The Widows of Malabar Hill Read online

  “Yes, Mrs. Sodawalla, she enjoys studying,” Camellia said. “In fact, we remain concerned of the need for her to have further, wider knowledge, as she’s not mature.”

  “A woman has a lifetime for reading. A whole week every month!” Mrs. Sodawalla said.

  Perveen didn’t quite know what she meant by that, but she smiled and nodded. “That sounds very good to me.”

  “If we’re permitted to marry, I pledge my life to making Perveen happy,” Cyrus said. “I understand that our suggesting the marriage to you may seem disrespectful. But when two people are especially suited, they might meet first and know this so strongly, they can’t help but share the truth.”

  Softly, Perveen offered another religious phrase. “Truth is best of all that is good.”

  “Spoken first by our prophet!” said Mr. Sodawalla with delight. “Listen, I am sincere in saying that Mrs. Sodawalla and I have not seen such a fine one as your daughter.”

  After this proclamation, Perveen felt as if she were melting into a warm pool of happiness. The Sodawalla parents wanted her for a bride. But what of her parents?

  She glanced at them. While Camellia’s expression had softened, Jamshedji looked the way he did when he came home after losing a case. Under the tablecloth, Perveen slipped her hand into his. She squeezed it firmly. In the touch, she tried to say what she couldn’t. Yes. I want this.

  Jamshedji let her hand stay in his. “Before coming here today, I resolved that this meeting would not be a khastegari.”

  “It certainly is not!” said Mr. Sodawalla showing a flare of temper. “We had not met the girl yet. We had our own judgment to make.”

  “Our children chose each other without our assistance,” Jamshedji said grimly. “They ignored the fact that marriage is the most serious contract that can be undertaken. Such a union should not come about without investigation. My wife and I expected we would be well acquainted with a groom and his family.”

  Perveen pulled her hand out of her father’s. Despite the amiable conversation going around the table, she sensed he was going to deliver a negative pronouncement. She had seen him do this in court before—build a case, seeking agreement, until everyone had come to see his point as reasonable.

  “I know your expectation,” Bahram Sodawalla said, who had sat back in his chair and was looking more at ease. “We first searched for a bride from a family in our city. But as I said, the Parsi community in Calcutta numbers fewer than five thousand. We could not find the right type for Cyrus. That is why I’m pleased his cousin introduced him to a girl from a good family.”

  Her prospective father-in-law was meeting might with right. Perveen appreciated it—and she could not bear to keep silent in the face of his humility and her father’s rigidity. Leaning forward, she said, “Mr. and Mrs. Sodawalla, I am so glad that your family came to meet us. I only wish my parents would realize that your son is the best groom they could ever find.”

  “Hush, Perveen!” Camellia said, her face flushing. “It is not decided.”

  Looking directly at Jamshedji, Mr. Sodawalla said dryly, “You might think we seek financial gain through our son’s marriage. But we have no need for any kind of gift or promise.”

  Jamshedji nodded and took a sip of whiskey. What did that mean? Was he going to listen? The Sodawallas were offering everything possible to get her family to agree.

  “Perhaps they did fall in love at first sight,” suggested Behnoush Sodawalla with a demure smile. “It is hardly proper before the wedding. But who are we to keep two Parsi children of good families from making an auspicious union?”

  “I would like to hear my wife’s thoughts,” Jamshedji said, turning his head to look Camellia in the face.

  He always asked his wife’s opinion on serious household and family matters. Perveen held her breath.

  “Perveen can be strongheaded—but she is intelligent.” Camellia looked down at her plate, still glossy and untouched. “I appreciate that she consulted us and that your son also spoke with you. This is a modern age, and some young Indians are even marrying outside of their religious communities. These two are staying inside our faith.”

  Perveen exhaled, giving her mother a thankful look.

  After a long pause, Jamshedji said, “Yes, it is good the children asked our blessing. Therefore, if Camellia agrees, I shall consent to an extended engagement so both parties might become acquainted.”

