“They are so long!” Zee purrs, caressing Nafeesa’s red-painted nails with her stubby fingers. Zainab and I exchange a look of amusement; since they met three weeks ago, my daughter has been crushing on her sixteen-year-old cousin.
“Sharifa Aunty, can I paint her nails for her?”
“Oh, yes, oh, yes!” Zee squeals.
“Go for it.”
I watch Zee’s first manicure in progress, and consider how quickly things change; it was only a short time ago that I bored her with the identical activity at Newark Airport.
But then I recall that it was my cousin, Shaheen, also older by nine years, who enticed me in the same way. Her parents, somehow related to my father, emigrated a decade before us and lived an hour away. Our two families visited one another on special occasions. Not having an older sister, Shaheen filled a gap the way Nafeesa might be doing for Zee.
Zainab and I sit on a couch by an open window, avoiding the polish’s acrid, chemical smell.
“What are you going to do with this Abdoolally research?” Zainab’s question feels like a challenge, although I’m not sure why.
“I don’t know yet. Probably a wiki for the family, an electronic record.”
“You should write a book. Do something important with all this effort.” She slurps her tea just like her mother.
“I dunno, we’ll see. My friend Laura suggested the same thing. It’s been fascinating just to do the oral history. There is so much more I could collect and record beyond Abdoolally, if I allowed myself to broaden the questions. But maybe that’s another project.” The idea is like a firefly’s spark. I tell Zainab about my visits with Abbas Kaaka and Fareeda Kaaki.
“You know she joked about how Bohra ladies might like to have more than one husband!”
“No! Not Fareeda Kaaki! She’s getting more naughty with age, I think.”
“She was fun. The only problem is that she wasn’t alive during Abdoolally’s time.”
“If I know you, you’re preoccupied with what you don’t know, versus what you do.” Years ago, Zainab labelled me an “over-thinker” and advised me to do namaaz to stay “in the moment.”
“You’re probably right. I find myself wondering a lot about Abdoolally and his wives, what their relationships were like back then.”
“Oh, things were very different back then. Marriage was an arrangement. A way to manage a home, a household. We expect different things today.”
“Do you think Abdoolally was really attached to his wives, the way that Fareeda Kaaki was to her husband?”
“You mean romance?”
“Yeah. And did he suffer a lot when they died? Or when he and the third divorced? Or did he come to see love as something temporary, something he couldn’t really count on?”
“What questions! You’re really taken by all of this.”
She reaches for her teacup, and during the pause I think, Maybe love is better as an arrangement, for romance isn’t something to be counted on. I don’t say this aloud, instead I intellectualize. “In our modern life, we worry less about death. Today it’s infidelity, marital boredom, falling out of love.”
“True. That’s why we need faith. And family,” she pronounces with conviction, patting my hand like a consoling elder, rather than a cousin born weeks before me.
“All right, little princess. All done!” Nafeesa announces, and Zee runs over to show off the pink dots at the ends of her fingers.
“Wonderful!” I examine her outstretched hands.
“Do yours in the same colour,” Zee demands. Nafeesa passes me the polish remover so that I can rub away the chipping sparkly red from my airport manicure.
I interview three of my mother’s older cousins, which turn into pleasant visits, each offering tea and snacks and exclamations over how tall Zee has grown. I hear nothing new, just the same depthless ideas about Abdoolally’s ascension to wealth.
And everyone says all three wives died in childbirth. Rather than speak of such a misfortune, Wife Number Three’s story was altered over time, her disappearance and demise turned into a common tragedy rather than an uncommon one. It was repeated over and over, like in a child’s game of Broken Telephone.
I amuse myself by correcting them. The divorce, this bit of incongruous information, seems to confuse nearly everyone, and perhaps some of the spit-shine polish Abdoolally once had grows duller. I probably shouldn’t do this to our family hero, but I want his anonymous third wife to be known as the outlier she was, even if no one can recall her name. I say it over and over to make them know her: Zehra, Zehra, Zehra.
