“What is this? Why are you riding in a car with government seals on the door? It must belong to someone very high up,” Rahan accused.
“Sir David Hobson-Jones is the governor’s special councillor,” Sirjit answered with obvious pride. “Governor Lloyd has given his car for his use.”
“An official government car!” Rahan said, staring Perveen up and down. “You must be really close to Georgie.”
“Eat sugar,” Perveen retorted, thinking that the ride, which had started out like a dream, was turning into an embarrassment. “Sirjit, thank you. Please tell them how much I appreciated your service.”
After Sirjit drove away, Rahan continued his slurs. “English lover! It’s no surprise that your family’s building that ludicrous royal gate.”
He was referring to the involvement of Mistry Construction in the Gateway of India construction at Apollo Bunder. Perveen glanced up and, even at a distance, could see her brother’s face reddening. She shook her head at him. She was on the ground and fully dressed. She’d take care of it.
Perveen marched up to Rahan and his friends until they were inches apart. “I’d be pleased to speak to your group about the activism of Indians throughout Europe, including Madame Bhikaiji Cama, who was jailed after speaking about Indian independence to India’s overseas soldiers.”
The young men murmured uncertainly.
“Madame Cama’s speaking cost her greatly; she’s not allowed to come back to India,” Perveen said, looking them over with contempt. “You should think about her example and whether freedom might be won not by insults but rather by mixing with people outside one’s community.”
“You caused quite a stir tonight,” Rustom said as the Mistrys all sat down to dinner that evening in the parents’ dining room.
“I didn’t mean to. Alice’s father insisted I ride in that car. Rustom, I thought you might have liked to inspect it.” She paused a beat. “But you weren’t properly dressed.”
“Your tongue is like scissors right after the sharpening.” Rustom gave her a killing look.
“Why does your friend’s father have use of Governor Lloyd’s car?” Jamshedji asked as he buttered a puri.
“Sir David Hobson-Jones works for the governor. They took me in the car from the pier to their bungalow in Malabar Hill, and of course, they wanted to ensure my safe return.”
Rustom hooted. “Sir David Hobson-Jones is the governor’s special councillor overseeing the development of Back Bay!”
“I heard something along those lines.” Favoring her brother with a smile, Perveen added, “He knows of Mistry Construction.”
“As well he should!” Camellia opined. “Tell us all about Alice’s home.”
Perveen rolled her eyes. “It’s one of those monstrous places Grandfather Mistry used to say would be the death of Malabar Hill. But it was interesting inside, with very modern furniture.”
“How clever of you to make friends with Sir Hobson-Jones’s daughter!” Gulnaz said enthusiastically.
“Sir David,” Rustom said, patting Gulnaz’s hand. “Just like our governor must be called Sir George, in the event one needs to address him. And now, thanks to Perveen, we might very well have invitations to the Secretariat.”
Laughter rippled around the table, and Perveen had to hit her glass with a fork to get back their attention. “Enough! I’ve known Alice for almost four years, and I would never use her for gain. Our friendship stands apart from family politics, business, and everything else.”
“But we are talking about a family interest,” Gulnaz said. “That is entirely different. Your friend should be our friend, shouldn’t she?”
Perveen and Gulnaz’s casual relationship had changed now that they were sisters-in-law. It was loving, but not entirely comfortable. Carefully, Perveen said, “There’s a misconception that Parsis support the British unconditionally. We have to do better.”
“If that’s your aim, how do you explain lounging in the governor’s car?” Rustom demanded.
“I really had no choice in the matter. And I thought you’d like seeing the car, not rip me up about it!”
“Oh dear!” Gulnaz’s anxious gaze turned from one sibling to the other. “I didn’t wish to cause an argument.”
“There’s no argument here, darling,” Camellia said. “It is only brother-sister blustering.”
Jamshedji looked down the table and spoke in a mock-scolding tone. “I think it’s extraordinary that nobody’s asked a question about my day. It just happens that I won a very big case.”