  “Father! Thank you!” Perveen turned to embrace him, moving so fast that she knocked her cup of tea between them on its side. Camellia reached over to right it and accepted Perveen’s kisses.

  “Nine months to a year should be sufficient time for further chaperoned meetings,” Jamshedji said, offering a faint smile. “And in this time, Perveen can revise her college field of study.”

  Perveen nodded happily. She had suggested this timeline to Cyrus when he’d proposed to her at Bandra. It had seemed entirely reasonable. Not only would there be time to see each other, but they’d also be able to plan the most spectacular nuptials.

  Cyrus bowed his head, and when his face came up, there were tears in his eyes. “Sir—I am so very thrilled to have your consent. Even though we’ve spent such a short time together, I love your daughter with all my heart. But there is a problem with the engagement you propose.”

  “Oh?” Jamshedji put his drink down hard.

  Perveen stared at Cyrus, wondering what was to come.

  Glancing sorrowfully at Perveen, Cyrus said, “Calcutta and Bombay are more than a thousand miles apart. I’m not able to travel back and forth frequently between them. Will you forgive me?”

  “Of course,” Perveen said quickly. “An engagement is a matter of months, but a marriage is forever! We shall do what’s necessary for the marriage to take place.”

  “Perveen, you’re putting the cart before the horse,” Jamshedji reproved. “If a marriage is forever, what’s wrong with delaying its onset to a mutually convenient time?”

  “Very sorry, sir, but my boy is correct,” said Mr. Sodawalla, sounding unapologetic. “We increase production for the winter holidays—our busiest season for sales of bottled alcohol. We have no time for weddings from October through next March, and then the weather becomes too unpleasant, and we are pushed to full capacity for soda bottling.”

  “So you are saying my daughter is just another bottle on the belt?” Jamshedji said sharply.

  Bahram Sodawalla chuckled. “Ha-ha, that is funny!”

  Mrs. Sodawalla turned to her husband. “Now that we have had the joy of finding a bride, can we stay in Bombay a few more days? That would allow time for some chaperoned visits.”

  Camellia spoke softly. “That would be fine.”

  “I’ve just had another idea,” Behnoush said, looking from her husband to the Mistrys. “The wedding could be held later on this year, if it’s held in Calcutta. Then there is less time away from the bottling plant.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Camellia said quickly.

  Perveen’s mind was spinning. She would be delighted to marry Cyrus soon—but not having their wedding in Bombay would be a shock. She’d grown up attending dozens of relatives’ weddings and wasn’t sure if these people would be able to travel to Calcutta. And how strange it would be not to have the wedding in the Taj Mahal Palace’s ballroom—her grandfather expected it to be there, given his relationship with the hotel’s founder.

  “We are paying for the wedding. It should be here in the Taj Mahal Palace,” Jamshedji said heavily.

  “But Pappa!” Perveen couldn’t bear to say the rest: If you don’t go along with them, I could lose Cyrus.

  “This hotel is pleasant, but there are places like it in Calcutta,” opined Mrs. Sodawalla.

  Perveen wondered if Mrs. Sodawalla didn’t know they were sitting in the most expensive hotel in Bombay. But a favorite hotel wasn’t the point; Cyr
us was. Perveen murmured, “I’m happy to marry in Calcutta. It’s not the wedding that matters; it’s the husband and family.”

  “If there is any difficulty with bookings, you must allow us to help,” Mrs. Sodawalla said, patting Perveen’s hand. “There are many fewer Parsis in Calcutta, which means the agiary should be ready for us when we need it.”

  The warmth of Mrs. Sodawalla’s smile made Perveen glow inside, knowing she was wanted.

  “Shall we order lunch, Mr. Mistry?” Mr. Sodawalla asked eagerly.

  “Very well.” From the way Jamshedji spoke, Perveen knew he had resigned himself to the situation. “Let us not be overly hasty with our luncheon. We need time for these ideas to digest.”

  After ordering, Perveen made an apology and slipped out to the ladies’ cloakroom.

  Cyrus caught up with her in the marble corridor. Looking straight into her eyes, he said, “How dearly I love and admire you. You were magnificent with them—I never dreamed you could bring both sides to a compromise.”

