The obituary didn’t mention his wives and daughters. Had they been left out of the obituary because they were considered unimportant . . . or because the Times editor thought the details of a philanthropic Indian businessman’s polygyny would cast a negative aspect?
Perveen scrutinized the small photograph accompanying the article about the mill owner’s charitable donations. Omar Farid looked serious and respectable. A close-fitting cap drew attention to his narrow face, with hard-looking eyes and a prominent hooked nose. He wore a high-necked kurta and a dark sherwani coat. His head was covered with a neat crocheted cap similar to the one that Mustafa wore.
His final marriage had occurred just five months before his death. How shocking this must have been for the existing wives—especially if the woman was a musician who’d once worked on Falkland Road, where sex was as widely available as opium.
Before he’d departed for the Ripon Club, Perveen had asked her father if he thought the last marriage was a sham.
‘It is the easiest thing to believe,’ Jamshedji had told her. ‘But a dying man does not feel obligated to observe social norms. He needs no one’s permission to take what he needs.’
From her own experience, Perveen understood.
3
THE SPIRIT OF ECSTASY
Bombay, February 1921
Around three o’clock, Mustafa burst into the upstairs office. ‘The S.S. London has arrived. I saw through the spectacles from our roof over to Ballard Pier.’
‘Splendid!’ Perveen clapped. Alice was just the remedy she needed for her dark mood.
A gust of air blew through the window, ruffling the Farid documents. As Perveen collected them she thought about the cold, damp winds in Oxford that had continuously buffeted her and Alice as they trudged from St Hilda’s College to their various lectures. How they had talked and laughed, and shared secrets. This could be her life again, if she chose to open herself to Alice.
Their relationship had started with Perveen serving as Alice’s confessor. The Englishwoman’s revelation that she’d been expelled at sixteen from Cheltenham Ladies’ College for having a girl in her bed had confounded Perveen. It was natural for female relatives and friends to sleep close together. But after Alice explained the longing she still felt for a long-ago classmate, Perveen understood how multifaceted relationships could be.
At St Hilda’s, Alice buried herself in her mathematical studies to push away the loss of her true love. Apart from Perveen, nobody knew her truth—just as Alice was the only one who eventually heard the story of Perveen’s own past.
Now she wondered how much Alice had said about their college friendship to her parents. The Hobson-Joneses might be suspicious about any of Alice’s female friends, given her past troubles. Perveen decided to be on her best behaviour.
Ballard Pier was a twenty-minute walk away, but she didn’t want to arrive sweaty or with squashed sweets. It was easier to get a lift in Ramchandra’s spotlessly maintained rickshaw with its protective sun bonnet.
Ramchandra cycled easily through the streets and out to Ballard Pier, where she could see the impressive bulk of a white P&O steamship rising up behind the high stone walls.
Stepping down from the rickshaw, she paid Ramchandra, who immediately headed towards a beckoning sailor. She unpacked a sign she’d made on the back of an empty folder that said MISS ALICE HOBSON-JONES. Holding up a sign for a newcomer put her in the company of hundreds of male chauffeurs who’d come to meet the ship, but what else could she do?
As she craned her neck, looking for Alice, an Englishman’s voice cut into her ear. ‘Excuse me. Are you Miss Perveen Mistry?’
‘Yes, I am.’ She turned expectantly towards the red-haired gentleman.
‘I’m Mr Martin, secretary to Sir David Hobson-Jones. He and the others are waiting.’
Perveen caught a hint of reprimand in the last statement. ‘Mr Martin, do you mean that everyone is still waiting for Alice to be ferried in?’
‘Miss Hobson-Jones disembarked twenty minutes ago. Her trunks are loaded, and she’s already in the car, so come along smartly.’
Who did he think he was, a class prefect? Perveen followed the pompous aide through the crowd and to the kerb, where he stopped before a long, sparkling silver vehicle.
Perveen gasped outright. ‘Is that a Silver Ghost?’
She knew for certain it was a Rolls-Royce. The shining car’s bonnet was topped with an elegantly sculpted silver ornament: a young woman leaning forward as if ready to dive into life, her arms outstretched like wings.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Martin said. ‘It was a gift to the governor from the king of a nearby princely state.’
