“Don’t add potatoes until it’s hot enough,” Behnoush advised, dropping a bit of water in the hot oil. As it sizzled, she looked impatiently at Perveen. “What are you waiting for? It’s ready!”
Perveen dropped spoonfuls of potatoes into the golden oil. She jumped back in surprise as they crackled, sending a mist of oil upward.
“Dud-wallah has come,” Gita called to Behnoush from the entrance to the kitchen. “He has milk and cream today.”
“He should have come hours ago, so I have words for him.” Calling over her shoulder, Behnoush added, “Don’t burn the potatoes. Lift them a half minute before you think they’re done, and let them drain on paper.”
Perveen nodded, her attention concentrated on the potatoes. She would get it right, because she knew how sali boti potatoes should look. As she saw the first flush of color, she reached for the metal strainer and suddenly remembered Behnoush’s advice.
“Can you get paper?” Perveen asked Pushpa.
“Paper?” Pushpa began rummaging in a cupboard.
So quickly, the potatoes were transforming from pale yellow to gold. Pushpa still hadn’t found the paper.
Perveen had a flash of memory; she’d seen the Statesman lying on the hall table.
Perveen dashed out, grabbed the newspaper, and came back, spreading it two layers thick on a cutting board. Then she dipped the hand sieve into the oil, bringing up a crunchy group of potatoes, which she deposited on the newspaper. Once the pot was clear, she added a little more oil and then the remaining raw potatoes.
Behnoush returned, bearing a heavy glass jar of cream. Cheerfully, she said, “We’ll make that custard cake you dreamed of. Now, how about the potatoes?”
“They’re right here,” Perveen said.
Behnoush gaped at the perfectly fried potatoes. “Chhee! You used newspaper?”
“Yes, I—”
“Newspaper with ink! Just look!” Behnoush jerked the newspaper, revealing that the undersides of all the glorious matchstick potatoes were smudged with black.
Horror swept through Perveen. “Oh dear. I was in a rush—I didn’t think the ink would spread—”
“How stupid of you. The waste!” Behnoush continued her tirade, making Perveen dizzy with shame. “How could anyone—especially a rich girl like you—think of putting good fried food on such dirty paper? Five large potatoes were wasted, and the oil.”
“I’ll make the potatoes again,” Perveen said. “If it turns out there is correct paper for draining. None was in the kitchen—”
“There are no more potatoes in the house. I must send Mohit to the market.” Behnoush swung around and began shouting in Bengali at Mohit, who’d been taken off duty during the cooking lesson.
“I’m sorry,” Perveen apologized, feeling an utter fool. She couldn’t possibly serve such potatoes to Cyrus or anyone. But how many more hours in the hot, tense kitchen would it take to remedy her error?
As if sensing Perveen’s anguish, Behnoush said, “Just forget it. Mohit can make the sali later. Do you remember how to sort dal?”
“Of course.” The inspection of dried yellow split peas was a tedious, slavish job she’d done four times in the last five days. She’d grown to suspect that the dal-wallah added in small stones the same color and size as his peas: a nightmare for anyone trying to prepare a satisfactory meal.
The rest of the morning passed horribly and was followed by lunch at one. Perveen could barely get down the fibrous spiced offal, which was served with plain rice and the dal. At least there were no stones in the dal on her plate. She and her mother-in-law ate together in silence.
At the end of the meal, when Mohit filled their cups with too-gingery tea, Perveen thought about what course her father would recommend. He handled his own missteps with grace, apologizing to clients, inviting the opposing council and judges to supper or cocktails.
“I wish I could be a better daughter-in-law,” Perveen said.
Silence followed, and she did not break it. Her father had taught her that speaking rapidly, and not allowing breaks, confused others and made one appear rattled.
At last, a heavy sigh. Perveen looked up from her plate and saw Behnoush looking appraisingly at her.