“Oh, Jamshedji-pappa, do tell everything!” Gulnaz said, going into sycophantic daughter-in-law mode.
Jamshedji reminded everyone of the case’s particulars and then went into full reportage: “And Judge said . . .” followed by “I’d coached my barrister to respond . . .” and “Then the boy, Jayanth, took the stand . . .”
As everyone else listened raptly, Perveen saw no place in her father’s golden evening to tell him her worries that Cyrus Sodawalla and an associate might be in town. Besides, if he became nervous, he might not let her go out to the Farid bungalow the next day. And she had to speak to those women.
After dinner, Perveen climbed the stairs to her room. In her hands she held a small tin bowl containing half a banana and some leftover cooked cauliflower. After slipping into her nightgown, she opened the French doors to her own balcony overlooking the quiet green garden. Inside her brass cage, Lillian was sleeping with head under wing but came quickly awake.
“Ahoy there, matey!” Lillian squawked, hopping off her perch.
“Ahoy there, Lillian,” Perveen answered, smiling at the Alexandrian parrot.
“God save the Queen,” cackled Lillian, catching sight of the bowl of food.
Perveen’s late grandfather had been Lillian’s first owner, and he’d taught his bird the toast during Victoria’s reign. The bird had been unwilling to change her allegiance to Edward VII or George V, no matter how hard Grandfather Mistry had tried to get her to do so. Perveen had taught Lillian to recite one line from “Vande Mataram,” the freedom poem, but she only chirped a random “mataram” after a particularly tasty treat.
Perveen opened the cage door. The bird exited in a gorgeous rush of pale green feathers. She made some fast-flapping circles over the garden before returning to the arm of the lounge chair where Perveen had placed her supper bowl. Lillian ate delicately and then began a series of brief forays into the garden, where she screamed at the other birds as if they had no right to the territory.
Sometimes Lillian stayed outside for hours, sipping water from the birdbath and monitoring the garden for avian intruders. But when mosquitoes descended, Perveen would leave the balcony to read in her bedroom, in the comfort of a netted bed.
Losing Lillian wasn’t a worry. She was part of the Mistry family, and like a prodigal daughter, she always returned.
8
Fine Print
Bombay, February 1921
The Principles of Mohammedan Law had been written in English, which should have made understanding it easy. But the more closely Perveen read the book, the more it seemed like a minefield.
Muslim marital law stated that a widow’s claim for dower was a debt chargeable against a husband’s estate. It had to be paid out before legacies and inheritance distribution. But the word “claim” bothered her. One might interpret that to mean that if a widow wished not to take her mahr, the inheritance distribution and legacy donations could go forward without making any subtractions. Probably, this was what Mr. Mukri believed.
Perveen rubbed her eyes. Two hours of reading a legal treatise was exhausting. She wanted to ask her father about the issue, but he had gone to Kemps Corner to see a client. She wrote down the question in her notebook and shifted to another pressing job: writing out a Hindustani translation of Mr. Mukri’s letter, which had been written in English.
She finished at twelve and went across the street to see a notary public at another firm to have the translation certified.
Stepping into the busy atmosphere of Bruce Street reminded her of the stranger she’d recently seen, and Cyrus. She inspected the fronts of every business, including Yazdani’s on the corner, before going back upstairs to read more Muslim law.
At a quarter to one, Mustafa announced that Jayanth had arrived to see her. Glad for the distraction, she hurried down.
Jayanth pressed his hands together in a namaste greeting at the sight of her. He looked so much better than when he’d been in the Bombay jail. He was bathed and freshly dressed in a clean lungi and vest. His back was straight, and his face seemed fuller; it was as if all his heavy anxiety had lifted.
“Good morning to you, Jayanth!” Perveen said. “I’m very sorry for not being in the audience yesterday and seeing your grand victory.”
“I missed you, too. I came to give thanks.” From behind his back, he brought out a small, tender-looking green parcel. “My mother made you sweet coconut rice. It is a Koli specialty.”
