The Widows of Malabar Hill

by Sujata Massey

  Cyrus said nothing, and Perveen’s heart ached. She was remembering the first night in their room together—the joy of a fulfilled dream and the certainty of an enchanted life ahead.

  “Will you face her at breakfast and supper? Share the same bedroom suite and bath? Or will you ask your parents to make sure she’s kept in a small prison away from your sight?”

  The audience rustled, and Perveen wondered if their own households observed the custom of menstrual seclusion. Perhaps they’d have no sympathy.

  “Many of you may know about these rooms,” Jamshedji said, turning to address the room. “Binamazi—the Zoroastrian tradition of seclusion for women during menses—likely originated during the Yazdani era, twelve hundred years ago. Orthodox Parsis still practice this archaic custom to an extreme, forcing women to avoid cleansing themselves properly for the entire menstrual period, plus two more days.”

  “Objection! Vulgarity not suited for the jury’s ears,” Mr. Wadia called out. Perveen’s face was hot with the embarrassment of the unmentionable being mentioned.

  “Go on, Mr. Mistry,” said Judge Moody, who was looking intrigued.

  “Some people deny facts of modern medical knowledge and think that confining a bleeding woman prevents her from spreading fatal germs to the rest of the household,” Jamshedji continued. “But not allowing a woman contact with others can lead to her own death. One female already has died during menstrual confinement at the Sodawalla home—yes, Mr. Sodawalla, I can see from your expression you already know who she is. Will you tell us her full name?”

  Perveen felt an odd ringing in her ears.

  “Azara,” Cyrus croaked, his face white. Perveen had never seen him look so shocked.

  “And were you living in the home at the time of Azara’s death?” Jamshedji asked.

  Cyrus nodded.

  “And your age at the time of her death?”

  Cyrus looked confused for a moment, then mumbled, “Twenty-five.”

  “Thank you.” Jamshedji gave him a faint smile and turned to address the audience again. “We are speaking of Cyrus’s younger sister, Azara Bahramji Sodawalla, born 1900 and deceased in 1914. The coroner’s report lists the cause of death as natural causes. Azara had fever before her menses began—yet instead of the family seeking medical help as the fever rose, the child was left on a metal cot in an eight-by-twelve-foot room in a remote area of the house.”

  Perveen had always known Azara had struggled in that room. She thought back to the odd, melancholy presence that had accompanied her throughout her time in the little room: the faded marks of days. That must have been a calendar that Azara made.

  “Objection,” called out Mr. Wadia. “Opposing counsel is telling stories without any evidence.”

  “The Calcutta coroner’s report is a public record,” Jamshedji said, holding a paper aloft. “I have it here. As well as a letter of sworn testimony as to the nature of Azara’s illness from Gita, former housemaid to the Sodawallas.”

  If Gita was being described as a former housemaid, it must have meant she’d been fired. Where was she now—and how had her testimony been obtained?

  Perveen glanced toward the bench where the Sodawalla parents sat. Behnoush was slumped and had covered her face with a handkerchief. Despite Perveen’s desire to hear the truth about Azara, the Sodawallas’ naked pain was hard to witness.

  “The maid has testified that water and food were provided at the door of the young girl’s cell,” Jamshedji said in a somber voice. “However, no family member went inside to make sure she took it. After several days, the maid went inside and reported the girl could not respond to her voice. Azara Sodawalla was in a state of coma when the ambulance arrived. She died one week later in hospital: an utterly needless death due to the family’s lack of care.”

  “Objection!” screamed Mr. Wadia. “Another family member’s death is unrelated to the marriage situation in question. Irrelevant!”

  “Your Lordship, I plan to use this example to show that in addition to the physical harm Perveen has already undergone, there are reasonable grounds for anticipating continuing danger to both her life and liberty—chiefly, the death of another woman in the household. Perveen’s husband, Cyrus Sodawalla, was in residence at the time and, despite the fact he was an adult, did nothing to help his sister—nor did his parents.”

