“But the seclusion and not being allowed to bathe can’t be healthy,” Perveen said. “It’s not the way I was raised.”
“Even though you are Parsi?”
“Yes, from a modern family in Bombay.” In a rush, she said, “Actually, seclusion has been very hard for me. I dread it the entire month. It’s begun to affect my sleep and mood.”
“How so?” Giving her a sharper look, he picked up his pen and began writing notes.
“I have terrible nightmares that I’m in that little room, even when I’m away from it,” she said, remembering the dreams of the prior week. “I have a feeling of sadness and hopelessness. It’s made me angry with my husband. He won’t defend me against his parents, even though he thinks it’s old-fashioned.”
“Every young bride, regardless of religion, struggles with adjusting to the in-laws’ house. It will improve.” The doctor’s voice was dismissive. “I am concerned with your relationship with your husband. What is the frequency of congress?”
“Between four and six times.”
“A month?” he asked, not looking up.
“Every week,” she said, blushing. It did sound like quite a lot—but it was the one thing Cyrus still had time for.
“Healthy newlyweds.” For the first time, the doctor sounded approving. “Now we shall commence the examination.”
Talking with him had helped keep her mind off his hands and instruments. Now the long double-sided metal tool went inside; Perveen gasped at the pain. As her body stiffened, she wondered whether the examination could be dangerous if she was indeed pregnant.
“Sorry. It is always hard,” Dr. Bhattacharya said, putting his metal tool down on a tray. “Now, I have a few questions.”
“Yes,” Perveen said, struggling up to a sitting position so she could see his face.
“Have you had congress or any sexual activity with another man?”
Perveen was shocked that he’d think such a thing of her. Swiftly, she said, “No. Only my husband—”
“You are certain of this? No fathers-in-law, uncles, brothers-in-law—”
“Of course I haven’t. I do not come from that kind of family!” Perveen’s voice shook at the indignity. Ever since she’d arrived in Calcutta, all kinds of sly comments had been made about decadent, rich Parsis of Bombay. Any question about her family made her react violently.
The doctor steepled his fingers and leaned forward, studying her. “You would be surprised what happens in the best of houses—Hindu houses, Parsi, Muslim. And even among the English.”
Perveen felt her pulse pick up. In a low voice, she said, “Are you asking me this because you see signs of a sickness? Is this the reason I haven’t conceived?”
“I cannot answer those two questions for certain at the moment. There are signs of change in your body: some lesions, and a cloudy discharge.”
Perveen’s pulse was now racing. She had noticed some discharge in the last weeks and had carefully rinsed her underthings before leaving them for Gita to give the dhobi. She did not want any further reasons to be sent into seclusion.
“Maladies affecting the reproductive organs are called venereal diseases. I have taken a sampling from your body for our laboratory. Within several days, I will have an answer.”
“What is that word—‘venereal’?” she asked, hearing the sharpness in her voice. She felt angry not to understand what was wrong with her.
“Originally it is from Latin. Venereus means pertaining to sexual love or intercourse.” He spoke drily, as if giving a college lecture.
“Oh!” She blushed again, wishing she hadn’t asked. The visit was becoming more embarrassing by the minute.
Sounding stern, he said, “There are several of these diseases. They cause discomfort and can gravely endanger the people who have them.”
Fearing the worst, she ventured, “Do you mean that I could die?”
Dr. Bhattacharya picked up a fountain pen and filled it carefully before answering. “In the case of a woman, we worry first about the health of any fetus being carried. This testing will inform us whether you are pregnant.”
“I don’t think I am. I had my monthly two weeks ago. If I’m ill, might I—never be able to conceive?” In the space of a few minutes, her life as a married woman seemed to be collapsing.
“Don’t leap to conclusions,” the doctor said, not looking at her as he wrote fluidly on the paper in front of him. “You must return for an appointment to learn the results of the cultures, and then all will be known. In the meantime, refrain from intimate contact. And next time, you must bring your husband.”
Just like the lady in the waiting room with her spouse. But how could Cyrus beam proudly if they were awaiting a diagnosis of life and death? Perveen wished she could read the truth that the doctor had surely already written down. Trying not to cry, she said, “I don’t know if he’ll come. He’s very busy with his bottling plants. He usually is gone by nine every morning and sometimes isn’t home until ten or eleven at night.”
“I should not release your diagnosis and treatment plan without the presence of a husband.”
Just as she could not enroll in college without the signature of a male relative. Suddenly, all the anger she’d been closing inside herself broke out. “Why must I bring him? Don’t you realize that he may want to divorce me when he hears this news? And if my mother-in-law learns about it—”
The doctor’s voice was unemotional. “They have no reason to fault you.”
“But from what you’re saying, I’ve got a terrible illness. Of course they will blame me.”
Dr. Bhattacharya shook his head. “Venereal diseases pass from one person to another. And since you’ve only had relations with your husband, you surely know the culprit.”
16
Broken Designs
Calcutta, March 1917
Squatting on the tiled floor of the foyer, Perveen arranged the tin stencil box and picked up the shaker of lime powder. Carefully, she shook chalk inside the stencil and watched it flow through to the floor.
