The Widows of Malabar Hill Read online

  Perveen put her hand to her mouth and stepped back. If she hadn’t looked through the slot, she wouldn’t have known he was dead. Now it was too late: she was aware of this death and the responsibility that would follow.

  1916

  12

  Bottling Promises

  Bombay, August 1916

  It was as if Cyrus had died and left her bereft.

  After they had spoken their hearts to each other in Bandra, Perveen didn’t hear from him at all. She remained at the family bungalow, imagining one bad scenario after another.

  Cyrus must have told his parents about her and received a flat refusal. The Sodawallas could have been angry enough to take him back to Calcutta. Believing that was easier than contemplating the more obvious possibility: that Cyrus had not kept his word. His romantic declaration could have been a ruse to allow him to take his pleasure with her. Or perhaps he’d thought things through and decided the girl his parents wanted him to marry was the better choice.

  The other reason she was stuck at home was because of her parents’ anger. At the Ripon Club on Friday afternoon, Jamshedji had awoken from his nap to overhear two lawyers gossiping about whether the Government Law School’s first female student had been expelled or dropped out.

  That evening, she’d been called into the parlor to face him and her mother. Unable to look at them, Perveen had muttered, “I meant to explain that day. I just couldn’t think of the proper words.”

  “So you mounted a deception! You went into the city carrying books every day and were dropped at the college. What were you doing all those hours if you were not in class? Spending money, going to films, eating in restaurants?” Jamshedji railed. “You won’t be going outside for a while, I’ll tell you.”

  “I was in the library.” Perveen’s voice shook. “I couldn’t spend another day with the students and professors in the law school.”

  “Can’t bear the law school?” Now her father looked perplexed. “But you were a top student.”

  “Nobody wanted me there—and they did all manner of things to make it hard for me to attend class,” Perveen said.

  “It’s true,” Camellia interjected. “The students made life hard for her. She’s mentioned some tricks they played. But that could have been addressed—”

  Perveen was grateful for her mother’s words, but she didn’t want to create the impression that she wished to act against her classmates. “It was more than tricks, and something happened every day. They killed my desire to study law. I’m sorry, Pappa.”

  “But . . .” Jamshedji’s tense expression was replaced by a look of confusion. “What then? What do you want to be?”

  “Why do I have to be something? Can’t I simply be myself?” She couldn’t declare the truth: I want to run away from here and become Cyrus’s wife. She wasn’t about to hit them with another scandalous confession, especially if it turned out the man she loved had vanished.

  But two days later, everything changed. It started with a phone call on Sunday evening from Grandfather Mistry. Perveen was the one who picked up, and when she heard his familiar, gravelly voice, she braced herself. He typically called to complain about some trouble: his arthritis, a missed delivery from a tradesman, Mustafa’s inadequate service.

  “A Parsi family from Calcutta came to Mistry House and insisted on seeing your father. I told them he was out, and they left a letter. What nonsense could it be?” he growled. “The ghelsappas said they are not looking for a lawyer.”

  Perveen felt the hairs on her arms standing up. “Bapawa, how many of them were there?”

  “Husband, wife, and a grown son. Mustafa admitted them. He said the son was most persuasive. I told him never to do such a thing again.”

  “I’m glad he did. They are very important people!” Perveen relaxed into happiness, although she didn’t understand why the Sodawallas had gone to Mistry House. She’d told Cyrus her home address. Perhaps the family had thought it important to pay respects to her grandfather first. “Did you tell them to come here?”

  “Why should I send strangers to bother your father?” her grandfather answered crossly.

  “I’ll come for the letter, then.”

  “You shall not travel about in the evenings. But I shall come to you with the letter, if you like.” He paused. “What is John making for dinner?”

  “Prawn curry. Please come. I’m sure there’s enough!” Perveen suspected that he’d mainly called about the letter because he’d wanted to see them. Well and good. He’d get what he wanted—and maybe she would, too.

  Perveen greeted her grandfather when he arrived in the hallway, asking him to reserve the letter for her father until after dinner. She knew that a hungry person was more likely to be feisty, and if her father and grandfather ate well and had a few drinks with dinner, their reactions might be better.