“You have good manners,” Behnoush said. “You are very well bred. Your mother may not have taught you cooking, but she did teach you to speak well. I do not expect you to cook all the time. That is not why my son married you. He married to have a good mother for his children, someone who will take her place in the community.”
He married me to please himself, Perveen thought. To have nights full of passion and a close friend to joke with, and share troubles with, too. But that was not what Behnoush wanted to hear. In a low voice, Perveen said, “Your cooking is so excellent, I won’t ever match it.”
“A man always loves his mother’s cooking best; it is true. But do not worry; you can improve.” Behnoush leaned back in her chair and let out a hearty burp. “I became overwrought, so I will take rest after lunch. Along with the sali, Mohit shall make the vegetable curry for this evening. And also the custard cake you enjoy.”
“Shall I learn it from him?” Perveen thought that the quiet cook would be easier to spend time with than Behnoush.
“No, no, he cannot instruct you properly. It will be my duty, another time.”
Two o’clock. How still the house was when Behnoush slept. Perveen had been sitting at the desk, willing herself to finish a letter to her parents. But it felt odd writing to them about how wonderful things were in Calcutta after the events of the morning.
Her mother’s last letter had included a question about whether she’d visited Bethune and Loreto Colleges, two institutions where Perveen might earn a bachelor’s degree in some liberal arts subject such as English literature or teaching. Camellia had written, Your strength is words. Why not turn to this?
Perveen had initially bristled at Camellia’s intrusion into her life plans, but after the tedium of household life with Behnoush, she’d realized college would give her a valid reason to leave Saklat Place during the day. Her parents had set up a bank account for her at Grindlays, so she wouldn’t need to ask anyone for money. It was an unusual arrangement, but it meant she’d never have to ask her in-laws for anything. It turned out that Cyrus was paid an allowance, not a salary. He hadn’t minded her having the security of more money for them in her account.
Even though they’d discussed it that morning, Cyrus’s plan to visit Bethune with her seemed so far off. He also had a charming, but infuriating, way of getting interested in other activities. Because Cyrus was usually working, she’d agreed to whatever he wanted. But today she had the gift of a little time to herself. Since Behnoush had given her a free afternoon, she would visit the college in North Calcutta by herself.
Perveen went to her bookshelves and pulled out the Calcutta pocket guide her parents had left. A section detailed tram routes and fares, with maps of the city’s central and outlying areas. Bethune College was on Cornwallis Street, a north-south artery. It would be a long walk to Cornwallis, but once she was there, she could catch a tram for the rest of the journey.
Perveen went into the lavatory to bathe and dress in one of her own good everyday saris, a blue-and-cream patterned silk. Picking up a cream parasol and a straw shopping bag, she put the envelope containing her college and high school transcripts inside. She also took twenty-five rupees, in case the college required a deposit.
As she came downstairs and headed toward the front door, Gita came awake on the mat where she’d been napping. “Memsahib, where are you going?”
“Sightseeing,” Perveen said. “If Behnoush-mummy awakens before I return, please tell her I’ll be home by teatime.”
Calcutta was like Bombay—and not. From the wooden seat in the first-class car, Perveen gazed hungrily at her new hometown. The men were intriguing, several of them we
aring traditional Indian clothes along with proper English shoes, spats, and gartered stockings. She imagined they worked at the many British businesses she saw along the route. Ladies also traveled freely, just like in Bombay. As the tram rattled its way north, Perveen saw knots of young men building colorful, sparkling shrines right on the streets. Cyrus and his father had been talking about big party orders for the Bengali Hindu holiday honoring Durga, their exalted mother of the universe. Perveen drank in the splendid gilded pandals, remembering what a Hindu classmate had once said about the sword in Durga’s right hand symbolizing the power of knowledge.
Seeing so many visions of Durga on the way to Bethune College seemed an auspicious sign. Giving up law didn’t mean she couldn’t keep learning things; she would become a student of literature, perhaps studying Bengali language and literature. Yes! Perveen decided with new energy. Though her mother had suggested English, this was the right choice, now that she was a Calcuttan. And if she fell pregnant, she could use the quiet hours for reading and writing—it would be an easier field of study than law.
