoney.” Cyrus picked up a stone and threw it toward the sea.

  Perveen watched the stone bounce off another rock. Sadly, she said, “I don’t know whom they’ll suggest. But having met you, I don’t know how I can marry another man and be happy.”

  “Perveen, do you realize what’s happened? We chanced to meet and fall in love!” Cyrus spoke breathlessly. “Our parents will be surprised that we found each other without their guidance, but we can tell them that God did the arranging.”

  Perveen nodded, thinking they had many similarities. Cyrus was full of energy and had an impetuous nature. He looked at things in a fresh way and took risks. He was the match fated for her. She almost felt that he was a yazata: an angel sent to bring her happiness. And now it would end.

  “Tell me. Am I wrong to have been so bold?”

  Perveen felt tears starting at the corners of her eyes. “No. I am glad for these days we’ve had. I won’t ever forget them.”

  Cyrus took Perveen’s face in his hands and leaned in until their lips touched.

  She should have pushed him away, but she felt riveted by expectation. Finally, the thing she’d dreamed about was happening. She might miss him the rest of her life, but she would have this moment.

  Cyrus’s lips were smooth, warm, and insistent. He kissed her until she understood that her mouth could part, and then she could taste him: his lips, his tongue, and a delicate, inward essence that tasted of fennel and alcohol.

  Her excitement rising, Perveen kissed him back. She could not get enough.

  The rock was hot as he pressed her down on it, covering her with his own body. His kisses moved from her mouth to her neck, and she felt something blooming. Was this love?

  Yes, she decided. True romantic love must be an overpowering desire to meld two essences into one.

  Cyrus’s hands slipped underneath both her blouse and the gossamer white lace sudreh. This hidden stretch of her body was prickling with sensations. He touched her breast, and she gasped from the pleasure of it.

  While reading a novel, she’d once come across the phrase “wanton woman.” It had sounded awful. She had traveled to Bandra fearful that Cyrus might take liberties. Now she reveled in them. She was taking her own liberties with him. Was this liberation?

  Abruptly, Cyrus lifted himself, and she felt desolate. Wrapping her arms around herself, she came up to a sitting position.

  “I’m so sorry,” he panted. “I shouldn’t have done such things to a girl like you before marriage. But I want every bit of you so much. And now we know that we are meant for each other. Our marriage will be blessed with this—passion.”

  Perveen was trembling. She wanted him to crush up against her again—to never stop touching her.

  “I’ve fallen for you, Perveen,” Cyrus said, stroking her hair away from her face. “Now I know what love is.”

  Perveen’s breathing slowed. The excitement she’d felt was transforming into serenity. A person had only one soul mate. Who was she to disregard this truth? Looking at him, she whispered, “It’s been fast. But I think I fell in love, too.”

  “Please accept my proposal. I’ll throw myself into the sea if you don’t.”

  Perveen stared at the Arabian Sea. Cyrus was daring her to follow her heart—to venture on her own journey just as their ancestors had, risking all for a golden dream.

  She turned back to Cyrus and put her hands in his. “Yes. I would like to marry you. I don’t know that our parents will ever agree—but it’s my heartfelt wish.”

  “My family will adore you,” Cyrus said, stroking away the hair that had fallen on her face. Kissing her brow, he said, “My mother has been missing having a daughter so much. Once she meets you, she’ll not want to let you go.”

  As he pulled her close again for a dizzying kiss, the crash of waves that followed sounded like applause.

  1921

  6

  Houses of Power

  Bombay, February 1921

  People were clapping.

  Perveen jerked herself out of her memories. A pair of well-dressed Indian guards along the road were bowing and applauding the governor’s car as it passed. What sycophants! But then again, she was riding in the car and could hardly cast a stone.

  “Father, I daresay they think you’re Georgie,” crowed Alice.

  “I suppose that with a solar topi shielding us, we all look the same,” Sir David said.

  “Who knows, darling?” Lady Hobson-Jones laughed lightly. “You may very well be the next governor of the presidency.”

  “Would you really like that?” Alice sounded shocked.

  There was a long pause. “I’ll do whatever the government wants,” Sir David said. “But I hardly expect it.”

  From the measured sound of his words, it seemed that rising to that post was certainly something he wished for. It felt almost treacherous to be in the car with such a man, because Perveen had been to gatherings with Indians seeking self-rule. In Oxford and London, she and Alice had attended a few such lectures together.

  Eventually the car pulled up at a very tall gate that was overshadowed by a giant vanilla-colored bungalow. Four guards rushed forward, a pair saluting the car while the other two opened the gate.

  “This seems very secure,” Perveen said, thinking of the contrast with the gate at her house that was guarded by a fellow who sometimes fell asleep at his post.

  “The presidency has provided us with more than enough help,” Sir David said.