I return to Abbas Kaaka’s to take a better photo of his wall; the family tree will be a good illustration for my blog’s main page. I snap a few photos of just the wall and then one with Kaaka smiling in front of it, and finally one with him and Zee pointing to her newly scribed position on the tree.
“Do you know anyone who is a descendant of the second wife?” That part of the family tree is the sparsest, with only a single branch but no twigs. “I’d like to find someone who can fill that part in.”
“I’ll ask around. Funny how it’s the first and fourth wives’ families who are connected, but the line from the second wife got disconnected from us.”
“Well, the family is huge. It’s impossible to keep track of everyone.”
“What else can I help you with today?” Abbas Kaaka asks eagerly and I wonder if he doesn’t want us to leave yet. Maybe our visits are serving him as much as they are my research.
I scan my notebook, and pose the same question I’ve started asking others about how Abdoolally coped with losing his wives. As the words leave my mouth, regret follows in my next breath. A tear escapes from each of Kaaka’s watery eyes and he pulls a cloth handkerchief from his crisply pressed trousers.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “that was insensitive of me to ask you. It’s only been two years since …” I know better than to finish the sentence; he’s just managed to dry his eyes. Zee steps forward and surprises me by taking Kaaka’s hand.
“That’s all right,” he says, putting his handkerchief back into his pocket. “I’m known for the waterworks these days. People tolerate it from an old man. When I was a boy, we’d get a stern look for crying, for making a fuss about things.”
“Yes” is all I manage to say.
“It’s okay to be sad,” Zee counsels, her tone solemn. She’s quoting one of the books we read last year. “All feelings are important.”
“You’re quite correct, Zeenat.” Kaaka laughs. Seeing him cheered up, Zee disentangles from our conversation and returns to the game she’s been playing on my tablet.
And to me he says, “Grandfather must have grieved.” I listen, and think, Of course that’s true. Why am I so silly? Why is this even a question for me?
“I doubt it would have grown any more bearable with each subsequent loss. Maybe only worse. But he would have grieved privately, silently. He would have worked, got on with things.”
“Work. The family mantra.” I nod. We stay silent for a minute before he shifts gears.
“I think women have a much harder time. Widows have to sit in iddat, you know. They can’t leave the house for over four months, there is no entertainment, no distraction. They are not supposed to look at the sky, even. My mother once said it was like torture for her.”
“I think I read about that in the book you lent me. It’s supposed to be a waiting period before the next marriage, to ensure the woman isn’t pregnant?”
“Yes, that’s the original purpose. But now we pressure old women, women no longer in their childbearing years, to do it. And with modern medicine, we don’t require such an old-fashioned practice for younger women, even. Your mother didn’t do the iddat for your father?”
“No. She’s not that religious, I guess.”
“Good.” He blows his nose.
I nod, and I wait to see if he will say more. Instead, he leaves the room and returns with a notepad.
“I found the name
of an archivist in Gujarat for you. She’s the daughter of my colleague’s cousin. Apparently very good.” He rips out a page with a phone number and name: Meena Mistry.
“Thanks, I’ll see what more I can dig up and then I’ll give her a call.”
“You know, you should ask your Khulsum Aunty these questions about Abdoolally; she might not have any historical information, but she might have a useful perspective.”
SIXTEEN
Bombay, 1889
Abdoolally checked his pocket watch. As he’d done during the birth of his first three children, he cleared out of the flat to leave Sharifa alone with their mothers and the midwife. But why was it taking so long?
Just he and a peon remained at the printing press, all the others having gone for the night. He signalled to the boy and shrugged on his coat. Asghar jogged around the building, extinguishing the lamps. They stepped out into the warm night and Abdoolally turned the key in the large padlock. When the boy hesitated, he realized that he hadn’t yet paid him his week’s wages. He reached for a wad of rupees, and, with a note of whimsy — after all, he awaited the good news of his fourth born, another son, he hoped — he added a few more to the pile. Asghar bowed his head, a grateful smile on his face.