‘What a present!’ Privately, she wondered what kind of favour the monarch expected in exchange. Or was the gift merely a show of wealth?
‘Perveen! You’re really here. I hoped you would come.’ Alice squeezed out of the car’s back seat. Within moments, Perveen and her tissue-silk sari were crushed against Alice’s warm, peppermint-smelling mass.
Wrapping her arms around Alice’s comfortable bulk, Perveen said, ‘Sorry to have made you wait. I must apologize to your family for having delayed you.’
‘Stuff and nonsense! I’ve been off the ship just long enough for Mummy to get her talons into me. You won’t believe—’
‘What won’t I believe?’ A very blonde woman who looked barely older than Alice was regarding them from the open-topped touring car. She was sweetly pretty in a lilac-coloured frock and a matching cloche trimmed with white silk roses. Perveen looked for a trace of any part of this glamorous creature in Alice but couldn’t find anything past their shared hair colour.
‘Everything!’ Alice answered.
From Alice’s sarcastic lilt, Perveen realized the mother–daughter relationship wasn’t an easy one. And what about Alice’s father? Perveen appraised the tall, middle-aged gentleman wearing a beige linen lounge suit and a solar topi. Her friend had inherited his height.
As if they were schoolgirls, Alice took her by the hand. ‘Mummy and Dad, this is my dearest friend of all time, Perveen Mistry. And Perveen, may I introduce my mother, Lady Gwendolyn Hobson-Jones, and my father, Sir David Hobson-Jones?’
‘We’ve heard all about your scrapes at Oxford with Alice!’ Sir David said. He had a deeply textured tan that was typical of the British who’d stayed a long time in India. When he smiled, his teeth were very white against his skin.
‘So you are Perveen.’ Gwendolyn Hobson-Jones pronounced it slowly, as if it were the name of an exotic place. ‘In your language, what does that name mean?’
‘It means star in three languages: Persian, Arabic and Urdu. My grandfather chose my name.’ As Perveen finished, she wondered if she’d said too much.
‘Alice says you were the only girl studying law in your class at St Hilda’s, which certainly makes you another kind of star.’ Sir David delivered his attractive grin again.
‘Not at all. Others came before me,’ Perveen said. She was trying to get a sense of whether he was being sincere or patronizing.
‘Perveen, have you any time to join us for a short ride to the house?’ he asked. ‘We’re having a small tea to celebrate Alice’s arrival.’
Sir David’s invitation seemed to place him in the sincere camp. But as Perveen surveyed the car, she couldn’t figure out where she’d fit. The scowling Mr Martin would likely sit next to the driver, and she didn’t see much room in the back, where Alice was rejoining her parents.
‘That is very kind,’ Perveen said. ‘If it’s really not an imposition . . .’
‘You must come!’ Alice said.
‘All right, then. If you tell me your address, I’ll hire a taxi to follow,’ Perveen said, knowing that a climb up Malabar Hill would be too difficult for a rickshaw.
‘Not a chance,’ said Sir David. ‘You shall come along with us.’
‘But Mr Martin’s with us,’ Lady Hobson-Jones objected.
Mr Martin moved closer to Sir David, putting
his back to Perveen. ‘I wished to explain to your daughter about the social life of young people—’
‘Another time,’ Sir David said crisply. ‘You’ve got paperwork to deliver for me at the Secretariat. Miss Mistry shall ride with us.’
‘Yes, Sir David,’ he said. ‘Shall I call on Miss Hobson-Jones later this afternoon?’
‘No. I’ll see you tomorrow in the office.’ As the young man walked away despondently, Sir David gave Perveen and Alice each a wry look. ‘These young ICS men could use etiquette training.’
‘I know just the school in Switzerland,’ Alice joked.
‘I hope you shan’t mind taking the seat next to the driver. With three of us in the back, it’s a bit cramped.’ Lady Hobson-Jones was smiling rather nervously, as if she didn’t want to give the impression she felt uncomfortable sitting close to Perveen.
