Perveen held her breath as her mother-in-law dipped her finger in the kumkum and touched Perveen’s forehead. Behnoush recited a long prayer in Avestan, adding at the end: “May Ahura Mazda guide you, and may you perform your duties as a good daughter.”
Behnoush had anointed Perveen with kumkum right before the wedding, but this time her mother-in-law’s touch felt different. It seemed to sear. Just as the priests had bound Perveen and Cyrus together, this was a formal bonding. To her mother-in-law and everyone else in the community, she was now Bhabhi—a brother’s wife.
Perveen saw her parents standing just behind Behnoush. Jamshedji’s arm was around his wife, as if she needed some kind of support, but it was his eyes that had the glaze of tears. Don’t cry, she thought, looking imploringly at him. If you cry, I will, too.
“That’s done!” Behnoush said, after she’d taken her finger away and was wiping it on the cloth a servant girl had handed her. “Perveen must be very tired. Poor thing—so much heavy food and too many people. You are home now and must take a rest.”
Cyrus flashed a look at Perveen and said, “Yes, she can hardly keep her eyes open. Gita must bring her upstairs to unpack.”
Perveen would have liked to linger downstairs with Cyrus, who was happily accepting his father’s proposal of a whiskey nightcap. But the Sodawallas thought she shouldn’t, so who was she to challenge things moments after arrival? Besides, her parents were already making motions to leave, as it was so late, and their train would depart in just seven hours.
“You must write. I am already beginning a letter.” Camellia’s voice was choked as she opened her arms for a farewell embrace.
Perveen kissed her mother on both cheeks. “I’ll write every day. Show my letters to Pappa, if he has the time to read them.”
Jamshedji muttered, “No legal brief could be more important than a letter from you.”
“Oh, Pappa! I will miss you every day.”
And now the tears were running from Perveen’s eyes. For years he’d spoken about the importance of strong writing skills for lawyers. And she’d given up the plan to become Bombay’s first woman lawyer, ending his dreams.
“Good night, my dear, sweet daughter!” Behnoush beckoned her to come close, offering her powdered cheek for a kiss. “And don’t feel you must rush out of bed tomorrow morning. Gita will bring your bed tea whenever you like it, and we breakfast at ten.”
The young maid named Gita kept peeking at Perveen and giggling as she carried Perveen’s valise upstairs. Perveen paused at the door of her marital bedroom, where an embroidered toran curtain hung across the top. It hadn’t been present before: nor had the beautiful chalk decorations made from powdered limestone on the threshold.
“What a pretty entrance,” Perveen said. “Who made it?”
“Your mamma. Now look!” Gita flung the door open, displaying a place unlike what had existed five days earlier.
A new, high-posted mahogany bed dressed in a rose silk quilt sat in the room’s center under a modern electric ceiling fan. Silver lanterns glowed from matching carved camphorwood tables on either side of the bed. Happily dazed, Perveen crossed the soft pink-and-red carpet patterned with flowers and prancing deer toward the archway leading into the adjacent room.
The lounge room was another revelation. Candles shone from well-polished brass sconces, illuminating the pair of green velvet chairs that faced a mahogany tea table. An ornamental chest stood against one wall, and along the other, there was a set of glass-doored bookcases.
“The bathroom will be fixed next week,” Gita chirped. “New toilet with flush and a bathtub. First-class modern for Bhabhi.”
The marital suite was beautiful—but terrifying. How had it come about? If her parents had overstepped, she would have to apologize—maybe even send things back. But it was ever so much more pleasant now. In her heart, she wanted all of it.
Perveen turned at the sound of soft footsteps. Cyrus was no longer in the formal white wedding suit but wearing only a sudreh and the white trousers that had been part of his wedding costume. Walking slowly toward her, he asked, “How do you like our honeymoon suite?”
“It’s the loveliest place imaginable.” She hesitated, afraid of having her suspicions confirmed. “I’m only worried my parents overstepped and made your family spend on something they didn’t want.”
He stood before her, his face filled with pride. “I ordered everything. It’s for the two of us.”
