The Widows of Malabar Hill

by Sujata Massey

  “Could we get the divorce on grounds of their blackmailing us?” Perveen asked.

  He broke out laughing. “You are certainly one who thinks of every angle. But once again, it’s not part of Parsi marital law.”

  “I hate the law. It’s unfair, and lawyers should advocate to have it changed.”

  Her father snorted. “You don’t like the Parsi Marriage and Divorce Act? It’s too bad you left law school. Only a Parsi lawyer who really cares about women’s rights will push to change it.”

  She nodded. “Tell me, Pappa, what happens next? Will another lawyer represent me in the case for separation?”

  “I’ll prepare the case and hire a barrister in Calcutta to argue it before the court.” He gave her a searching look. “Are you prepared for what this means? If you get the separation, we’re willing to have you live in our home beyond our deaths. But you might never be able to remarry.”

  “The last thing I want is another marriage,” she said with a dry laugh.

  “What will you do with yourself, then?”

  Perveen decided to tell him the idea that had slowly come to her during the long train ride from Calcutta to Bombay. “I passed the Oxford entrance examinations years ago. At the time I said I didn’t want to go to England because I was afraid of seasickness and the long trip.”

  “You also stated you had no interest in spending time with the English,” Jamshedji reminded her with a chuckle. “Even though I went myself, and you would have been part two in the Mistrys’ Oxford legacy.”

  “I’ve reconsidered things.” Taking a deep breath, she said, “Did you know that in the 1890s, a female student from Poona was admitted to Somerville College and read law? Miss Cornelia Sorabji works as a solicitor in Bengal and several of the princely kingdoms.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard something, but you are the one I’m concerned about. Why do you think studying law at Oxford would be easier for you than studying it in Bombay?” Jamshedji sounded skeptical.

  “It will be hard. But as Grandfather Mistry would have said, every bead of my reputation is sold,” Perveen said wryly. “I will be away in England for three years of study. Then I can return to Bombay as a working professional.”

  Jamshedji studied her for a long moment. “You’ve had a terrible time. Mamma and I want to hold you close to us and make sure you’re all right. Do you really wish to leave?”

  She wasn’t excited to leave her beloved home. But if she became Bombay’s first woman lawyer, that would string the beads back on the ruined necklace and turn them to diamonds.

  1921

  21

  Talk between Men

  Bombay, February 1921

  Perveen had experienced enough blood and tears for the day. It was time to see Alice.

  In the evening’s darkness, the tall Palladian windows of the Hobson-Jones bungalow glowed golden and inviting. Arman pulled up to the gate, and half a dozen guards ran up to surround the car. This was a far cry from the fawning welcome the governor’s car had received the day before.

  A Scottish lance corporal demanded Perveen explain her business. In a cool voice, she gave her name and said she’d been invited by Alice. The Scot consulted a book provided by another one of the guards. Looking up, he grudgingly said, “Your name is here.”

  Perveen didn’t answer. She was considering the fact that a day earlier, the property had only had four guards. She wondered whether the greater number of guards was tied to the events around the corner. Arman wasn’t allowed to drive through the gates into the courtyard. They had a quick discussion about what to do and resolved that he would go back for her father but return for her at nine o’clock.

  Perveen’s suspicions were raised when she walked through the gates and saw, parked close to the house, a car marked with the insignia of the Bombay Police. Was an officer making a social call on Alice’s parents, or was it about the trouble around the corner?

  The household butler was a professional. The tall, elegant-looking Punjabi recognized Perveen from the previous day and ushered her in with the respect that had been missing from the guards. As she followed the butler down the hall, her nose caught the scent of tobacco, and she overheard the rumbling of men’s voices from behind one of the closed doors.

  In the vast, underfurnished drawing room, Alice sat on the carpet surrounded by several small cartons. Holding a record in her hands, she looked up at Perveen. “Good, you came! I’m looking through the records I brought. What do you fancy hearing?”