Kolis were a local population, many of whom worked the water. Perveen thought it was ironic Koli sounded a lot like “coolie,” the Anglo-Indian word for Indian loaders, which was Jayanth’s trade down at Ballard Pier. It was punishing work—most men were finished by the age of forty due to injuries.
“Coconut rice—my favorite!” she said, taking the banana-leaf wrapped delicacy into her hands. “How did you know I get hungry around this time every afternoon? This is much nicer than biscuits. But tell me—why are you here at this time? Have you been able to start work?”
“Since five o’clock today. Old Ravi’s face was sour as tamarind, but he let me in. And my friends are grateful that we all will have a daily break now. I used this break to come to see you. I know it was your hard work that won the case.”
“I can’t take responsibility,” she demurred. “My father was the one who spoke so convincingly to the judge.”
“Using the things you wrote down!” Jayanth said emphatically. “I may have no money—but whatever you need at the docks, I can get. Tell me if you need to know about any particular person, or company, or ship. Also, if you wish for goods at a special bargain—”
Hastily, she said, “That is so kind. Our accounting for your case is closed.” The last thing she needed was for him to be arrested for stealing.
After Jayanth departed, Perveen took the package of coconut rice to her desk. It was vulgar to eat and work, but she had so little time. She’d just finished the last morsel when she heard her father coming in downstairs. Quickly, she threw away the banana leaf and wiped her desk blotter clean with a handkerchief.
“Goodness, Pappa, you look warm!” she said, noticing the sheen of sweat on her father’s bald spot.
“I asked Arman to drop me at the Ripon Club for a spell, and I walked from there. Spring must be coming early this year.”
“Sit, and I’ll bring you water.” Perveen tipped cool water from the silver pitcher on the stand into a fresh tumbler and added a sprig from the mint plant by the window.
“Mustafa should be doing this, not you,” he said as he settled into his chair with a soft groan.
“Today I asked Mustafa to go out and buy something for me.” She’d wanted Mustafa to ask around the street about whether a Bengali stranger or any curly-haired Parsi had been seen that day.
“He is always happy to go out,” her father said, taking a long, pleasurable drink. “Somehow, the heat does not bother him, despite his age.”
“He always says heat gives strength.” Perveen picked up The Principles of Mohammedan Law. “May I ask you about Section One Eight-Four, ‘Nature of Widow’s Claim for Dower’?”
“Go on,” he said, taking another draft of water.
Perveen asked whether deferred dower always needed to be paid at the time of a marriage’s dissolution through death or divorce. “Could such a payout be overlooked if a wife wishes not to take the gift?”
“At the time of marriage, this community tends to demand the prompt dower. But later on, there is no requirement of prepossession,” Jamshedji answered easily. “However, the judge would be happier if the solicitor could testify that the women have received what is due. Then they can donate it. It makes the situation clean.”
“Some of the mahr should be on hand. I’m almost certain Sakina-begum would have possession of her jewelry and Mumtaz her musical instruments—but I’ll ask each of them.” Perveen picked up the Farid folder and flipped through it again. “Proving Razia-begum’s possession of the four acres will be harder, because amongst all these papers, I haven’t seen a deed for land in her name. Is it filed elsewhere?”
“No,” Jamshedji said, setting his glass down. “After the wedding, I asked Farid-sahib if he wished me to put through the ownership change in court. He declined. I didn’t press him because a solicitor isn’t required to make such a change. Such a filing could be done at any time, given the commitment made by the mahr contract.”
Perveen was annoyed by her father’s decision to be so passive. “I hope the deed can still be switched into Razia-begum’s name.”
“Her husband’s intent to transfer it to her is stated in the contract. We can do the work, or it could be executed by Mr. Mukri.”
Perveen was fairly confident he’d have no interest in doing that—unless the land gift was going toward the wakf. But what would that mean? “Land wouldn’t enrich the wakf, unless the land is sold. And how could Razia-begum sell it now that the mills are on it?”