He was truly a man of swift action—and deep commitment. If he’d done this to surprise her, what other delightful moments lay in store? Slipping her arms around his neck, she murmured, “You are the cleverest, dearest man. It’s so romantic. I am utterly overwhelmed. It’s the best wedding present I can imagine.”
“We couldn’t take a honeymoon, so I had that money to spend. And you can’t believe how pleasing it is for me to have my creaky old bed replaced with something so big and new.”
Gita began giggling, and Cyrus looked at her with irritation. “Go on! We don’t need the likes of you on our wedding night!”
“I am your servant,” Gita said demurely, fixing her gaze on Perveen. “What else shall I do?”
“Please get some rest,” Perveen said, feeling exultant. “And don’t come to us too early tomorrow.”
When they were alone, Perveen tilted her face up toward Cyrus, who gave her a long kiss that was sweet with whiskey and desire. When they parted, Perveen looked past him to the tall, luxuriously draped bed. She imagined herself beckoning him toward it, but that would be too fast.
She walked into the lounge, knowing he would follow. Filled with a sense of power mingled with delight, she murmured, “What a haven you’ve made for us. I can’t believe you managed this in just a few days. How did you do it?”
“Remember, I didn’t come along when my parents were taking you here and there. I’ll confess that Sahar chose the textiles and furniture. It was also no coincidence that she crossed paths with your mother inside Whiteaway Laidlaw.”
Laughter bubbled up inside her. “It’s all very fresh and soft and comfortable. And I can hardly wait to fill the bookcases with novels and my Encyclopaedia Britannica. My parents will send it. I’ll tell them—”
“Tomorrow,” he said firmly.
Perveen caught her breath as Cyrus took her by the hand and led her back into the bedchamber. She’d been anticipating this for months—but now it was a little scary. What if she was no good at marital congress? How could anyone be good the first time? And she wanted to please him.
“Aren’t we supposed to bathe?” she ventured, playing for time. Camellia had told her taking a bath both before and after the act was customary and might even relax her a bit.
“Who’s watching?” Cyrus said, lifting the lace sari away from her face. “Oh, Perveen. How long I’ve waited for you.”
“It’s been just two months—”
“Two months too long,” Cyrus said, slowly unwrapping the length of lace from around her. “I wanted to touch you that very moment we met. I’ve thought so long about what you’d look like, how you’d feel . . .”
The ethereal sari fell to the carpet, but she could hardly take time to pick it up. Cyrus was holding her close, tempting her to do the things she had half-imagined. With trembling fingers, she unhooked the long lace blouse that matched the sari, and Cyrus pulled off his own sudreh and trousers. He stood before her in only his drawers. He was broad chested and strong as any young man who worked the Bombay docks, although he was much more fair skinned. The only darkness on him was the mat of curly hair that covered his chest, running in a narrow line down to a place she’d long imagined.
“Oh!” Perveen turned her head away, shocked by the feelings that had come with looking at him.
“What is it?” Cyrus asked, smiling.
Awkwardly, she said, “You’ve removed your kusti already.�
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“A sacred cord should never be worn during congress,” he said, pronouncing “congress” as if the word were entirely natural. Then he laughed. “Mrs. Sodawalla, where is your kusti?”
“You’ll have to find out—” And then she lost her breath because he had pressed himself against her so she fell backward, and his whole naked, warm length was atop her on the soft bed.
Slowly, he began unbuttoning the tiny pearl buttons that closed the front of her silk sari blouse. In moments, her muslin sudrah was gone, and he had clasped his hands on her breasts, sending little shocks through the skin and to her core.
This was like Bandra—only it would not stop. It would keep going to a place she’d always wanted to travel, the heaven where they were meant to be.
“I love you,” Perveen whispered, her fingers trembling as she began to unknot the sacred cord at her waist.
“My beautiful wife,” he breathed, “don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not,” Perveen said, reaching up to pull him closer.