  Alice sounded casually lighthearted; it was as if she were ignoring all that she’d learned about two hours earlier. Perveen wondered about this shift until she looked toward the veranda and saw a bit of blonde hair peeping over the back of a planter’s chair. Lady Gwendolyn Hobson-Jones was within hearing distance.

  “I should pay my respects to your mother,” Perveen said, gesturing toward the veranda.

  Alice winked. “At your own risk. She’s in fine form tonight.”

  Perveen found Alice’s mother nursing a half-finished drink and staring out into the dark garden.

  “Good evening, Lady Hobson-Jones,” Perveen said, trying to put warmth that she didn’t feel into the formal greeting. “How was your first day with Alice?”

  “Quite well, considering. Sit a moment, won’t you?” The lady’s tone was unusually mellow, perhaps due to the crystal tumbler in her hand. “I can’t fathom why she stays inside on such a pleasant night.”

  “She’s excited to unpack her records. What do you think of her collection? As my driver pulled up, I could hear it on the street.”

  “I’ll listen to Cole Porter any day. Alice has some other records, though, with the most awful, scratchy, rough voices. Al Joneson—”

  “Al Jolson, Mother. Honestly!” Alice called from the drawing room.

  “And where is Sir David tonight?” Perveen asked. “Does he ever get a chance to truly relax and be at home in the evenings?”

  “I wouldn’t say he’s the relaxing sort,” Lady Hobson-Jones said. “Right now he’s in his study dealing with some surprise visitors.”

  “Friends?” Perveen was fishing but trying not to seem like it.

  “No. The police commissioner and his aide.” Lady Hobson-Jones’s tone was dismissive.

  Perveen wanted to know why. “If they confer very often, they may yet become friends.”

  Lady Hobson-Jones sighed. “We knew the last police commissioner, Mr. Edwardes, very well. Of course, he was an ICS man. Commissioner Griffith is an imperial policeman who was promoted.”

  Her careful words made Perveen think that Griffith was not what she considered top-drawer.

  Lady Hobson-Jones continued, “I can only hope Mr. Griffith’s experience will enable him to suppress the city’s dreadful crime wave. Today, a violent crime occurred around the corner in this very neighborhood!”

  Perveen realized the conversational turn could put her in a difficult position if Alice said anything to her mother about Mistry Law’s representation of the Farids. She could not possibly discuss the situation. “I’m very glad the police are with your husband. And it was nice to see you this evening, but I’ll be—”

  “Wait.” Lady Hobson-Jones took a deep sip from the tumbler and then turned to Perveen. “You live in a Parsi-only colony, don’t you?”

  Perveen was not only annoyed to be delayed; she also didn’t like being singled out for her religion. “Yes. In Bombay, religious communities tend to settle close to each other—not just Parsis, but Hindus and Muslims, too.”

  “What is the crime count in your neighborhood?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s counting. But I can’t think of any problems.” Perveen looked at the woman who was now sitting up straight and looking alert.

  “No murders, I’m sure!” she said with a light laugh. “I’ve been telling my husband, there is security in monoton
ous communities.”

  Homogenous, Perveen thought. That was the word Lady Hobson-Jones was reaching for. But homogeneity did breed monotony. Was Lady Hobson-Jones intimating that she wished Malabar Hill would once again become English only?

  “Too many people die in India.” The Englishwoman turned pensive. “One worries about disease first and foremost. Then there are the terrorists going into people’s homes and shooting them. But our new crime is at a bungalow we can see from our windows. Remember, we showed you?”

  Perveen nodded warily.

  “My husband doubts it was a crime of religious hatred or politics. Nevertheless, I’m watching the back of the property tonight, because there aren’t enough guards to properly cover all of it.”

  “The police and your husband will come up with a good security plan.” Perveen tried to sound reassuring. She suspected that most of the woman’s attitude was born from fear.