  After the last bit of pudding was finished, Perveen asked everyone to come into the parlor. She said, “Bapawa has brought an important letter. I have not read it, but I hear it concerns me.”

  “Goodness!” Camellia said, brightening. “Maybe it’s from the law school, and there’s some hope—”

  “Till the hen gets teeth,” said Grandfather Mistry. “This letter is from some Calcutta Parsis.”

  Jamshedji opened the letter and put his monocle to his eye to read it. After he finished, he looked at the assembled family and shook his head. “It’s very odd. This is a request for a meeting at the Taj Mahal Hotel tomorrow afternoon to discuss a possible union for Perveen.”

  “With whom?” Rustom, who’d been sitting restlessly next to Grandfather Mistry, looked up.

  “They’re called the Sodawallas,” Jamshedji said. “A common enough name, but I can’t think who these people are.”

  “I know them.” Perveen delivered a heavily abridged account of meeting Cyrus at Elphinstone and Sassoon Library and his presence at the group outing to the pictures.

  Camellia looked hard at her. “Is that all? I heard a rumor you were seen walking out of Bandra station with a young man. I said it couldn’t possibly be, that you don’t go about with men.”

  “It was the day he proposed,” Perveen admitted with embarrassment. “He couldn’t very well propose to me with a chaperone there.”

  “This boy sounds loose at the drawstrings!” Jamshedji’s mouth pursed as if he’d bitten into a spoiled papaya.

  “He’s hardly immoral if he’s looking for a bride,” Perveen protested. Her father’s swift disapproval was exactly what she’d feared.

  “I’m supposed to marry first—and that’s not happening for two years, isn’t it?” Rustom looked for confirmation from his parents.

  “An older sibling should go first,” Jamshedji assured him, all the while looking at Perveen through narrowed eyes. “We shan’t rush. It is better for you to have a higher position in the company before we look.”

  Grandfather Mistry cleared his throat and said, “If a younger sister marries before an older brother, people will believe she had to marry for reasons of pregnancy. Every bead of her reputation will be sold.”

  “We aren’t like that.” Perveen struggled to keep her voice level. “And what else can I do with myself now that I’m not a student, except get married?”

  “The one who digs a hole falls into it,” Grandfather Mistry replied dourly, and Rustom snorted.

  Camellia pressed her manicured hands together as if she was nervous. “You were always such a dear, agreeable daughter. You appreciated what you were given, not like some others in town. How can you do this to us?”

  “I didn’t do anything to you! His parents have asked for a meeting. Won’t you at least give them the respect they deserve by going?” she pleaded. “Wouldn’t you rather have us marry within our society’s embrace?”

  “What is the alternative—elopement?” Rustom snapped. “I’ll never get a bride
if you shame us like that!”

  “I don’t mean to hurt you.” Perveen knew he had a point. “But everyone should know that I am prepared to step away if I must. And so is Cyrus.”

  “See how you like living on the street!” cracked Grandfather Mistry. “Then tell us what you think of disownment.”

  Camellia spoke quickly. “We would never do such a cruel thing. It’s because we love you very much that we supported your schooling—our love is the reason we wish to keep you with us for a few more years, rather than marrying you off too early.”

  Her mother’s gentle declaration began to undo Perveen’s resolve. She really didn’t want to live her married life without a chance of ever seeing them again. Choking up slightly, she said, “You have done everything for me. I love you, too.”

  Jamshedji gave her a long look. “We shall go to the hotel and meet these Sodawallas. It does not mean I am saying yes. But I will give them a fair chance.”

  “That is your business, then. I’m not going.” Grandfather Mistry folded his arms disapprovingly.

  This was distressing, but at least she had her father. Perveen looked gratefully at Jamshedji. “One short meeting is all I ask. Thank you, Pappa.”

  They went to the Taj the next afternoon. As they proceeded through the stately hotel lobby, Jamshedji spoke in an undertone. “Just as important as the boy is the family. And there’s been no time for checking. That is a real shame.”