  “Objection! A female’s health is not a concern for a brother,” Mr. Wadia shouted. “It is ladies’ business only.”

  What her father had said was exactly what Perveen had been trying to say to the Sodawallas all along. She had gone stiff with anger, hearing her own argument used in reverse.

  “Overruled,” said Judge Moody, leaning forward slightly. “Please continue, Mr. Mistry.”

  “I seek to prove that Cyrus Sodawalla was negligent in caring for his sister. As section thirty-one states, such conduct that affords reasonable grounds for apprehending danger to life or of serious personal injury is entitlement for judicial separation.”

  Judge Moody frowned. “This is an interpretation of the act I’ve not heard before. Will you elaborate on your rationale?”

  “Your Honor, it is entirely straightforward,” Jamshedji said. “Already, Perveen’s life has been ruined by her rash agreement to Mr. Sodawalla’s proposal. She can never marry another, nor have children. Is that not enough punishment? Should she be forced back into this household, where she will be made again to lie on another woman’s deathbed?” Jamshedji turned from the judge to look directly at Cyrus. “What do you think, Cyrus? Do you really long for your unhappy wife to return?”

  He did not answer. The silence was filled with the rustling sounds of people in the benches, and she imagined they were craning their necks to look at him, to see the young man whose reputation had been ground into the gutter by his father-in-law.

  “No.” Cyrus’s voice was barely audible.

  Jamshedji nodded. “On behalf of the plaintiff, I rest my case.”

  The magistrate called a one-hour recess after the case. He gave the jurors this time to return verdicts on the nine cases that they had heard. This brief recess caused a flurry of movement in the courtroom. Those whose cases hadn’t yet been heard streamed out, complaining about having to come back.

  “The jury has fewer than seven minutes to discuss each case. How can justice be done?” Camellia fretted.

  “They will take longer if needed. Nothing to do now but relax.” Jamshedji was flushed from the exertion of speaking, and Perveen saw rivulets of sweat running down from the edges of the wig. He’d presented a thoroughly ingenious argument while relatively unprepared, in a courtroom he didn’t know. And he’d even gathered testimony from Gita.

  One woman stopped by Perveen and put a hand on her arm. “I know what it is to be kept secluded. I hope you don’t have to go back.”

  Perveen felt gratitude for this kindness. “Thank you. I—”

  “The shamelessness of young women!”

  Perveen recognized the scolding man who’d interrupted as an unpleasant member of the Sodawallas’ agiary. Before she could respond, though, another woman had patted her arm.

  “Very good to see a lawyer speak up for women’s rights. All the better when he’s her father.” The friendly woman beamed at Jamshedji. “Give me your card. I’ve got plenty of business for you.”

  Jamshedji gave her a gracious half-bow. “You are most kind, madam; but my firm is based in Bombay. This will, I hope, be my sole court appearance in Calcutta.”

  When they had a bit of space, Perveen whispered, “You made a magnificent argument, but I didn’t know what lengths you’d go to. I feel mortified.”

  Jamshedji looked soberly at her. “I’m sorry that I made you embarrassed. But I decided to follow my instinct. I needed to prove an existing danger to you in the marriage.”

  “How did you learn about Azara’s cause of death?�
��

  “I hired someone here to request the medical files for you and Cyrus. The hospital worker accidentally also brought the file for Cyrus’s sister, as she was a family member at the same address. When I saw the doctor’s report, I knew it would be vital to your defense, but there was the problem that the information was not obtained through proper channels.”

  “And that would make it inadmissible in court.” Perveen paused, thinking. “But you spoke of a coroner’s report.”

  “Yes. The coroner is a government official, and the Bengal Presidency has just as detailed records as the Bombay Presidency,” he said with a satisfied smile. “I recalled you saying that your ayah was working in the household when Azara died. Our detective learned from Gita’s mother, Pushpa, that the Sodawallas fired her for not stopping you from leaving. Since Gita had returned to her home village, she felt safe enough to provide the sworn testimony.”