  “Go to Alice,” Lady Hobson-Jones said. “Tell her that she can’t go about without a chaperone. This isn’t Belgravia. She should behave with the same caution that you do.”

  Inside the drawing room, Perveen found Alice instructing two servants on carrying her Victrola upstairs.

  “Take the last few records from the sofa,” she said over her shoulder to Perveen. “And bring your drink. There’s a gin-lime on the tray freshly made for you.”

  “Are we going to your room?” Perveen said, picking up the cold tumbler in one hand and three records in the other.

  “No!” Alice said, huffing a bit as she climbed the stairs with her small load of records. “I’ve found an even better place just one floor up that I’ve decided to make my study.”

  This was a corner room with windows open on both sides up on the third floor. When Alice pulled the chain to turn on the overhead light and fans, an army of mosquitoes and moths began pounding at the wire-cloth screens. There were so many flying insects that it was like Victoria Terminus at rush hour.

  “Come sit,” Alice said. “I have lots to tell. But let’s get the music started.”

  Perveen settled into a rattan lounge chair and looked around the room. Ever since her time in Calcutta, she’d had an instinctive dislike of small places. Alice’s hideaway had some of the same elements of the Sodawallas’ seclusion room: a small cot and table. But this retreat was soft. The bed was made up with a printed cotton quilt and embroidered cushions. Instead of a metal table there was a small rosewood desk holding a typewriter and a stack of mathematics books. A bookcase was being filled with records by one of the servants while the other set the record player on the floor.

  “That’s good, thanks.” Alice waved off the two servants who had helped, then selected a record for the Victrola. Soon, Al Jolson’s scratchy voice filled the room, but it sounded off.

  Alice groaned. “The record looked warped—but I’d hoped it would be all right. I did so hope.”

  “It must have been those weeks on the ship,” Perveen said. “My law books arrived looking like they’d grown coats of green fur.”

  “I’ll just have to get another one,” Alice said, going to the door to close it. “And how do you like the room?”

  “It’s very pretty but a lot warmer than your bedroom on the second floor. Do you have to keep the door closed?” Perveen asked.

  Alice perched on the hard chair next to the desk. “I’ve something to tell you.”

  She’d already been through hot news in a hot place once that day. But Perveen sipped her cold drink with pleasure. Such announcements from Alice usually meant a good piece of gossip.

  “Before you arrived, I had the records going because I wanted my parents to think I was listening to them in the drawing room.”

  “You weren’t?” Perveen tried not to laugh. This type of scheme was so typical for her friend.

  “Actually, I was curled up on the veranda just outside my father’s study, listening to his conversation with some police bigwig. The man spoke about the Farids of twenty-two Sea View Road, so I thought of you!”

  Alice had spied on the government—an act for which an Indian might go to jail. However, any tip could be helpful. Nodding at Alice, she said, “Your mother told me the commissioner was visiting your father downstairs.”

  “So that’s who he is.” Alice looked thoughtful. “I overheard a man with a Geordie accent talking about someone called Vaughan who’d requested permission to search the ladies’ section of the bungalow.”

  Perveen felt a rush of anxiety, although she strove to keep her expression neutral. “Oh? You do have good ears.”

  Alice took a long sip of her gin-lime. “They also want to take fingerprints.”

  Recalling Sub-Inspector Singh’s fascination with criminology, Perveen imagined he wanted fingerprint slips of all the women and children. He already had the silver letter opener, which was likely to have Amina’s and Razia’s prints.

  “Perveen! You look as if your drink’s too sour.”

  Perveen forced a smile. “It isn’t. I was trying to understand why a routine murder investigation went beyond the detectives involved and all the way up to your father. I thought he was involved in land deals, not law and order.”

  “When the governor’s away in Delhi, he designates my father to deal with pressing concerns,” Alice said. “But my father’s always been slow to act. That can be frustrating for people, let alone me.”