  “I could not risk losing you,” Perveen said. “That’s why the words came.”

  They certainly could not kiss or hold hands; that would have disgraced their parents. But they could stare at each other for just a few minutes, promising with their eyes all the things that couldn’t be said.

  13

  Rice and Roses

  Calcutta, September 1916

  All that stood between them was a sheet.

  Perveen sat rigidly on a small velvet chair on one side of the length of pristine linen being held up by Rustom and Cyrus’s brother Nived. In accordance with custom, her gaze remained downcast. Her lap was filled with a bouquet of red roses, a gift from Behnoush Sodawalla that signified fertility and love. Their scent rose up, blending with the rich frankincense already in the air. Perveen felt light-headed knowing that within a few minutes she’d be married.

  Cyrus was on the other side of the sheet, so close that she could hear his breathing. It reminded her of how close they’d been at Land’s End. Here they were, surrounded by family, living out the dream that had seemed impossible a month earlier.

  Cyrus had appeared a vision of strength and grace when he’d entered the wedding hall in his dagli, the high-collared white suit worn for religious events. The stiff pagri he wore atop his head made him look much taller than he really was, and his face was very closely shaven.

  She was similarly prepared to look her best. After the morning’s ritual bath, Camellia had spent more than an hour draping Perveen’s wedding sari. She was wearing a nine-yard length of Chantilly lace made even more dazzling by seed pearl embroidery over its flowers. Her wrists were stiff with bangles: heavy gold ones from her own family and ivory bangles inset with rubies from the Sodawallas, which harmonized perfectly with her diamond-and-ruby engagement ring. Around her neck hung a gold-and-ruby necklace that had been her mother’s and the heavy white-and-red rose bridal garland.

  Perveen continued studying the bouquet in her lap, resisting the temptation to pull the flowers close to her for a long, heady inhalation. Her hands lay open, as the priests had instructed. This allowed for a priest to drop dry rice grains into her left palm—the rice she’d be allowed to throw very soon per the ritual.

  As the group of priests chanted, one of them reached under the sheet to move her right hand into Cyrus’s. This was the hand-fastening. She imagined how frightening such a touch would feel to a couple that didn’t know each other. Cyrus’s hand was reassuring, familiar; she squeezed it.

  Prayers continued as the senior priest wrapped a soft string around their clasped hands seven times, symbolizing the divine heptad of God and his six archangels. Two priests kept the sheet steady as he wound the same string around their chairs. It was a symbol of union: the tying of two individuals into marriage. She’d seen marriage rites like this so many times, but it felt thrilling to be tied into traditions which went back thousands of years.

  Finally the seventh circle was completed. Suddenly, many female voices broke the solemnity, shrieking for either Cyrus or Perveen to be first to throw rice.

  A small shower of rice hit the top of her head before she could raise her own left hand. Laughter and applause erupted, and the sheet was dropped. She saw Cyrus grinning. Because he had hit her first, he would be the one to rule the family, according to the proverb. Perveen knew this would please the in-laws, but it meant nothing to the two of them, as they were bound together in a relationship like no one else’s.

  After the noise died down, the chairs were shifted so Perveen and Cyrus were seated next to each other, rather than opposite, with their families behind them.

  “May Ahura Mazda grant you sons and grandsons, plenty of means to provide for yourselves, heartfelt camaraderie, physical strength, long life, and an existence of one hundred fifty years,” a priest intoned.

  Perveen thought she’d be quite happy to live half that long, if only Cyrus was with her.

  Her smile lasted all the way to the reception line, even though the wedding photographer implored her to look properly serious. But she couldn’t hide her joy that the impossible had actually come to be. She was a new woman: no longer Perveen Jamshedji Mistry but Perveen Cyrus Sodawalla, with a gold ring on her finger to prove it.