‘It’s no problem,’ Perveen said with a smile. ‘I shall enjoy being close to the little silver lady.’
‘The official name of the emblem is the Spirit of Ecstasy,’ Sir David said. ‘She’s a splendid piece of design, just like the car itself.’
‘My father’s car is right behind us—the Crossley piled up with my trunks. That’s why we’ve got Georgie’s Rolls.’ The governor’s driver, a Sikh in a khaki uniform, kept a stone face, as if trying to ignore the indignity of both Alice’s words and Perveen’s proximity. But Perveen was determined to make the most of the special journey, so she waved at the crowd as they departed.
It was like being an actress. Perveen was a single Indian woman sitting up front in the governor’s car, an impossibility that would be discussed around many of Bombay’s cooking fires, verandas and kitchen floors that evening.
‘Where are we, exactly?’ Alice asked as the harbour receded.
‘Kennedy Sea-Face; but this stretch of curving road along the water is informally called the Queen’s Necklace because of the way it looks when the streetlights shine at night,’ Perveen said, savouring her chance to play the Bombay expert. ‘Along the Chowpatty Beach side, you’ll see every sort of person coming out to eat the breeze, as one says in Hindi. On the right, many mansion blocks and hotels are going up. My brother’s just breaking ground on an apartment block to the right of that white building.’
‘For whom does your brother work?’ Sir David asked.
Perveen turned her head to speak directly to Alice’s father in the back seat. ‘Mistry Construction. My brother recently became executive officer.’
Sir David was still for a moment, and then laughed. ‘Good God, I didn’t realize you were one of those Mistrys. Your family’s built modern Bombay! In fact, I’ve got a proposal from Lord Tata on my desk regarding development of Back Bay, with Mistry as the proposed contractor.’
‘What a coincidence.’ Perveen felt awkward. She’d only wanted Alice’s parents to know her brother wasn’t a lowly underling working for the British. But now they probably believed she was an Indian currying favour, to use the dreadful cliché.
Perveen returned her gaze to Kennedy Sea-Face. On the beach side, vendors were serving food and tea at dhabas set up on the sand.
A young Parsi man with curly black hair was standing at one of these outdoor snack shops, talking to the small Hindu cook. The Parsi had a familiar lanky frame and a hooked nose. The Parsi wore an English suit and was leaning slightly on a cane.
Perveen put her hand to her mouth. It was Cyrus Sodawalla. Or, if it wasn’t, it looked exactly like the man she’d been trying to forget for the last four years.
Frantically, she reminded herself how many men in Bombay might have fair skin and curly black hair: thousands of Armenians, Anglo-Indians and Jews. And Cyrus didn’t use a cane.
The Silver Ghost was too fast. It sailed past the dhaba. Although Perveen craned her head, in seconds the man had shrunk into a tiny black speck.
Perveen let out the breath she’d been holding. He was gone. And it was most fortunate that he hadn’t seen the car.
‘What did we miss, Perveen?’ Alice asked. ‘You look as if you’ve just seen a demon.’
4
THE LAST LESSON
Bombay, August 1916
Running late and praying not to be noticed, Perveen hurried into the Government Law School. A cart had blocked the entrance to Bruce Street where her father needed to be dropped. The delay had caused Perveen to reach Elphinstone College just after nine—and she could only pray the professor hadn’t yet taken attendance.
Even though the surname Mistry fell in the middle of the alphabet, the lecturer had assigned Perveen a seat in the back row, ostensibly because she was a ‘special student’ and not enrolled for a law degree. Today, she didn’t mind the placement because it made her arrival less noticeable. But after the first few seconds in her seat, she felt something cold and terrible seeping through her sari.
Not again!
The first time, someone had filled the groove in her wooden chair with water. On another occasion, her seat had been filled with black coffee; thankfully, she’d noticed and not sat down. This time she’d sat down without looking first. She would not know what the fluid was until class was over and she’d reached the sanctuary of the college’s ladies’ lounge. This particular dampness was sticky. An ominous sign, as bad as the smirking faces of the students sitting nearby.