  “What would you do, employ one of your detectives?” Perveen sniffed. She had a low opinion of the streetwise detectives her father hired to unearth infidelity and other minor crimes.

  “I would have. All I know is what your mother learned from her friends: Mrs. Sodawalla is Homi Vachha’s second cousin. The Vachhas barely know them.”

  “Esther likes Cyrus.”

  “What kind of endorsement is that, with your eye-to-eye hatred of Esther Vachha?” Jamshedji grumbled.

  “Don’t be such a lawyer, Pappa. Promise not to grill them!” Through gritted teeth, Perveen smiled at the familiar faces in the lobby. The Mistrys knew a lot of people who worked at and frequented the Taj. Grandfather Mistry had even known its founder, Mr. Jamsetji Tata, who had been a pillar of the Parsi community.

  “Enough, you two,” Camellia said. “Let’s find these people.”

  In the dining room, the maître d’ led them through a sea of white-covered tables open to the general public to a table in the corner.

  “We are so very glad to see you!” said Cyrus, who looked handsome in a high-collared white suit. Rising to greet them, he murmured, “Mr. and Mrs. Mistry, may I present my parents?”

  Mr. Bahram Framji Sodawalla had Cyrus’s good features but had put on the weight of middle age, which softened them. Gray hair escaped the edges of his black fetah. Behnoush Sodawalla also was gray but had a young-looking, rounded face. Perveen noted evidence of wealth in the woman’s gara silk sari, which was covered with lavish embroidery. Behnoush’s sari was grander than Perveen’s—a blue-silk satin with a pettipoint border—and grander still than the understated yellow chiffon with zari embroidery worn by Camellia.

  Greetings were made in formal Gujarati. Like Cyrus, his parents spoke with a slight accent. It charmed Perveen and made her think about how her own voice might change if she were lucky enough to marry and move to Bengal.

  “Please sit down,” Bahram said heartily. “I’ve already ordered whiskey—I hope you don’t mind.”

  “A small one, on the rocks,” Jamshedji said with a nod. A waiter standing nearby moved forward to pour for him from the cut-glass bottle on the table, and then for Bahram and Cyrus.

  “My daughter and I will take tea,” Camellia said with a ladylike air that made Perveen cringe. “Darjeeling, milk and sugar on the side.”

  This was the English manner in which tea was usually served at the Taj, and not the way they drank tea at home. It seemed as if Camellia didn’t wish to allow herself and Perveen to feel comfortable.

  “I am usually a teetotaler, but my husband convinced me to take a little whiskey over ice. I am all nerves!” Mrs. Sodawalla giggled—an unexpectedly girlish sound.

  “I’m very nervous, too,” Perveen blurted out. “But I am grateful you acknowledged Cyrus’s wish to consider me.”

  “Apparently our niece Esther introduced the two them,” Bahram said cheerfully. “Our apologies for being so forward. Cyrus said you are not yet seeking a groom.”

  “We hadn’t been looking due to the fact she is a student,” Camellia said, declining to take anything from the bearer who was handing around silver bowls of nuts and biscuits.

  “I was a student,” Perveen corrected. “But I am no longer at the Government Law School.”

  “Cyrus said that. But he’s not sure how old you are. Can you imagine?” Mrs. Sodawalla laughed lightly, scrutinizing Perveen’s face, chest, and every other part of her above the table. Perveen didn’t like it; but she knew anyone considering her as a daughter-in-law would do the same.

  “I’m nineteen.” Perveen guessed that Cyrus hadn’t told them because it might have meant they’d refuse the meeting.

  “At your age, I already had two sons. Our oldest, Nived, is married and living in Bihar. Now the only one at home is Cyrus. The house is much too quiet!” Mrs. Sodawalla looked questioning at Jamshedji and Camellia. “We visited your ancestral house in Fort. But why aren’t you staying there?”

  “Mistry House is where I see my clients,” Jamshedji said, allowing Mr. Sodawalla to pour another two inches in his glass. “My wife preferred to shift to the suburbs for the good air and less crowding. I soon came to realize I like the tranquility.”