14
A Wife’s Place
Calcutta, October 1916
Cyrus held out his arms toward Perveen as she slipped a gold cuff link into his starched white cotton shirt. “I can barely stand being away so long today.”
“I feel the same.” Perveen sighed, accepting the fact that this would be another day when he was gone twelve hours or longer. Cyrus was dressing very well that day because he had an appointment with the food and beverage manager of a European social club in Barasol. If all went well, the Sodawallas would get the contract for all domestic hard liquor. Perveen said, “I wish I could come along with you and boast about the world-class bottling plant you’ve got in Sealdah. The only trouble is I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Nothing to show off, really. It’s just an ordinary bottling plant: crowded, and such a din from the sound of glass bottles moving along the belt—one hundred every five minutes.”
“Goodness! I’d love to see a place like that.” She had a vision of herself moving down the line, seeing ways to make it even better; after all, this was her family business now.
“And what’s on for you today?” he murmured, ducking his head to kiss her.
“Another day in Behnoush-mummy’s cooking school. Today she’s teaching me sali boti.” Perveen kept her tone light. She didn’t understand why it was so necessary for her to learn all of Behnoush’s favorite dishes when the household had a perfectly capable cook. But if a little cooking was the price of life with Cyrus, Perveen would gladly pay.
“When I saw you just a few months ago in Bombay, I said to myself, there’s a girl who can make sali boti with the best of them.”
“Don’t lie!” she said, putting a finger to his lips. “What you saw was someone who appeared serious but, underneath, had the drive to stay up all night with you. Someone with more passion than sense.”
Cyrus gave the low, rolling laugh that never failed to thrill her. “If I’m not too late, let’s go out tonight. You’ve not yet seen the Victoria Memorial, and we can have kulfi afterward.”
“Really?” Perveen’s spirits rose, because in the two weeks since the wedding, she’d been outside the house with Cyrus only a few times. “Is there time to take the car into North Calcutta?”
He frowned. “That’s a bit far. Why go there?”
Slipping a cravat around Cyrus’s neck, Perveen said, “I heard from a friend whose sister studied in Calcutta that there’s a very lively coffeehouse in the College Street area.”
“That place is full of Bengalis in training to be radicals,” Cyrus said with a chuckle. “Not many Parsis in the bunch.”
“I’d love to see what a Bengali radical looks like!” Perveen said, tying the silk in a French knot. “The servants have taught me some Bengali already. We might make friends. Bethune College must be nearby.”
“Yes, you mentioned your interest in that college.” Cyrus stepped away from her, looking in the mirror to adjust his tie slightly. “Let’s drive there on Saturday and see a picture afterward.”
“I’d love that,” Perveen said, coming up from behind to wrap her arms around her handsome husband’s bulk. “And as for today: you’ll do your job, and I shall do mine.”
“Don’t let my mother drive you mad in the kitchen,” Cyrus murmured.
“Nobody can drive me mad except you.”
Two hours later, though, Perveen wasn’t so sure. Cooking was hard. After a long slog of onion chopping, her eyes stung. She blinked furiously as she worked at slicing potatoes thin as matchsticks. Nobody else’s eyes seemed to be hurting. She’d look a wreck, with such red eyes, when Cyrus came back.
“Is this enough?” Perveen asked when a small white pyramid of potatoes rested on the wooden board before her.
Behnoush tilted her head and looked down at the pile. “A little thinner next time, but it’s good enough for a beginner. Now soak them in cold water with salt—half an hour.”
“Shall I fetch my watch?” Perveen had been instructed to wear no jewelry and a simple sari. It turned out that much of her trousseau was too luxurious for kitchen training, so Behnoush had taken her to Hogg Market to buy a stack of practical cotton saris. The cost of five of these rough saris had been less than the cost of one of Perveen’s everyday silk saris. Behnoush had dressed ostentatiously throughout her time in Bombay and given Perveen beautiful clothes for the wedding, so Perveen was surprised to learn her mother-in-law had a frugal side.
“Are those eyes or marbles?” Behnoush chided. “There is a clock over the table.”
