Perhaps she will say, Bus apna ma che. This is how things are done, that this is just a part of our religion, our culture. We are Bohras and at thirteen we went through our mithaq during which we pledged allegiance to our holy leader, and we must do what he says. He says khatna is good for girls because it helps us to be naik, good and modest and faithful.
I am suddenly too hot, all of these thoughts like kerosene flaring a fire. I move to the window to get some air. A cool breeze blows in. My body relaxes and my mind clears.
Or will Maasi apologize? Will she be sorry for the pain she’s caused us? Will she have a reasonable explanation?
“Shari?” Fatema looks at me with worried and wet eyes, as does Zainab. I turn, and smile bravely, because for the moment, I can. With each of these two women by my side, I feel all right, at least for now.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Bombay, 1903
Abdoolally hadn’t confessed it to anyone, but he didn’t want to remarry. He’d been married three times, and look how those marriages had turned out — maybe he wasn’t meant to be a husband again. Plus, he got along fine with his servants, and a new wife felt like a burden, a stranger he’d have to allow in, with whom he’d be required to share his bed and feelings. Inevitably she’d cry about something he’d done or not done (why did women have to cry so much?).
But there was Rumana to consider, and this improper arrangement in Dholka. She needed to return to the city, resume her normal life. Dholka was too small and too backward for a daughter of his.
It felt like a sign, then, when Asghar, his most trusted employee, a man he’d hired as a boy fifteen years earlier, died so suddenly. Abdoolally could complete a spiritual duty by marrying Maimuna, his widow, a woman so homely he barely remembered her face. He recalled her body, though, curvaceous, with wide hips, an ample bosom. She’d had one child already, four-year-old Shamoon, and would certainly bear him more. And with her, he’d insist on hospital births.
He’d sent for Rumana and her nani, Shehnaz, who arrived that afternoon. They were awaiting him in the parlour when he returned home early to prepare for the nikah. Rumana greeted him with a salaam, taking his hand and raising it first to the left side of her forehead, then to the right, then higher up. While he’d seen her twice a year since she’d moved north two years earlier, he noticed there was something different about the girl now.
“You’ve grown so much since I last saw you.” She would be turning nine soon, but she already seemed to be a young woman.
“She’s shot up a few inches this year,” Shehnaz confirmed, pride in her voice.
“Papa, I want to stay in Dholka,” the girl blurted, her cheeks reddening. “I like it better there. I feel more … comfortable there.” Shehnaz raised her eyebrows and sighed, gestures that told him she’d meant for the conversation to begin differently.
“I would be happy to keep her in my care. She is wonderful company for me; otherwise I will be living all alone.”
“You could both live with us instead, and now you’ll have a little brother at home,” Abdoolally said, redirecting.
Shehnaz shook her head, smiling at his offer. “She’s made friends there, my neighbours have girls her age, and I hired a tutor as you asked so she could continue her studies. The air is fresher there, too, which is good for her lung problem …”
“I cough much less there, Papa.”
“Already since we arrived she’s been coughing so much.” Just then Rumana broke into a coughing fit, her chest heaving and her cheeks pinking. “See? Bou khasee che.”
They paused their arguments, and he shook his head.
“Please, Papa, let me stay there. I promise we will visit more often and I will continue to send you letters. I don’t want to leave my friends, my nani.” Her sentence ended with a wheez and she looked at him with pleading eyes.
“It might be easier to start your life with your new wife this way, too. She will adjust more easily,” Shehnaz continued their petition. Abdoolally recalled Shaheeda’s and Zehra’s early days in the house, and the way they, at first, behaved as temporary guests, especially when his children were present.
“All right.” He shook his head. “But let us take this as a decision for now, and then assess if it still is suitable in a few months’ time.” Rumana’s eyes danced as her smile widened.
THIRTY-NINE
Muffadal arrives at 10:00 a.m. On with the show; we’ve agreed to carry on with our planned itinerary.