Bethune College was much smaller than Bombay’s Elphinstone College. She stared at the elegant building with Grecian columns, thinking it looked more like an old bungalow than an educational institution. But she was sure of being in the right place when she saw young women passing through the doors with heavy satchels just like she’d carried a few months before.
Perveen was surprised to feel herself envying the girls their satchels. It had been easy to leave the law school, but she missed the camaraderie of the Elphinstone campus and all her female friends. Getting to be with Cyrus in Calcutta had consumed her thoughts for the months leading up to the wedding, but now, just two weeks into married life, she longed for something to do in the daytime.
The bearer guarding the entrance brought Perveen inside and to a high-ceilinged office, where she introduced herself to an elderly Bengali lady and expressed her interest in applying for an academic transfer. She spoke English, because this would show the receptionist her qualifications instantly.
The woman had an unpleasant, narrow face that seemed to grow longer at Perveen’s request. She answered in Bengali. “Many young ladies are inquiring these days—and the school year is already underway.”
Perveen nodded. She understood the rebuff.
“We are taking applications for next year, and they must be completed in writing.” Giving Perveen a smug smile, the lady went to a file cabinet and took out a thick packet of papers. “You may have this application, but only if you will use it. We must not waste.”
Perveen hadn’t come all the way just to be sent packing. Her Bengali wasn’t strong enough for her to converse in it yet, so she shifted into Hindi. “I’m interested in learning more about the courses before I apply. Whom may I ask?”
The receptionist shrugged. “Our headmistress is giving a speech to the second-year students at the moment; and after that she has a conference with the teachers.”
Perveen sensed the two of them had entered a contest rather like when her father parried with opposing counsel. “Is there a commons room where I might be able to meet some of the students?”
“Those areas are closed to the public.” The woman licked her dry lips. “Actually, Mrs. Kamini Roy is in the office today. But she might be too busy to speak with you.”
Perveen gaped. “The famous poet and social worker?”
The receptionist gave her a faint look of approval. “Mrs. Roy was one of Bethune’s first graduates. She teaches in literature and Sanskrit.”
“If she’s here, would you please tell her I was formerly enrolled at the Government Law School in Bombay?” Feeling desperate, Perveen babbled on. “I completed most of the requirements for a first year of college. With regards to the Oxford examinations, I’ve passed Latin, French, and first year literature. It’s all in the papers I’ve brought—”
The clerk held up a finger. “Give me those papers you brought. In the meantime, you may sit in the parlor. The student prospectus is on the table.”
As she waited, Perveen could hardly bear the suspense—and for the first time in ages, she wished her mother could be with her.
Camellia Mistry was one of Kamini Roy’s great admirers and had convinced the teachers at Perveen’s high school to add her poetry to the curriculum. She could hardly wait to tell her mother Kamini Roy taught at Bethune College. It would be a more interesting letter than the last one she’d written, about cooking dhansak.
A Bengali woman wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a simple white sari walked swiftly into the room. In a cut-glass English accent, she said, “Mrs. Sodawalla, how good of you to visit us.”
“Mrs. Roy! I read all your poems in school.” Perveen was blushing from excitement. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Certainly. It is rare to see a potential student come without her parents and from so far away,” she said, her eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.
“Yes, I can imagine! I’m from Bombay but am now living in Calcutta with my husband and his family.”
Kamini Roy looked thoughtful. “Ah. That explains your departure from the Government Law School. Although it must have been a shame to leave—I wasn’t aware females could study law in India.”
“A special provision was made for me to attend classes and sit exams—it was not a formal change in admission rules,” Perveen said. Kamini Roy still looked questioning, so Perveen added, “My father is a lawyer who wished me to join his practice. But at the law school, I discovered it wasn’t the right vocation. I’ve always loved reading and literature, so that’s why I’ve come to Bethune.”