  “We’ve leased it ever since it was built last year,” Lady Hobson-Jones told Perveen. “Being the first family in the place means no breadcrumbs in drawers or stains in the bath. I absolutely adore it. We wanted a home big enough for Alice to knock around in.”

  “Actually, it reminds me of St. John’s Wood,” Alice said flatly.

  “Why do you say that?” Lady Hobson-Jones sounded taken aback.

  “It’s so neo-Georgian. Not like our old home in Madras. That was a real Indian bungalow.”

  The India Alice was referring to was from fifteen years past, an era when Alice’s father had been less important than now. Perveen was almost sorry for Lady Hobson-Jones, who seemed flattened by Alice’s reaction.

  “In a sense, neo-Georgian architecture fits Bombay,” Perveen said. “Bombay emerged from Fort Geo
rge. This bungalow is new, but its style is a testament to endurance.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Lady Hobson-Jones, giving Perveen a faint smile.

  Realizing that she’d scored a point with Alice’s difficult mother, Perveen opened her own car door and stepped down from the running board. Sir David went straight inside while Lady Hobson-Jones fussed with her cloche, which the wind had put askew.

  Perveen followed Alice, who’d rushed into the garden to gaze at a hedge of orange and pink hibiscus flowers. Perveen raised her eyebrows in the universal are-you-all-right? expression. Alice rolled her eyes. And then Perveen understood that Alice was embarrassed by the car and the house and the ambitious parents.

  “We can still find the real India: it has so many different kinds of people and customs, you’ll never be bored,” Perveen said. “I want you to come to my home for a real Parsi supper as soon as possible.”

  Alice’s eyes shone. “Don’t leave out the spices.”

  “Sweet and spicy is the key. I have brought some Parsi sweets for you today.” Perveen brandished the box.

  “Yazdani,” Alice said reading it. “Is that the type of sweets?”

  “It’s the café’s name—”

  “Alice!” her mother shouted from the distance. “Come meet the staff.”

  An impressive line of servants had emerged through the portico and stood at attention. Perveen counted eight servants wearing uniforms and four dusty, ragged men and boys who were likely gardeners.

  Alice was asking names, and the staff’s answers came rapidly and in a variety of accents. Alice had a strong memory; Perveen thought her friend would be able to recall most of them.

  Alice’s mother didn’t ask her daughter’s opinion of the home’s interior, perhaps because she couldn’t bear further criticism. Perveen was surprised that the furnishings were simple modern pieces: low settees and chairs covered in creamy, soft colors, punctuated by the occasional tall mirrors or paintings of old Englishmen. All together, the effect was an interesting harmony.

  Gwendolyn Hobson-Jones led the girls straight up a flight of mahogany stairs that curved gently as they rose. Upstairs, closed doors flanked both sides of a long hallway. She opened the door to the one in the very center. “Presenting your new bedroom, Alice. Rather a change from college digs.”

  Alice’s vast bedroom was papered in pale pink and fitted out with fashionable rattan furniture. But the stunning thing was that the room was the shape of a half moon. Through five tall bay windows, Perveen was dazzled by a view all the way down to the pale blue water sparkling with pinpoints of light.

  “What a view,” Alice said after a pause. “But it’s so large! I don’t need so much space for myself. And I’m not exactly the pink type.”

  “You deserve it,” her mother said. “You’ve got the sea on one side, and in the other direction are the residences of Malabar Hill.”

  Alice sighed, moving from one window to the next. “If I had opera glasses, I could see the people walking on the paths below. Perveen, do you still have yours?”

  “Yes. I used them today.” Perveen wondered whether there would be a chance to tell Alice her worries. But should she? Her friend had just arrived and was surely exhausted.

  “Mummy, do you know who lives next door?” Alice was grimacing at a giant bungalow that could have been a twin to the Hobson-Joneses’ place. It was also so close to their bungalow that there was little more than a hibiscus hedge between the properties.

  “Edward Lipstye, general manager of White Star Line’s India shipping operations.” Lady Hobson-Jones was standing so close behind them that Perveen could smell her floral perfume. “He has two unmarried sons. The younger boy is reading economics at Cambridge, and the elder is here working inside the company. You must meet him. He’s a friend of Mr. Martin’s.”

  Ignoring the bait, Alice asked, “Who lives in the smaller bungalow down the hill? It looks more Indian than the other bungalows.”

  Before the car had turned onto Mount Pleasant Road, a long stucco wall had caught Perveen’s notice because of the sharp glass shards embedded along its top. Now she saw this wall surrounded a sprawling Indo-Saracenic bungalow with gardens on its north and south sides and a central garden courtyard with a long, rectangular pool.

  “That low cream-colored house that’s going to ruin?” Lady Hobson-Jones sounded distracted. “I heard it belongs to a Muslim nawab—there are so many royals around here. He died in December, but the property’s still occupied, I assume by his wives and children.”