“How did you all sleep?” he chirps, then knits his eyebrows at our tired expressions. We murmur, not bad, fine, all right. After a short drive, he parks beside a pair of nine-foot-high wooden doors in a long, concrete fence. We watch children meander through. They stop, crowding the narrow alleyway, and stare at us. Muffadal ignores them.
“This is the entrance to our Vohrawad.” He explains that the old Bohra neighbourhood is two blocks long, and the side exit doors were once locked in times of danger. “It was in the early 1900s when there were outlaws who came on camels and robbed people. So the neighbourhood put in these locked gates.”
“Camels? They came on camels?” Zainab cocks her head to the left. “And the Bohras couldn’t fight them off?”
“Yes, that’s what I was told. But they were criminals, probably threatening, violent.”
“Bohras are not known for being good with conflict,” I say with a straight face.
“Ha! Good one.” Fatema guffaws.
Muffadal guides us through the gates and we stop at a school. The yard is made of interlocking bricks, several missing. I wonder how many children have skinned their knees here. There is a hand-painted sign written in red Gujarati script.
“Abdoolally Seth Vernacular School,” Zainab translates for me.
“It was built shortly after his death. He bequeathed the money for it. They say he wasn’t able to go to school when he was young. Nothing like this existed when he was young,” Muffadal says. I know the story, have read documents at the trust that confirm it. But seeing the actual building — the bricks and mortar and children — is uplifting.
“Wow, our ancestor is responsible for this school.” I then ask whether we might be able to go inside. He speaks to a man standing by the doors, the caretaker, who leads us through the building. We pass room after empty room.
Muffadal points out the middle and high schools, also both named for Abdoolally. He tells us that his own children attend school in these adjoining buildings. I would like a tour, but my cousins are not interested, so Muffadal and I go in alone. This building is almost identical to the primary building, except that the high school has a computer room, and Muffadal tells me his kids often complain that there isn’t WiFi. “Imagine! Complaining about that!”
I nod, remembering that this was one of Zee’s primary queries about Dholka.
We rejoin my cousins outside. They are absorbed in quiet conversation and startle when we approach them.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“All done?” Fatema asks in reply.
“It’s dreary here. No wonder Abdoolally left this place,” Zainab says under her breath so that Muffadal won’t hear her. I can tell she is flagging; it’s unlike her to speak this way.
Muffadal guides us into a maze of winding alleyways, past a block-long marketplace. There are two sweet stalls, and their sugary scents follow us, as do the curious gazes of dozens of Bohra people. We arrive at a simple, single-storey building he tells us is the masjid, its erection funded by Abdoolally’s estate. I don’t recall seeing those documents, but I might have missed them. Again, I ask if we can enter. “C’mon guys, I’ll probably never come back to Dholka again. Probably you won’t, either. Let’s have a good look around.”
“You don’t have a dupatta,” Zainab points out. She is the only one, with her rida, who is appropriately dressed for the mosque. I wish I’d thought to carry a scarf in my purse.
“You go in and have a look around and tell us what it’s like.” I peek in the door, but th
e contrast between the sunny sky and dark interior makes it difficult to see anything.
“I’ll run and get two of my wife’s dupattas. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” He rushes off while we protest.
“He didn’t have to do that.” I watch him disappear around a corner.
“And I am more than happy to pass. I don’t enter mosques anymore. I’m done with religion.”
“You don’t miss it at all? I mean, the peace of mind it offers?” Zainab attempts. Fatema ignores the question and sits on the low wall in front of the mosque.
Across the street is another building, with small letters above the door that say, SETH ABDOOLALLY MEMORIAL HALL.
“Look, we can go check out that place while we wait for Muffadal.” We climb the stairs and step into the cool of the concrete structure. Chairs line the perimeter, and through another doorway there is a kitchen.
“This must be where people come for meals after prayers.” Zainab appraises the humble room.
“It’s just like the hall where you got married,” Fatema deadpans and Zainab tiredly lampoons a punch to her arm. It’s not far from the truth. This might be a village, but until recently, the Bohra halls in the city were just as plain. We’d filled Zainab’s reception space with floral garlands to disguise the disrepair.