  Aside from her immediate family and ten relatives, there were only forty other guests who’d come the distance from Bombay to see her wed. The worst part about it was Grandfather Mistry’s absence. His heart had been beating overly fast, so his doctor hadn’t allowed such a lengthy trip. But Perveen remembered what he’d been like when the formal khastegari had taken place a few days after the Taj meeting. He’d said very little but afterward had told Perveen she had done wrong to select a groom for herself when her parents knew better.

  It had been an irrelevant comment, because her parents had consented. Trying to create a link between her grandfather and Cyrus, Perveen had told Grandfather Mistry that her fiancé was a straightforward businessman who, like him, wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. But the family’s patriarch had looked off in the distance, as if he already wanted her gone.

  Perveen shook off the sore memory as the maître d’ motioned her and Cyrus toward the head table, where the wedding feast had already been placed.

  The Sodawallas had invited 220 guests, and they all seemed to be enjoying the meal. The menu contained the requisite succession of Parsi wedding dishes: steamed fish, fried chicken, egg curry, lamb curry, sago crisps, carrot-and-raisin pickle, and an extravagantly seasoned mutton pulao. Dessert was kulfi and lagan nu custard, but Perveen was too full to manage more than a few spoonfuls of each creamy dessert.

  “A small wedding is good, isn’t it?” Cyrus whispered in Perveen’s ear as she gave up on attempting to finish. “I’m so glad we are already home rather than in Bombay.”

  “The wedding isn’t so small. I doubt I’ll remember half the people’s names.”

  “And I thought your memory was magnificent!” Cyrus teased. “You’ve been quoting our prophet ever since our engagement.”

  She gave him a mischievous look. “Only because it charms your parents.”

  Cyrus murmured, “The wedding’s gone like clockwork, except for the string breaking. I tell you, my mother almost cursed!”

  “What do you mean?” Perveen craned her head to look at the Sodawalla parents, who sat happily feasting a few feet down the table.

  “It took the priests such a long time to tie our chairs,” Cyrus said. “I think it was because the string broke. They had to crowd together to fix it before all the guests saw.”

  She shrugged, relieved it had been nothing serious. “Funny little accidents happen at weddings. They become the best stories to tell later.”

  Cyrus lowered his voice. “But that string is supposed to bind us together in our lives and eternity. And my mother’s superstitious.”

  “She’s having as much fun as us,
” Perveen said, glancing again at Behnoush, who was chatting with gusto with a relative.

  “She is overjoyed,” he whispered in her ear. “She’s grieved my sister for so many years—and now she has a new daughter.”

  It wasn’t that simple to replace people. Perveen knew she would find it hard to call Behnoush “Mamma.” Just as her own mother would have a hard time giving up overseeing her life.

  Days before the wedding, the Mistrys had been invited to the Sodawallas’ large old bungalow. They were shown some downstairs rooms and the wing where Cyrus and Perveen would stay, and Camellia had been concerned with some crumbling plaster, mildew, and a rank smell. Jamshedji had gone to the heart of the matter and offered to pay for renovations to the newlyweds’ quarters.

  “Bengali house painters don’t get far. They’re always dreaming of making masterpieces on the easel rather than doing work on other people’s houses,” Behnoush had said with a laugh. “And what can one do about these bathrooms when the sewers outside are clogged?”

  “Teakwood and gold will never become old,” Perveen had said—it was one of her grandfather’s favorite proverbs—to prove she didn’t mind the aged interior. Behnoush had bestowed a doting smile that confirmed she’d said the right thing.

  Perveen pulled herself back to the present. She was at the head table at her own wedding with the most attractive and understanding man in the world. As long as she had Cyrus, nothing else mattered.

  Shortly after one in the morning, two cars traveled the short distance from the Great Eastern Hotel to Saklat Place. Perveen rode with the Sodawallas in the family’s Buick, its black body gleaming with wax and festooned with jasmine garlands. Perveen’s parents and Rustom followed in a smaller car driven by one of the hotel’s chauffeurs.

  The long windows of the Sodawallas’ bungalow were lit, and the house servants quickly emerged to pay their respects and offer ginger-lemongrass tea and the tray of kumkum for Behnoush to use in her final, formal welcoming of Perveen.