Jamshedji sat still for a moment and then shook his head. “The fabric mills could stay, but the land underneath could become part of a family trust, and that trust could be paid rent by the company. But it involves more legal work than you are experienced enough to do. When I gave you this yesterday, I didn’t know this was an issue.”
“Who knows? Razia-begum might not wish to give up those acres once I’ve explained everything.”
Jamshedji held up a cautionary finger. “Remember, Razia-begum is the one we think had the genuine signature on the relinquishment letter. She may be all for giving them up to the wakf.”
“I suppose so,” Perveen said, feeling doubtful.
“Now, what about lunch? Now that my throat isn’t so dry, I hear my stomach’s call.”
“I wish I could eat with you, but I must be at the Farid bungalow by two. May I use the car?” She looked at him entreatingly.
“Certainly. It’s too far for a horse to pull a tonga from here all the way up Malabar Hill. And I’ve just realized the other reason you won’t eat lunch with me,” he added in a sly tone.
She was confounded. “Why?”
He pointed to the iron wastebasket that was now circled by a few flies. “It is a lowly habit to take anything more than tea and biscuits in the office. Your grandfather would weep.”
The ride from Fort to Malabar Hill took less than a half hour. Still, Perveen was sweating when she arrived. It wasn’t just the warm February day. She was nervous about explaining things to the widows correctly, and also because she intended to learn what they thought of Faisal Mukri. If he was as unpleasant and controlling with them as he’d tried to be with her, she imagined they would be an anxious group.
At 22 Sea View, the same belligerent durwan was on guard. When he looked into the Daimler and saw Perveen, his face reddened. He jabbed a finger at Arman and barked that he was in the wrong place.
“Memsahib?” Arman turned to look questioningly at Perveen.
Perveen spoke to the guard in a controlled tone. “Actually, you admitted me here yesterday. I’m the family lawyer and was given permission to return by Mukri-sahib.”
“Yes, yes!” the durwan said shortly. “But to see the wives, you must go to the zenana entrance. That is the second gate. I opened it already.”
Now she felt foolish. Arman drove a few more feet and turned into the second gate. The brick driveway led to the house’s north side, which had a long, copper-roofed porte cochere at the door. She imagined that this extra structure offered privacy to women getting in and out of carriages or cars.
Perveen stepped out and surveyed the garden. This side of the property was thick with tall trees. Weeds had grown high on the neglected lawn, although a border of rose bushes had been tended and looked healthy.
When Perveen rapped at the door, she was met with silence. She called out a greeting through the holes of the marble jali window, and a minute or so later, a small girl in a worn cotton salwar kameez opened the door.
“Adab,” Perveen said, noting the girl appeared to be the same age as the boy she’d seen the day before. “My name is Perveen Mistry. I’ve come to see the begums.”
“They know about you. Please come inside.” The girl kept her head down, as if Perveen’s presence made her shy.
“Yesterday, a boy answered the door on the main side of the house,” Perveen said as she stepped out of her sandals.
“My twin brother, Zeid. A good boy,” the girl added, turning to look at Perveen. The similarity in the small heart-shaped faces was apparent, although the girl didn’t have the birthmark.
“Zeid was most helpful to me. What is your name, my dear? And are your parents working here?” Child servants were a fact of life in the city, but Perveen felt concerned for ones who’d come alone from the villages to work in big houses.
“My name is Fatima. Our father is the house’s durwan; he is called Mohsen. Our mother, may Allah keep her, went to paradise when we were born. We were too much for her.”
“I’m very sorry.” Perveen wanted to say more, but the young maid interrupted her.
“Memsahib, kindly wait here. I’ll fetch them.”
After Fatima hurried up the staircase, Perveen toured the reception room, which was approximately the same size as the room where she’d met Mr. Mukri. This room’s decor was different, with a floor of aged gray and white marble tiles covered in areas by ornate Agra rugs. She smelled the delicious scent of roses in a vase on a central table.
The Widows of Malabar Hill Page 8