A man emerges from the kitchen and Fatema explains our mission in Gujarati. He welcomes us and insists we sit while he brings us tea. By the time we’ve finished our cups we’re less weary and Muffadal is back, wearing a gold embroidered topi, two dupattas slung over his forearm. I take them both, and hand one to Fatema.
“Just this once?” I cajole.
“I’m surprised they don’t insist on ridas,” she grumbles.
“No, no, it’s empty right now, and they are not so strict, anyway,” Muffadal counters.
Fatema looks at me dolefully, her eyes as sad as Zee’s when she has to miss a birthday party. She wraps the cloth loosely, noncommittally, around her head.
It’s a simple mosque, nothing really special. The marble walls and floors offer cool and calm. The windows have intricate latticework, but otherwise there is little decoration. Zainab whispers a prayer and I am comforted by the dark, quiet space. I remember that I am part of a larger ummah, a faith, a clan. Despite its shortcomings, I still want to belong. Fatema stands motionless, then, with a slight head nod, she signals that she wants to go.
Out in the sunshine, Muffadal collects the dupattas and informs us that the mosque will be demolished soon because a two-storey structure is planned in its place. He points to the digging that has begun behind the building.
“There are rumours they found a tunnel linking Dholka to Ahmedabad,” he whispers.
“All the way to Ahmedabad? Why?” I ask.
“It’s thought to be a secret passage that Shia leaders could travel. Long ago, they were often at risk of assassination.” We look around the back, the location of the alleged tunnel’s opening, and are blocked by two stern-looking middle-aged Bohra men who stand guard.
On our way back to the car, Muffadal says in a low voice, “If the rumour is true, and the news goes public, the local authorities will delay the construction.”
“Wow,” Zainab says. “But this secret could have historical significance!”
“It’s the way of our people, isn’t it?” Fatema murmurs to me when Zainab walks ahead and is just out of hearing range. “To keep things hush-hush.”
He drives us to Malav Lake, which is more like a large, artificial pond. Surrounding it is a carved stone wall with steps leading to the water. The remains of a squat building sit in the middle of the lake, attached to a beach by a long, wooden bridge. We pass a pillar with an inscription.
“Ah, a good story.” Muffadal points to the words. “It says, ‘If you want to see Justice, it’s here.’ Princess Minaldevi, who constructed this in the eleventh century, wanted to make the lake round, but there was a poor old woman who lived at the edge of it, and she refused to move. The princess, to show compassion, let the woman keep her hut, and so the lake isn’t perfectly round. This story has become very famous in the state of Gujarat.”
“Where was her hut?” Zainab asks.
“We’re standing on it!” We cast our eyes down at the ten-foot block of cement under our feet, the divit in the princess’s lake.
“The old woman’s hut must have been pretty small,” I say.
“Still, to defy a princess, not bad,” Fatema says, nodding.
We check out of the hotel and carry our overnight bags to the car. Muffadal takes them from our hands, placing each in the trunk carefully, as though tucking them in for the night. I take one last look at the historic hotel, the building rumoured to have been there since the early 1800s. Abdoolally would likely never have stepped foot in this place as a poor child, but after he bought his first businesses and lands, he might have been welcomed by its wealthy owners.
“You know, you should talk to my Banu Maasi. Shaheeda, Abdoolally’s second wife, was her great-grandmother. She lives in Santacruz.” Muffadal opens the back door for me. “Remind me, I’ll give you her number when we stop.”
“Thanks.” I file the idea away, too tired to give it much thought.
We move from bumpy regional roads to the smoother asphalt of highways.
“Want to take in Ahmedabad’s sights before I loop back to Dholka? There’s Bhadra Fort, Sidi Saiyyed Mosque, Gandhi’s Sabarmati Ashram.” Muffadal makes eye contact with me in the rear-view mirror. Zainab and Fatema defer to me, but I know they are not the least bit interested. We are all too emotionally drained and sleep-deprived for tourism.
“Not this trip,” I answer. Within minutes, Fatema and Zainab are asleep. I take out my notebook, record everything I can from last night’s conversations. I forgot once and I won’t forget a second time.