  “Lady Hobson-Jones, do you know the name of that street?” Perveen asked. An odd feeling had sprung up in her at the mention of the unseen women and children.

  “Sea View Road,” Lady Hobson-Jones said. “Although that bungalow really doesn’t have a sea view because of the other houses.”

  “Please don’t tell me they also have eligible sons,” Alice drawled.

  “Don’t be silly!” chided her mother. “I think the children are quite young from the shrieks and cries I hear every day. But I don’t know the family. Muslims keep to themselves. Isn’t that true, Perveen?”

  “It depends on the family,” Perveen said, feeling certain this must be the Farid bungalow. “Some Muslim females live in purdah, but not the girls I went to school with.”

  “Last month Lady Lloyd arranged the most beautiful purdah party,” Lady Hobson-Jones said as she fussed with the curtains. “The passageway in Government House was shielded to allow for privacy, and the room had only lady servants in attendance. Lady Lloyd did so much to make it perfect, but only two ladies out of the twenty invited came.”

  “That must have been quite a disappointment,” Perveen commented.

  “I suppose it’s to be expected. I wouldn’t like such a secluded life, but I suppose these ladies have eunuchs to keep them company.” Lady Hobson Jones’s lips stretched into a knowing smile.

  Perveen longed to take her handkerchief and wipe off both Lady Hobson-Jones’s smirk and her coral lipstick. Instead, she murmured, “Eunuchs are mostly found in palaces.”

  Alice lingered at the window. “I quite like the place. It reminds me of a miniature ivory palace.”

  “You’re too far to see the patches of mildew on the walls. The stucco’s peeling, and the glass spikes along the top are so primitive.” Lady Hobson-Jones shuddered. “I’ll leave you to look at the eyesore. I’m going downstairs to see about tea.”

  “By the way, I’ve brought sweets. They might be nice with the tea.” Perveen offered the box that she’d been holding for the last hour.

  “How considerate.” Lady Hobson-Jones smiled uncertainly as she took the box.

  As her mother’s heels clicked down the marble stairs, Alice turned to Perveen. “I’m awfully sorry. I hadn’t seen her in three years, and she’s become worse.”

  Perveen decided to be magnanimous. “Well, not many British people would invite an Indian up to their veranda—let alone into a family bedroom.”

  Alice pressed her lips together. “Do you realize what their giving me this excessive bedroom means?”

  “They want you to be happy and relaxed?”

  She shook her head violently. “My parents expect me to live with them for the long term. I thought I was coming on holiday with a return ticket for April, but they just bought me one-way passage.”

  “Why is staying in Bombay so dreadful? You told me you wanted to come!” Perveen was perplexed.

  “I want to be here.” Alice’s words were measured. “But I also know they want me under their thumb because they didn’t approve of my London activities.”

  Perveen exhaled, thinking of Alice’s many controversial causes. “The Communist meetings or the marches for women’s suffrage?”

  “It’s worse.” Lowering her voice, Alice said, “Father wrote a letter to say someone had seen me at the Fitzroy Tavern. He was c
oncerned.”

  “My father would also take issue with my drinking at a public house. Never mind that Parsi ladies can tipple to their hearts’ content at parties and weddings!”

  Alice walked to the bank of windows that faced the sea. Looking out, she said, “It’s more a matter of the Fitzroy Tavern being known for queers.”

  “Oh dear.” It had been a long time since they’d spoken about Alice’s clandestine social life.

  Alice spoke, her voice still low but vibrating with anger. “After that nightmare at Cheltenham, I was only allowed out of the sanatorium and into Oxford because I pretended I was cured. But now that lie’s come home to roost. I’m twenty-three and still unmarried, so they’ve brought me here to change things.”

  Perveen went to Alice and put a gentle hand on her rigid back. “It’s 1921. Your parents can’t force you into marriage.”

  “But they can heckle me endlessly! My mother didn’t think twice about setting me up with a chinless wonder like Mr. Martin. And now she’s dangling the wealthy neighbor. Can you imagine being called Alice Lipstye? It sounds like a dermatologic condition!” As Alice ranted, her body swayed slightly.

  Perveen grabbed her friend’s elbow. “Are you all right?”

  “Let’s sit down. It feels like I’m still on the ship.”

  Perveen settled down next to Alice on the pink chenille bedspread covering the four-poster.

  “Interesting, isn’t it, that neither you nor I can marry?” Alice said. “Look at the two of us in the mirror over there. A perfect image of young spinsters.”

  “It’s one of the things that links us.” Perveen wasn’t exactly a spinster, but there was no reason to hammer the point when Alice was melancholic.

  “But you got through it. You work hard and are rewarded with money and society’s appreciation, while I’ve had to give up my teaching in London and go on idle.”

  “You can work again, Alice,” Perveen protested. “This country needs skilled mathematics lecturers. So many high schools and colleges here would be delighted to have someone from Oxford.”