  Perveen would never be able to thank Gita for what she’d done. How was it that she could speak the truth, and Cyrus had not? “When I first met him, Cyrus lied to me about Azara’s death being from cholera. I wonder why he thought he couldn’t tell me the truth.”

  “Perhaps it was the family’s agreed-upon story,” Jamshedji said. “It was a risk to bring up Azara’s death, but I believe it’s now impossible for the delegates not to consider the possibility of continuing danger. Only when there is an actual death do people think twice.”

  “When you spoke so bluntly about it, that hurt the Sodawallas. They were in pain,” Perveen said, remembering how she’d pitied the weeping Behnoush. “They hadn’t faced up to their role in Azara’s death. And now their community knows all about it.”

  “Maybe some of the orthodox will change their traditions,” Camellia said, looking serious. “Some families will tell women to seclude themselves for one or two days, not eight. Pappa described a tragedy to everyone, but knowing about it might make a difference.”

  “Do you truly . . . ?” Perveen’s sentence died as she saw Cyrus walking through the crowds toward them. She had no time to warn her parents before he was upon them.

  “How could you do that? Shame my family—accuse us of killing my sister?” Cyrus shouted down into the face of Jamshedji, who was a few inches shorter than his six feet.

  “You are the only one using those words,” Jamshedji said tightly. They were becoming entertainment for anyone passing through the corridor. A knot of excited onlookers formed around the men, and Camellia put a protective arm around Perveen, who wished they were invisible.

  “You bastard! You have brought up the sorrow my family has tried so hard to put behind us!” Cyrus shouted angrily, ignoring the constables hastening toward him.

  “He didn’t mean to insult you,” Perveen said, her heart beating fast. “It’s just an argument. What lawyers must do—”

  “Perveen!” her father snapped. “Don’t say anything more.”

  “Lawyers are the vilest creatures on earth—less than human,” Cyrus said with a sneer. “Of course you wanted to be one, Perveen!”

  Jamshedji tilted his head back to look fully at Cyrus as he spoke. “You testified on the stand that you were willing to have a separation. But all your vakil did was present a picture of a wife with bad housekeeping skills. No jury would permit the two of you to separate for such a small reason. You needed a stronger example—and I gave just that.”

  “You called my parents murderers.” Cyrus was breathing hard, as if struggling to stay above water. “You said I was diseased. And you said I didn’t care that Azara died—”

  “If you don’t care to be accountable for the past, think about your future,” Jamshedji said between gritted teeth. “How delighted would you be to have my daughter living with you for the next forty or fifty years? Do you think you’ll have one happy day within those decades?”

  Cyrus answered him but kept his eyes on Perveen. “If the jury sends her back to stay with us, she will pay for every bit of filth you said in court today. And if she’s granted a separation—it won’t be a happy one. I’ll make your lives hell.”

  A bell rang, signaling that the magistrate was ready to reconvene. The chief juror delivered a series of papers to Judge Moody, who read the decisions aloud and without expression. The wife whose husband had brought a prostitute into their bedroom was granted a separation with alimony. Divorce was granted to the woman whose husband had slept with his cousin. On the other hand, the jury granted an annulment to the man whose wife hadn’t yet consummated. And then it was their turn.

  “Sodawalla versus Sodawalla.” Judge Moody squinted as if it was difficult to read the paper in his hand. Perveen felt an iciness flow through her, certain that the outcome was bad. “In this matter, the jury would like to state for the record its disapproval of the wife’s intrusion into the husband’s place of business. However, the Sodawallas’ abuse of female seclusion—a respectable tradition if done with everyone’s agreement—raised a reasonable doubt for the wife’s safety. Six votes for the granting of judicial separation. No alimony.”

  The judge droned on, but Perveen did not hear the words. She’d heard “granting of judicial separation.”

  She had won. Although still married to Cyrus, she’d never have to see him again. Every day of the month would belong to her. Her life was her own again.