We pull up to Le Meridien, another of Fatema’s choices, and once again, her treat. She laughs when we gawk at the lobby, which is more like an art gallery than a hotel, with its high, blue, illuminated ceiling and hanging geometric chandeliers.
“So fancy-pantsy!” Zainab marvels.
My stomach grumbles and I spot a restaurant off the lobby, where we eat overpriced Caesar salads and pizzas. At our lunch’s conclusion, Fatema signs the cheque as though the numbers on the computer printout look normal to her.
“It’s too much, let me pitch in,” I insist.
“Naare naa!” She switches to Gujarati to make her protest more potent. We argue for a bit, both of us knowing she will win.
Our suite is eight floors up, with three bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a common living room.
“Wow, Fatema, I hope it wasn’t expensive,” I say.
“Not at all,” she demurs. “The owner is one of my associates.”
“Very nice!” Zainab pats the white comforter on her bed. “I’m going to do namaaz now.” I check the time; it’s already Asr prayers. Not for the first time, I admire the way Zainab’s faith offers structure. I wash my face, look at my tired face in the mirror, and phone Murtuza. We check in quickly, skipping over last night’s distress, and I tell him I need to talk to Zee. I called her when we first arrived in Dholka, an eternity ago.
“I miss you, Zee.”
“When are you coming home, Mom?” There is a pout in her tone that makes me wish I could be beamed back, Star Trek–style, to the Khar flat. Even better, I want to teleport us all to our Manhattan home, away from every possible danger that lurks around every corner here in India. I steady myself, remember to make my voice neutral. I overshoot to chipper.
“Tomorrow night. Very soon, honey! I’ll see you just before bedtime. What are you doing today?”
“We were in Colaba.” She pronounces it clobber.
“Oh, to see Daddy’s cousins again?”
“Different ones, and we went to the ocean. And then to Uncle’s store. He gave me a T-shirt that says ‘I love Mumbai.’”
“Oh, good,” I say, reminding myself that she is loved and safe. �
��Let me talk to Daddy again.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve been with her all day. I won’t leave her alone,” he says preempting my question. I feel bad for not being able to trust him.
“I’m not worried.” I heap more false cheer into my tone. “I just wanted to remind you about my arrival time tomorrow.” I ramble on about how Fatema’s driver will deliver me home. And then I tell him all about Le Meridien, and how posh it is. He seems to buy it.
“You’d better soak it all in. We’ve only got a short time to partake of your rich cousin’s generosity,” he says, with what sounds like a guilty chuckle. And it’s true. It’s already late February. Mom will arrive in three weeks and then we’ll all go home together the third week of April. I groan, which only makes Murtuza laugh louder at his own joke. But really, I’m thinking about how Mom will be here soon and I’ll have to tell her everything.
“Gosh, I need a nap.” This is my first completely truthful statement. We say goodbye, and I stretch out on the most comfortable bed in the world.
With a rough shove to my shoulder, Fatema wakes me. I am about to complain, but see panic in her eyes. “Something’s wrong with Zainab. I’ve rung for an ambulance.” And then she’s gone.
I clamber out of bed and follow her to the living room, where Zainab lies on the floor, a pillow propped under her head.
“I fainted only.” Her voice is weak, and she’s sweating in the air-conditioned suite.
“With chest pains!” Fatema objects.
“Chest pains?” I take her hand, which is damp.
“It’s easing up.”
“You were short of breath, too.” Fatema looks to me, worried. “The ambulance should be here by now.”
“Just try to steady your breathing,” I tell them both, moving into crisis-management mode. I rinse a facecloth and press it against Zainab’s forehead. She bats it away, sits up, and slowly rises to her feet.
A few minutes later, two men in uniform arrive. One has a handlebar moustache that I can’t stop staring at. The men take Zainab’s vitals while she insists that everyone is fussing unnecessarily. They ask her a dozen questions about her symptoms and she answers in uncooperative monosyllables. When she regains her strength, she says, “I’m forty! I was tired, only. A little overwrought.”
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