The week before, she had made a special design for Behnoush’s birthday. Today it was back to normal: the swastika pattern that represented the revolving sun’s life-giving force.
Stenciling chalk designs was something she’d enjoyed doing occasionally in Bombay. Her mother had explained that in olden times the limestone chalk had trapped dirt and disinfected the feet of people entering the home. The custom endured as a way of showing welcome—and also the accomplishments of the household’s women.
These days, crouching down to decorate the Sodawallas’ house was nothing but a chore. It felt like making an elegant frame to go around the ugly picture that her life had become. If Perveen had permission to pick out the chalk’s color, it would have been a blackish gray like the ashes from dirty fires on the Calcutta streets.
Just down the hallway, a pure sandalwood flame burned on a table in the parlor. The house would soon be overpowered with sandalwood when the Persian New Year was celebrated over thirteen days. Behnoush, Perveen, Gita, and Pushpa had cleaned for three weeks, making everything fresh for the relatives and visitors who’d come by.
Perveen was highly conscious of how many days of the month she had until she went into the little room. She had calculated that her menstrual cycle would send her into seclusion midway through the holidays, and it would be about eight days until she could leave.
The previous time she’d been in the room, she’d stared at a pattern of smudges on the wall until she realized they were more than dirt. They formed a kind of calendar, with patterns of seven or eight filling a space running from just over the top of the cot down to the baseboard. She wondered if Behnoush had marked off her days. Or had it been Azara?
Perveen had used a pencil to add her own marks, detailing the approximately forty-three days she had been confined over her six m
onths in the bungalow. But she hadn’t been able to recall the exact length of each stay. Everything ran together.
On that stay, the spring heat had made the room stifling, and she’d smelled her own sweat and the blood more than before. She could imagine what summer would be like. As her mother had suggested, she passed as much of her time in the room as she could reading or sleeping.
Although she feared her dreams.
Sometimes her dreams were terrifying. She was happily pregnant but then delivered a blind baby. In another dream, Cyrus was plotting with a beautiful woman to throw her off Howrah Bridge. More than once, she’d dreamed she was fourteen-year-old Azara, sick with fever, rolling off the same hard cot.
The hardest dreams were the ones about being back in Bombay. In these nighttime escapes, she was still a college student lounging in a chair on her bedroom balcony. Then she’d wake, realize where she was, and begin to weep.
Nothing had been the same since the visit to the doctor.
Perveen had told Cyrus that the doctor thought she might be ill—but nothing more. She hadn’t had the courage to tell him any sickness was likely his fault. She didn’t like how brusque Dr. Bhattacharya had been. He didn’t know Cyrus, and the diagnosis was not yet certain.
In the doctor’s private office, Cyrus had been all smiles and encouragement until Dr. Bhattacharya told him that both of them needed to be treated for gonorrhea. Cyrus’s face had gone pale, but he’d agreed to provide a culture for the doctor, who’d then discussed treatment with a modern drug, Paragol. Dr. Bhattacharya said that because Perveen wasn’t yet pregnant, they did not have to worry about a baby being born blind.
Later that evening, when they were alone on their balcony, she asked Cyrus how he’d caught the infection.
Cyrus shook his head, looking helpless. “I don’t know. But for my sixteenth birthday, my father took me to Sonagachi. He had done the same for my brother. It was his way of teaching me how to be a man. Many fathers and uncles bring boys. We cannot fight it.”
She thought about her gruff, quiet father-in-law and could hardly imagine him going to such a place. But it must have been true. “Your sixteenth birthday was twelve years ago. Did you have symptoms then?”
“What kind of question is that? I feel like I’m in court facing a prosecutor.”
“Hush. I’m your wife, and I deserve to know.”
Cyrus shrugged. “I knew nothing. Remember that the doctor said that some men can be ill for years without knowing. ”
She’d believed that Cyrus’s skill as a lover was a gift and that he brought her to such heights due to their fated connection. But now she could not stop brooding over the idea he’d had sex with other women. Hesitantly, she asked, “After that birthday, were there other times?”
“No!” Giving her a horrified look, Cyrus launched himself up from the teak chair where he’d been sitting. “I won’t stay here if you continue such insults.”
“I’m sorry,” Perveen said, feeling desperate. “I didn’t mean to cause offense. I’m just so worried.”
As Cyrus grudgingly returned to his place, she looked at him critically. At twenty-eight, he was so handsome and assured, she thought it might be possible that he had dallied with other women. She had met a few other young Parsi women in the small community—some of them were quite pretty. What if one of them had longed for him, but wound up married to someone else? Cyrus and such a woman might harbor a secret love. No, she told herself. He loved only her.
“Has Mamma asked you about the appointment?” Cyrus asked. “I put her off.”
Perveen pressed her lips together and nodded. “Yes. I told her the doctor requires us to visit together several more times for treatments to encourage conception. It’s not quite a lie, is it? We really can’t have a baby until we are free.”
“Do you still want a baby?” He tilted his head to one side, as if trying to get a better read on her.
“Yes, but it’s safer not to try this year,” Perveen said, feeling a gray shawl of sorrow wrap around her. So many possibilities were vanishing.