  “Yes, but old city districts hold memories of so many people and events; you can feel them in the bricks and stones!” Perveen didn’t want the Sodawallas to think she wouldn’t like living in the heart of an old city neighborhood like their own.

  “What about lunch?” said Mr. Sodawalla, looking around the table. “Shall we eat a bite together? My invitation.”

  “I’m not sure if time permits,” Jamshedji said.

  “Of course we’ve eaten here many times over the last few weeks,” Bahram Sodawalla said, as if to remind everyone they had met plenty of prospective brides. “I like the veal escalopes.”

  “Perveen is a pretty thing, isn’t she?” said Mrs. Sodawalla, giving her a warm smile. “Such thick, dark hair. She must require two maids to brush it every morning and evening.”

  “I do it myself.” Perveen blushed. She didn’t like being called a pretty thing, but at least it meant Mrs. Sodawalla’s inspection had been positive.

  “Cyrus, tell us something about yourself.” Jamshedji had a forced note in his voice. “All I have heard is your family business is bottling.”

  “Empire Soda Limited, the firm started by our grandfather, is the third-largest in Bengal and the biggest in Bihar, where my brother is handling matters. We’ve just acquired a plant in Howrah, across the river from our home. I won’t be traveling much, so I can show Perveen Calcutta. Have you been there, sir?” Cyrus asked eagerly.

  Jamshedji shrugged noncommittally. He was playing hard to get.

  “India’s biggest and best city,” pronounced Bahram. “People from all over the world come to see Calcutta.”

  “And also to study,” Perveen added for her parents’ ears. “Mrs. Sodawalla, is it true there are several women’s colleges in Calcutta?”

  “Yes. And there are also many ladies’ clubs that do good works for the community,” Mrs. Sodawalla said, looking pointedly at Camellia. “We pray at an agiary very close to our home. What has your daughter’s religious training been, Mrs. Mistry?”

  Camellia took a sip of tea before answering. “Perveen celebrated her navjote at Seth Banaji Limji Agiary. It’s where my husband’s ancestors have worshipped since the seventeen hundreds.”

  “And
what is her religious activity since her navjote?” Mrs. Sodawalla asked.

  Perveen exchanged glances with Cyrus, who was looking at her with a beseeching expression. She hadn’t been prepared for such questions.

  Her mother answered. “We attend agiary during religious holidays and ceremonies involving family and friends. But the way our family practices our religion every day is through our actions.”

  “My grandfather is an agiary trustee,” Perveen added, wishing he hadn’t refused to come. He would have been more comfortable with the old-fashioned Sodawallas than her parents seemed to be.

  “I told you: she’s top-drawer!” Cyrus said, beaming at her.

  Mrs. Sodawalla nodded. “That is good. My late father was a priest.”

  Mr. Sodawalla drained his whiskey and signaled the waiter to pour more. “We are large supporters of our local agiary because there are few Parsis in Bengal; right now, it’s doubtful that we number five thousand. Not enough people to build big housing communities and schools and such—not like you have here.”

  “We may have these institutions in time. Our agiary ladies’ committee endeavors to raise funds for a Parsi primary school; but of course, we need more Parsi children to fill such a place.” Behnoush gave Camellia an appraising look. “The Vachhas say that you are particularly expert at such charitable work, Mrs. Mistry. You’ve started up six schools and two hospitals, isn’t it?”

  “Not by myself,” Camellia demurred, but from her expression, Perveen could see that she was flattered to have been recognized for her work. “Bombay is growing in numbers, with poor coming from all over the region, and we must respond.”

  “It is always up to our community to open up our pockets for these things. And to think, Britishers are the ones sitting at the top with the really big money!” said Mr. Sodawalla.

  “That is true. But they don’t have the benefit of the Parsi standard: good thoughts, good words, good deeds,” Perveen said.

  “Your daughter speaks from the book!” Cyrus’s mother laughed happily and reached across the table to pat Perveen’s hand. The touch was warm, reminding Perveen of Cyrus, at whom she’d been trying hard not to smile.