Abdoolally walked the three blocks home, still busy with shoppers and street hawkers. He considered the changes ahead. This new child, perhaps their last, was not planned like the others, a nine-year gap between them. He hoped Sharifa, who’d assured him she was pleased about the new arrival, wasn’t secretly disappointed. The children had greeted the change with excitement, and the eldest, Raushan, especially looked forward to helping her mother.
He arrived at his building, but all was quiet. Something didn’t feel right. He rushed up the two flights to his flat. At the door, his mother stood, silent tears streaming down her face. He pushed past her, into the bedroom, where Sharifa lay, pale, asleep, a bloodstain spreading across the white sheets of their bed. Sharifa’s mother stared at her daughter, her eyes blank with shock.
The midwife glanced at him, averted her gaze, and shook her head.
He knelt by Sharifa’s side, took her cool hand. He felt the midwife’s warm palm on his back just before he collapsed.
SEVENTEEN
My research has been like a scavenger hunt, taking me to distant relatives in every Mumbai neighbourhood. Kaaka’s most recent clue sends me to Byculla. I arrive early, so I venture into the area’s large vegetable market, a “must see” according to TripAdvisor. It’s ten-thirty in the morning and bustling with vendors and customers haggling over produce. I slip on something green and slimy on the ground, but am righted by the hand of man passing with a cart of red chilis. I thank him, check that my purse is still closed — Zainab warned of pickpockets — and head deeper into the airplane hangar–like structure. There are rows and rows of wooden and metal tables filled with every kind of fruit and vegetable, more than I’ve ever seen in one place. After a round, I take photos of radishes and mosambis, and find my way out, cross the street and head to the coffee shop where Khulsum Aunty has agreed to meet me.
She is a great-granddaughter of Abdoolally, one of my father’s cousins, and a social worker who counsels couples who have recently lost their children.
“This is interesting. We know what was passed down in terms of property and wealth, but you’re posing emotional questions.” She pushes a lock of grey hair off her forehead.
I nod, only just then realizing that that’s what I’ve been doing. In the absence of a historical record, I’m investigating an emotional one. An unexpected quest for me, and probably futile.
“My grandfather once said that everyone was a little afraid of Abdoolally. It was because you’d never know if he liked, loved, or hated you because he had a stone face most of the time.”
I scrawl stone face in my notes.
“I feel he passed that down — how could he not — he was revered in so many ways; those around would have wanted to emulate him. So this is part of his legacy, unfortunately,” she continues.
“People say we are stoic, on both sides of the family. Murtuza describes me that way, too.” I fidget in my seat.
“Yes. Love is understood, not shown.” Do I show it enough to him, to Zee?
“But it’s possible to unlearn that,” I reply. “I read all kinds of parenting books while I was pregnant. And as a teacher I took a continuing education class on mental health. I hope I’m better off as a result.”
“Yes, even my training helped. Talking and sharing is what we are taught in social work education.”
“Exactly. That stone-face stuff is passé.” I look to her but can tell her mind is elsewhere.
“You know, when my sister died of cancer last year, no one wanted to discuss it. We went through the religious rituals, but then everyone took their grief home. I imagine Abdoolally would have been like that. He would have taken half a day off work, people would have offered their condolences, then their salaams when the new wife came along. Forgetting. Moving on.”
I nod, writing down these last two sentiments. I think about Mom, and how she hasn’t shown any interest in marrying again, for which I’m glad.
“It’s what most of my clients do; they try to have another baby to replace their deceased ones. Usually too quickly. And what happens? The new child inherits the grief.”
“Like maybe a new marriage does?”
“Most likely. Feelings don’t just evaporate into thin air.”
We finish our teas, Khulsum Aunty returns to work, and I to the flat. I deposit our conversation into my blog folder, worrying that it is too tangential. I upload the photos from earlier in the week. While nearly everything I have is based on speculation, I am somewhat consoled by my new understanding of him, and all of us in the family. We forget, we move on. And now I am helping us to remember.