“Your Oxford examination result was very strong in languages and writing.” The lady adjusted her spectacles as she read Perveen’s transcript. “Didn’t you think of applying to Oxford or Cambridge?”
“We talked about it then, but I didn’t want to be far from my family. And I prefer a new field of study.” As she spoke, Perveen knew it was only a half-truth. She still longed to practice alongside her father—but there was no way that could be.
Mrs. Roy smiled warmly at her. “There may be an opening. But before offering admission, the committee must be sure you’ve got the necessary support.”
“I understand.” Perveen’s hand touched her purse. “My parents have provided the funds. I don’t need to ask for a scholarship and have enough for a deposit today—”
“No need. I’m asking what your husband and his parents think about your idea of studying here.”
Perveen hadn’t expected the question. “My husband already knows of my interest. In fact, when he was trying to convince me to marry him, he told me about all the educational opportunities in Calcutta.”
“That is a good sign,” Kamini Roy said, her face relaxing. “Our application must be cosigned by a responsible, employed family member. Our principal must meet your husband and possibly his father.”
“But why? I’ve got my own money. That seems—”
“Unfair?” Mrs. Roy gave her a wry smile. “I agree with you, Mrs. Sodawalla. I’d like to change the rules to allow women more control, but I am not a trustee with such powers. I suggest you prepare the application and bring it to the interview along with your father-in-law and husband. I anticipate seeing you in class very soon.”
Feeling both irritated and heartened, Perveen said goodbye.
She was thrilled to have met Kamini Roy and guessed that the poet would advocate for admission on her behalf. But now she had to ask Cyrus and Bahram to take time away from the factories to pay their respects at Bethune College. She sensed this wouldn’t be easy.
It was teatime when she arrived back at Saklat Place. Even before the door opened, the smell of simmering meat reached her nose. After being in the fresh air for a few hours, she found the aromas sickeningly heavy.
There was a low murmur of voices, and then she heard Behnoush-mumm
y’s giggle. Perveen stepped carefully over the stenciled chalk border in the entryway, noticing an unfamiliar pair of ladies’ chappals nearby.
“Who has come?” Perveen asked Gita.
Gita whispered, “Her best friend, Mrs. Ghandy. But Behnoush-mummy is upset.”
Perveen felt torn between paying her respects and going straight upstairs to begin the Bethune application. Duty won out, and she approached the parlor. Drawing closer, she heard an unfamiliar, high-pitched voice that must have been Mrs. Ghandy.
“And she just went out? You must be worried!”
Behnoush’s answer sounded irritable. “Yes, not knowing anything about the streets, the bad types, and so on.”
“A Bombay girl always wants to shop!” pronounced Mrs. Ghandy. “But why would she go out without a family member?”
Perveen felt awkward to be listening at the door. Walking straight in, she said, “Behnoush-mummy, I’m sorry not to have told you I was going out. You were still taking a rest, and I didn’t want to wake you.”
Behnoush batted her eyes rapidly at the sight of her. Rising from her chair, she began waving her hands as if shooing her away. In a low voice, she said, “Go.”
“You wish me to go away?” Perveen couldn’t understand the look of intense embarrassment on her mother-in-law’s face. Mrs. Ghandy was studying the carpet, as if she couldn’t bear to see Perveen.
“Upstairs,” Behnoush hissed. “I’ll come later.”
Trailed by Gita, Perveen climbed the steps to the second floor. Behnoush might have guessed she’d overheard the gossip and felt she needed to behave sternly in front of Mrs. Ghandy. Perveen felt steam rising from her body—the heat of shame at having acted so impulsively and entered the room, ripping up the fragile bond with her mother-in-law.
“Should I have waited for an introduction?” she asked Gita. “What did I do wrong now?”
The Widows of Malabar Hill Page 16