  Shaking and sobbing, Perveen hugged her mother. She realized Camellia’s face was also wet with tears.

  “Yes,” Jamshedji said, his own arms, strong as tree branches, going around the two women. “We have not lost her. Thank God.”

  Perveen could not let the delirium of joy overtake her. She remembered Cyrus’s words during the break. “Pappa, can the separation be challenged?”

  “It could—but they’re not likely to do that,” he said reassuringly. “Too much money and distress.”

  “But Cyrus threatened us.” He had looked straight at her, and the hatred in his gaze had been clear.

  Jamshedji took out his handkerchief to wipe Camellia’s tears. “He can threaten all he wishes, but I suspect his energy for mischief will run dry during the three years you’re studying in England.”

  “If I can get a place . . .”

  “You earned it long ago,” he reassured her. “And you’ve already got the necessary papers.”

  Her father had filed for her right to enter England right after she’d passed the Oxford examinations two years earlier. In fact, the document granting her that right was issued in the name Perveen Jamshedji Mistry, which was the name he told her to use for her university application. Nobody had ever heard of a married female studying at Oxford—to see if she’d be admitted as such was too great a risk. And using her maiden name wasn’t quite a lie, given her legal separation.

  Still, the challenge of presenting herself as a single woman dogged Perveen during the month that she and Camellia spent organizing her trunks. All the while, her father hunted for a booking for her on one of the few passenger steamships still operating between India and Europe. The seats were few, and he wound up having to pay for first class rather than second. Perveen felt guilty, knowing that most Indian students traveling to England had won full scholarships with travel and living stipends and were not imposing financial burdens on their families. She’d sold the jewelry her parents had given her for her wedding, but that would only cover one year’s tuition.

  “I can always raise my hourly billing rate,” Jamshedji had joked when she’d expressed worry about all her expenses. “In any case, I expect to bring in a solicitor to raise the firm’s revenue within the next few years.”

  Just four weeks after the separation was granted, Perveen stood on the first-class deck of the ferry that would take her to the Dutch Emerald. The sun was high, and she had to squint to see her parents and Rustom standing on Ballard Pier below. She could not see their expressions and could only hope they were smiling.

  “Do you
want a last look at someone?” a female voice said.

  Perveen turned to see a very tall, blonde English girl proffering a pair of opera glasses.

  “Oh. That’s kind of you, but not necessary.” It was embarrassing to have been caught on the verge of tears, and by a posh English person at that.

  “Come on. They’re really meant for performances, but they’re still all right to use outdoors. Don’t you want a parting glimpse?”

  The girl seemed so sincere, Perveen didn’t want to make her feel bad. “All right. Thank you.” She took the glasses and adjusted the focus.

  “Did you find your family?”

  “Yes. My parents are crying. I can’t stand to look anymore.” She handed the glasses back to the stranger. Why was she leaving Bombay when she’d fought so hard to be with her own family again? Three years apart would feel endless.

  The girl smiled wryly. “That’s rather different from my own departure. I boarded in Ceylon, where my father’s been working, and he, my mother, and I were arguing all the way up the gangplank!”

  “We argue, too. They say arguing is in Parsi blood,” Perveen said. “I hope to hone my arguments to a professional level while in England.”

  The girl hooted. “Are you bound for Oxford? I saw a trunk labeled for St. Hilda’s College. Was it yours?”

  “Probably,” she admitted, surprised her luggage had caught this stranger’s eye.

  “Well, it’s your lucky day, because I’m a second year at St. Hilda’s,” the girl said, tilting her chin so she looked even taller. In a mock-confidential tone, she added, “I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

  “I’d like that,” Perveen said, feeling a surge of relief that she wouldn’t walk into the college like a complete know-nothing.

  “I’m Alice Hobson-Jones,” the young woman said, holding out her hand. “Born in Tamil Nadu, shipped back to London and Oxford, briefly moored in Ceylon, and who knows what’s next?”