“You’d forego trying for a baby? Even though you hate going into that room every month?” Cyrus sounded incredulous.
Perveen had agreed about wanting a baby because it was the right thing to say. But the prospect had become terrifying, given the uncertainty of the baby’s health, and also knowing Behnoush-mamma would control the way the child was brought up. She couldn’t say that to Cyrus because it would create a new argument. He clearly was upset about the upcoming months of celibacy. Clearing her throat, she said, “I must finish that medicine. But if your mother discovers my bottle of Paragol, she’ll think I must be confined.”
“You mustn’t worry about everything! It’s turning you into a crone.”
Bristling, she shot back, “And what might Mummy do if she learned you were ill? Would she lock you in a little room to keep you from spreading the germs?”
“That’s not funny,” Cyrus said, finishing his bourbon. “You were different in Bombay—so sweet and agreeable. But since marrying, you’ve become shrewish.”
“I’m not like that!” Perveen protested, thinking of how many times she’d kept back an opinion and how hard she worked to be pleasant to Bahram and Behnoush.
“Just listen to yourself.” Cyrus gave her a reproving look before rising and going inside.
Perveen did not go after him. She’d been full of righteous indignation—and somehow he’d managed to turn the tables on her. They’d had a small argument about her applying to Bethune or Loreto College, which he’d won by telling her it was the worst time to agitate his parents. She had a lifetime to study, and the degree would take less than three years. This was true—but now she knew that her finishing college might threaten him.
The information had emerged when Bahram was scolding his son at supper for not having read through a particular contract carefully. “I can’t sack you for neglect like they did at Presidency!” he’d bellowed, and Cyrus had delivered a blistering look of rage.
As she continued chalking the hallway, Perveen thought sadly about what she’d given up back in Bombay. The design she was crafting reminded her of the patterned moldings that bordered the ceilings of the hearing rooms within the High Court. As a child, she’d sat in court with Grandfather Mistry, who sometimes stopped in to see his son’s performance.
Perveen had been too young to understand the long words being used. She’d only loved the building, with so many wolves, monkeys, and birds carved into it, and the graceful gothic arches that made her feel like a princess in a castle. Here was a place where teakwood and gold never would become old.
The High Court was a place she’d likely never see again. Perveen raised a hand to wipe her eyes and felt the unexpected smarting from the limestone dust.
“Oh, how nice it looks. You are getting better with chalk.”
Perveen turned to see her mother-in-law standing over her.
“The ladies are coming soon; we have some weaving,” Behnoush said.
Perveen tried to blink the powder out of her eyes so she could get a clear look at Behnoush’s expression. It seemed kind.
“Are you making kustis?” Perveen asked.
“Yes, my dear. But don’t be disappointed you won’t be allowed to weave.”
“Why?” Perveen didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended.
“The weaving can only be done by ladies of the priestly families. My late father was a priest, and Mrs. Banaji’s husband is one—remember, he ministered at your wedding.”
Perveen nodded, not remembering that at all.
“Mrs. Banaji’s daughter and daughter-in-law are coming today. Everyone is working hard to have new kustis ready for their families at Nowruz.”
“I’ll greet them.” Perveen kept on meeting with every one of Behnoush’s friends’ daughters, hoping that somehow she
would find a true friend. The girls were pleasant, but they did not make invitations for excursions or to their homes. Was it her depression that they sensed or just that she was a spoiled girl from far away?
Smiling through her nerves, Perveen presented cups of ginger-lemongrass tea to Mrs. Banaji and her daughter, Sayeh, and daughter-in-law, Touran, who each sat before a small wooden loom.
“This tea needs more sugar. Bring it!” Behnoush said after a sip.
Perveen found a sugar bowl and little spoons and went around to everyone before sitting in the room’s smallest chair.
“I will tell you about kustis,” Mrs. Banaji said, judgment in her eyes as she looked at Perveen. “Seventy-six strands of extremely fine wool must come together. It is very tight and strong; it cannot be broken.”
“It looks like nice work to do, but I’ve heard I’m not the right social class.” Perveen felt she’d better defend herself for not helping.
Sayeh giggled and said to the group, “Of course she wouldn’t want to weave! Perveen is a real-estate heiress.”
“That’s not true.” Perveen frowned at the smirking girl.
“She is being too modest,” Behnoush said with a benevolent smile. “Mr. Mistry is a lawyer, but his father built up half of Bombay. I’ve seen their ancestral house.”
How odd that the family affluence that Behnoush always criticized was now being exaggerated. Feeling annoyed, Perveen said, “Our ancestral house was a hut in Gujarat. Not that it could still be standing, after all these centuries.”
Ignoring her comment, Sayeh Banaji said, “If the British paid your grandfather to build so much of Bombay, your family must be very rich indeed.”
“A number of Indian contractors got work from the British. Grandfather was just one of them, and he was busiest in the 1870s,” Perveen said. “My only close family member in the company today is my brother.”
“A brother?” Mrs. Banaji’s eyes lit up. “How old is he?”
“Twenty-one.” Perveen could anticipate the next question.
“Married?”
The Widows of Malabar Hill Page 18