During the first term, Camellia Mistry had been shocked when Perveen complained to her about the students’ pranks. ‘You must tell the professors. It’s outrageous behaviour.’
Perveen had explained the impossibility of this. ‘The lecturers don’t want me in class, so that won’t help. And if the boys learn I told on them, they’ll treat me worse.’
But life was worsening anyway. Two weeks ago, the results of the examinations had been published in the Times of India, recognizing Perveen Mistry as the second-highest-scoring student among the first-year candidates for bachelor’s in law.
The Mistry family had celebrated, John baking her favourite lagan nu custard and Pappa breaking open three bottles of Perrier-Jouët. Neighbours had dropped in all afternoon and evening to share dessert and congratulations.
But her male classmates weren’t pleased.
The next time she handed in an essay up the row of students to be collected by the proctor, the lecturer never received it and gave her a zero. Another afternoon a gentleman purporting to be from the school administration left a telephone message at her home about a surprise cancellation of the next day’s law classes. Perveen was suspicious and went to check the classroom, reaching her seat just as tests were being handed out.
Today’s revenge was a sweet one, judging from the line of ants travelling up the chair. Barely able to absorb Professor Adakar’s words, Perveen stared straight ahead. In her mind, the words that he was writing on the board—something about one’s right to legal process—were being replaced by the hateful words a boy had hissed in her ear the first week:
Jubree joovak! You’ve no right to be here! You’re a pusree puroo who’ll ruin everything for our batch.
He’d called her a shrewish spoilsport. As if she were the one making life hell and not the wretched lot of them.
‘Tamarind chutney,’ Gulnaz said, wrinkling her nose at the silk sari she held six inches from her nose. ‘Those pigs must have taken it from their hostel dining room.’
‘Are you sure it’s tamarind?’ Perveen was standing in her blouse and petticoat in the college’s ladies’ lounge. This was the place where female students were supposed to retire between classes. At the moment, Gulnaz Banker and Hema Patel had her sari between them and were valiantly attacking the stains with soap and water taken from the adjacent lavatory.
Hema looked at her sympathetically. ‘We keep saying, why not read literature like we’re doing? We’ve got four girls together in one class. The men would never dare act against one without fearing all would retaliate.’
‘I can’t change my course of study. My father expects me to become the first female solicitor in Bombay.’
Gulnaz, who was a year ahead in school but had a rosebud prettiness and tiny size that made her seem younger, spoke up softly. ‘Perveen, you’re the impetuous type. Why not thrash it out with them? You must dream of banging them all over their stupid heads the way you did to Esther Vachha in school.’
‘I was eight years old, and she’d thrown sand on my lunch.’ Perveen was annoyed that Gulnaz remembered this. ‘I’m more mature now. I keep my eyes on my notebook as much as I can, although that sometimes makes the professor think I’m not listening to him. Then the others laugh, and, oh, it’s awful.’ Perveen felt an unbidden tear slide out.
‘Poor girl!’ Gulnaz sounded alarmed. ‘You mustn’t cry. Your sari’s almost as good as new. We’ll just hang it near the window to dry.’
Perveen reached out for her sari. ‘My class on Hindu law starts in twenty minutes. I can’t stay waiting for it to dry.’
‘Mangoes will not ripen if you hurry them,’ Hema said. ‘Sit down and take some deep breaths.’
Their caring was only making her feel panicked. ‘If I don’t go, I’ll miss the test.’
‘Take it later,’ Gulnaz advised. ‘Better not to shame yourself in public.’
Perveen took the sari out of their hands. ‘And what reason will I give the professor for my absence? A spot on my clothes? He’ll think I’m a typical silly girl.’
‘But the spot is wet. People might think . . .’ Gulnaz’s voice dropped off. She too was a Parsi brought up with strict standards of hygiene.
‘Silk will dry faster in the sun outside than inside this humid hellhole. And I’ve got an idea about how to wear it!’ Perveen explained that if she draped her sari in the Hindu manner, with the pallu hanging over the back, the spot would be hidden. Aradhana, a Hindu girl studying at one of the lounge tables, hurried over to help.
A Murder on Malabar Hill Page 3