  Perveen didn’t want the conversation to degenerate into Alice’s objections about her father. “So what else was said?”

  “Father asked some more about who might do the fingerprinting. The commissioner told him that the policeman holds the suspect’s hand as the fingers are pressed into ink.”

  “I can understand your father’s questioning,” Perveen said, feeling a grudging respect. “A Muslim woman has legal grounds to refuse being touched by a man who is not her husband. She also cannot be ordered to appear in a court of law.”

  “But does that mean she lives subject to no laws?” Alice sounded incredulous.

  “Of course not. In the case of a purdahnashin, a judge or another court official could record the testimony in her home, or an advocate who’d taken her sworn testimony at home could represent her in court.” Perveen had thought this through earlier, knowing there was a chance Razia or any of the wives might become persons of interest. “But the pressing concern—excuse the pun—is that if a policeman touches the hands of Muslim gentlewomen, the community could take serious offense.”

  “Do you mean that Muslims might go to the police headquarters and complain?”

  Perveen rested her drink on the chair’s armrest while she put her thoughts in order. “Yes—and in Bombay, this could mean severe political unrest. We are talking about Muslims defending their women’s honor and perhaps even sympathetic Hindus and Sikhs joining in their defense of the Indian female. Any chance to embarrass the government is a golden opportunity for the freedom movement.”

  “That must be the reason Father told the commissioner he should stay out of the zenana. He suggested instead that the police run extra checks for felons recently released from prison and make sure the press are aware of the effort.”

  Perveen didn’t answer. It would be horrifying if some fellow with a checkered past was served up as the sacrificial lamb to make the police appear successful. At the same time, she worried about what might come up if the police searched the zenana.

  “What is it, Perveen?”

  Perveen smiled briefly and took another sip. “Just thinking.”

  “I wish you’d tell me whether you’ve got a suspicion about the crime. It’s in everyone’s interest for the killer to be put behind bars.”

  “I’ve already explained to you about my confidentiality situation.” Perveen paused. “And please don’t think I know what I’m doing. None of my law courses prepared me in the slightest for this afternoon.”

&
nbsp; Alice stood at the window, where a moth as large as a robin kept hitting itself against the wire cloth. “Just look at that big-winged fool trying to get inside.”

  “My parrot would enjoy making a meal of him,” Perveen said.

  “He makes me think of someone going after those secluded women. They’re utterly trapped.”

  “Not exactly. It’s their preference to keep away from men.” Perveen recalled Gwendolyn Hobson-Jones’s anxiety about mixed neighborhoods. “Consider your mother. Even though she’s been here for many years, India is too full of people she considers frightening for her.”

  Alice wrinkled her nose. “My mother’s hopeless—and she’s got an army of servants and guards to protect her. The security around our bungalow’s got even tighter, due to what happened around the corner. But I still wonder, are the Farid widows safe staying alone, given what the detectives think might have happened?”

  Perveen went over to Alice, who was no longer fixated on moths and mosquitoes but gazing in the direction of the Farid bungalow. “My father convinced the detective to organize a police presence in the household tonight. Look, we can see the house has some lights on.”

  Alice squinted. “Is that it? I see two windows lit on the first floor, and on the ground floor, there’s one.”

  Perveen wondered if the women were conferring downstairs and who was awake upstairs. Could it be a constable on patrol?

  “How about another drink?”

  Perveen was tempted but glanced at her watch out of duty. “Damnation! It’s a few minutes past nine. I promised Arman I’d be at the gate for the ride home.”

  “You don’t need to use your driver when we’ve got our own,” Alice offered. “I can send the butler out to let him know you’ll leave later in our car.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. My father will be in the car, and I don’t want to put him out.” Perveen felt guilty about leaving Alice so quickly after arrival. “What about tomorrow evening? Perhaps we could meet at one of the cinema halls. There’s a new film called Shakuntala based on Hindu mythology.”