The six-by-ten-foot kitchen was packed with pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, a two-burner hob, a griddle for breads, a curry stone for spice grinding, and a wide stone sink. Perveen hadn’t noticed the clock.
“Never soak potatoes in water from the sink tap—it’s full of germs. Use filtered drinking water from the crock,” Behnoush said, pointing to it.
“Yes, Behnoush-mummy.” Perveen was glad to put some distance between herself and the third person in the kitchen: Pushpa, the kitchen servant, who was also Gita’s mother. Pushpa had been kind enough to teach Perveen many Bengali words, but she also had the annoying habit of calling out to Behnoush whenever she thought Perveen was in error.
“Bhabhi’s not using salt!” Pushpa sang out just as Perveen put the potatoes into the water.
“It would seem you’ve never been inside a kitchen, Perveen!” Behnoush-mummy said, her stern words softened by a smile.
“The last time was when I was thirteen,” Perveen admitted, hoping to play on her mother-in-law’s sympathy. “I wanted our cook to teach me how to make trifle. My mother interrupted and told me to get back to my Latin. She said there would always be someone who could cook for me—but never somebody who could study for me. After that, I didn’t dare go back.”
“A deprivation!” Behnoush shook her head. “In my house, there was only one servant who came for a few hours a day. So of course, I learned all the cooking and cleaning.”
“I’m glad to learn,” Perveen said, because the sweaty, tedious labor had been her first exposure of what life was really like for household servants. “Last week, bottling up all those sour mango pickles was good fun. I can only hope they turn out well enough that Cyrus will like them.”
“Making pickles is no game; if it’s done incorrectly, it can result in poisoning.” Behnoush drew her lips into a tight line. “Did you know?”
“I didn’t—”
“Now you do. And right now, we still need the masala,” she said, tapping her spoon against the edge of an empty bowl. “Pushpa measured all the necessary ingredients while you’ve been telling your Bombay stories. Perhaps your mother’s servants cooked with prepared powders, but here we grind on the curry stone every morning!”
Perveen didn’t answer but settled down near the heavy black granite slab that Pushpa h
ad toweled clean for her use. Reaching forward, she rolled the heavy black stone pin over the salt crystals, ignoring the slight pulling in her belly. Her period had surprised her by starting shortly after breakfast. She’d learned from her mother that two aspirin and moving around relieved the symptoms. She hadn’t mentioned it to Behnoush because she didn’t want any old-fashioned advice. Her condition was a matter between herself, Cyrus, and Gita, who had brought the necessary bucket to the lavatory. It had been the same with her maid at home, who had delivered the unmentionables to a washerwoman.
Rolling the spice pods into powder, Perveen hoped that the stern mother-in-law business would end soon. In a recent letter from Bihar, her sister-in-law had written: Truly, she’s a dear. But you must show her that you’re respectful. Remember, she’s the one who’s losing something.
And that something was Cyrus. Perveen thought about how mournful Behnoush looked when Cyrus came home and barely spoke to her before urging Perveen to come up with him to their rooms. How much fun the two of them had in their getaway; sharing gin and tonics and amusing stories on the veranda, and then bath and bed.
Perveen had not thought much about her body before. But she thrilled to journey with Cyrus in different, daring directions that always seemed to end at the same mountain peak where sensation mixed with breathlessness.
How do you know how to make me feel this? she’d once asked. He had not answered her with words.
Perveen scooped up the finished masala powder and put it into the proper brass bowl. She hoped the mixture would meet her mother-in-law’s specifications.
Behnoush instructed her to smear the squares of lamb shoulder meat and set them to rest. The hob’s burner was taken up with a pot of lamb’s livers, heart, and lungs, Behnoush’s special recipe that Perveen felt loath to taste.
Frying a batch of matchstick potatoes would be a delightful respite from blood and bone. Mohit, the household cook, carried away the simmering lamb, making space for a new pot, into which Perveen carefully poured groundnut oil. She’d checked the clock, so she knew a half hour had passed, and she could drain and dry the potatoes.
The Widows of Malabar Hill Page 15