“Was he a religious man?” I ask Fareeda Kaaki, who is happy to have me back for a visit. This time, her daughter, Shabnam, joins us. She volunteers on the board of Abdoolally’s trust. The office is in south Mumbai, and Kaaka has suggested that I go there with her to take a photo for the blog.
“Of course he was,” Fareeda Kaaki replies. The same query asked to three of my mother’s cousins last week yielded two responses of “yes” and one “I don’t know,” but no details.
“In what ways?” I press. Fareeda Kaaki ponders my question, shifting her opinion. “Well, I do think he was religious but he was also a diplomat. He would have said something like, ‘Don’t keep the clergy too far or too close.’ He was moderate. He respected them deeply, but maybe he wouldn’t trust them one hundred percent, if you know what I mean?”
“No, can you elaborate?”
“He was an astute businessman. He wouldn’t trust anyone one hundred percent. The same would have gone for the government. He would have been moderate with political matters, too, not too involved, but not too detached.”
I capture every word, sensing the accuracy of her response.
Shabnam nods at her mother. “I just joined the Rangwala board a year ago and was tasked with cleaning up the files. I found a dossier that shows that he actually had a great deal of business dealings with the clergy. When they needed money, he loaned it. He sold them one of his profitable businesses, his first printing press, at a pittance, you know, so they would have a source of income, and room for lodgings.” Shabnam shakes her head, and I want to ask her a follow-up question, but Fareeda Kaaki shoots her a glance, interrupts.
“Oh yes, he was a very generous man. Supporting the clergy was his duty.” She presses her lips together, exhaling through her nose.
I make a note: Follow up with Shabnam.
“I’m not finding out anything that exciting,” I lament to Mom over Skype later that week.
“What exactly are you searching for? A scandal?”
“No, not a scandal. Just something more substantial. But you know,” I add, tired of my own complaining, “I do have a new angle to research.”
&nbs
p; “Oh, yes? What’s that?”
“Did you know that he may have financially supported the clergy back then? Apparently, there are still unpaid IOUs made out from them.”
“I didn’t know that. Imagine. Today the Royals are very rich while so many Bohras live in poverty. I bet Abdoolally wouldn’t like the disparity.”
I sense a rant is about to begin, so I ready my pen.
“No, he wouldn’t have liked that at all. He left a sizeable percentage of his estate to charity. His legacy helped many, but would he feel the next generations didn’t do enough with it?”
I ask her to speak more slowly so I can record her words for the blog.
“All right, but don’t quote me. Make this anonymous.”
“Really? You can’t express this openly?”
“I’d rather not.”
The historical researcher part of me respects her wishes, but I’m frustrated with how few people have shared uncomfortable truths. I wish more people felt safe to talk. I tell her this.
“Last week, for example, Adam, Zainab’s husband, said, ‘I doubt that he was very pious. He was an incredibly busy guy, right?’ Then Tasnim Maasi walked into the room and scolded him and said, ‘Don’t say negative thing about your elders, especially the dead ones.’”
“Oh, it must not be easy to be my sister’s son-in-law!” Mom is enjoying the gossip. While I’ve not been the target of Maasi’s critical edge, I know she and many others have been its bullseye.
“Then,” I continue, “Adam rolled his eyes when Maasi wasn’t looking. At first, I didn’t understand his gesture, I mean, he wears the long beard and kurta of an orthodox Bohra man and is usually very solicitous with her. When she left the room again, he clarified, ‘It’s just that I understand. I do my best, but I know what it’s like to run a business, especially one that doesn’t cater to other Bohras. We can’t just close down to pray if some tourist walks in and wants to buy a statue of the Gate of India.’” I laugh and Mom joins in.
“It sounded like an admission of guilt or a defence,” she says, shaking her head. “Probably Tasnim admonishes them when they don’t keep up with their prayers.”
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