The Widows of Malabar Hill Page 2

  Mustafa looked disapproving when Perveen requested smaller servings than usual, but her nerves had affected her appetite.

  “Pappa. I’m waiting with open ears. Did we win?”

  After accepting a large serving of chicken curry, Jamshedji spoke. “Yes, but after a long deliberation. If only you’d seen the opposing counsel smiling, anticipating our ruin!”

  “Did he call our client to the stand?” She’d expected it.

  “That he did—and the boy was prepared for every question.”

  The boy was Jayanth, a twenty-year-old stevedore who’d been charged with inciting unrest through the organization of other workers. Taking into consideration the British fear of Communists, Perveen had suggested Jayanth be cast as a hard worker with no political affiliations, just a strong desire for the safety of all the dockworkers. This concern would ultimately aid his employer, she had argued, because fewer accidents and deaths would allow for work without interruption.

  “Good,” she said, relieved that her coaching had worked. “And what was the content of Judge Thorpe’s decision?”

  “Innocent on all charges. Judge Thorpe ruled Jayanth must be offered his former position and be paid for every day since his sacking three months ago. That I wasn’t expecting.”

  Perveen clapped. “Splendid! I wish I’d seen you plead the case.”

  Jamshedji raised a finger, playing teacher. “Ah, but your work as a contract solicitor is what keeps Mistry Law profitable. Without contracts and wills, we could not take on pro bonos like Jayanth.”

  This was the most praise Perveen had received in the six months she’d been working. She was performing not only the tasks of a solicitor but also those of law clerk, translator, and accountant, but who was she to complain? There was not another law firm in the city that would employ a female solicitor. “Pappa, were you expecting a visitor this morning?”

  “Does this have to do with you spying on strangers through opera glasses?”

  Perveen scooped rice into her mouth and chewed. Mustafa obviously had mentioned the morning’s excitement. She needed to tell the truth, but she also wanted to avoid making her father nervous.

  “A Bengali man was lurking across the street for three hours. Eventually I went across to inquire his reason. He ran off without explaining anything.”

  Jamshedji shook his head. “Our beloved Fort is becoming overcrowded with all types. But a woman should never approach a man on the street.”

  Perveen’s irritation swelled at her father’s judgmental tone. “It was hardly an approach—”

  “You crossed the street and sought him out! Tell me, is that a European behavior you learned at Oxford?”

  “No—I—” Perveen felt herself reddening. “I first thought he might be waiting for you. Either because he had an appointment or was angry about the outcome of a case.”

  “I represent clients from all communities but no Bengalis in the last year,” Jamshedji said, his voice as grating as Mustafa’s serving spoon scraping the porcelain rice bowl. “Don’t worry about such matters. Concentrate on pushing forward the contracts.”

  “Yes. One mustn’t lose the title of King of Contracts,” Perveen said sarcastically.

  “Keep up your efforts, and you might become known as the Queen of Contracts.” Jamshedji chuckled.

  “Speaking of contracts, we received a request from the Farid household. The cover note was from Mr. Mukri, the family’s agent. He wrote that Mr. Farid’s three widows want to give up their dowers to donate into the family’s wakf.” Perveen didn’t mask her apprehension that all the women, who no longer had income from a husband, were giving up their only assets to the charitable foundation.

  But Jamshedji didn’t address the issue of wakfs. Stroking his chin, he said, “It sounds as if you are speaking of mahr.”

  “Yes, I am.” Perveen sighed, knowing she should have used the word for the special two-part dower that Muslim women received from men’s families. The first gift symbolized the family’s welcome to a bride; the second part, given at either divorce or the husband’s death, was a material promise of fair treatment throughout her life.

  “Bombay judges have been rather prickly about mahr these days. Let me look at the documents.”

  After she’d fetched both letters from upstairs, her father pulled out his gold monocle to study the fine sheets of vellum. Then he shook his head. “Worthless!”

  Perveen had been perched on the edge of her seat waiting for such a declaration. “Isn’t it strange that all three women wish to make a change against their own interests—and that two of the signatures are almost identical? And how convenient for the judge that this letter from the women was written in English. Are they really all fluent in English?”

  “I cannot answer the last question because I have never met the ladies. But we must not have immediate prejudices.” Jamshedji gave her a reproving look.

  Perveen didn’t hide her surprise. “Are you telling me you’ve never spoken to the wives in all the years you represented Mr. Farid?”

  “I have not,” he said, signaling with his hand for Mustafa to bring tea. “The Farid widows live in strict seclusion. With my late client gone, the only male in the household is the baby son of the second wife.”

  “Purdahnashins don’t speak with men,” Mustafa said as he came around with the silver teapot. “My mother and sisters didn’t close themselves in—but many of the wealthy do. Especially Hanafi Muslims.”

  Perveen always appreciated Mustafa’s wisdom about areas where she knew little. Now her dismay at the women’s situation was being replaced by interest. Secluded, wealthy Muslim women could become a subspecialty for her practice. “Mustafa, I believe ‘purdah’ means ‘veil.’ Does ‘nashin’ mean ‘lady’?”

  “You are supposed to be studying Urdu,” her father interrupted. “‘Nashin’ means ‘sitting’ or ‘dwelling.’ Therefore, ‘purdahnashins’ means ‘those who stay behind the veil.’”

  Perveen took a long sip of Mustafa’s delicious tea, a mixture of Darjeeling brewed with milk, cardamon, pepper, and plenty of sugar. “What do you think of the household agent, Mr. Mukri?” she asked her father. “I’m supposed to ask him to help sort out details for the estate, but he’s not answered many of my letters.”

  “Mukri was one of Farid’s management officers at the fabric mill. He shifted to staying with Farid-sahib during his illness. I saw him when he came in to sign papers relating to his appointment as estate trustee and household agent. A young man—but he was most respectful toward our client.”

  “As he should have been! But let’s talk about the letter he sent that’s signed by the widows. I think two of the signatures might come from the same hand.”

  Jamshedji studied the paper and then handed it back to her. “The names signed by Sakina and Mumtaz do bear a resemblance. Razia’s name appears different.”

  “Excuse me, sahib, but you should say ‘begum,’” Mustafa interjected from the corner, where he stood awaiting further command. “To address these married ladies of high birth respectfully, one must add ‘begum.’”

  After nodding at Mustafa, Perveen said, “I am guessing Razia-begum signed for herself. What if the other two were signed for by someone else, perhaps Mr. Mukri?”

  “Conspiracy theory!” Jamshedji said with a chuckle. “We have no way of knowing.”

  “Shouldn’t we ask them?”

  Jamshedji put his teacup down so hard it rattled the saucer. “I already mentioned that the ladies live in seclusion. I haven’t reviewed the mahr documents since I drafted them all those years ago. Remind me—are these dowers equivalent in value? That’s the best case when you’ve got multiple wives surviving a husband.”

  “The mahr gifts are wildly different,” she answered, relieved that he’d asked the question. “Your client gave the first wife, Razia-begum, a dower of land: four acre
s in Girangaon, a plot that holds two mill buildings that went up in 1914.”

  Jamshedji picked up his cup and took a long sip. “That sounds like quite a large gift, but in 1904, it was swampland. Are you saying the mills that made the company’s fortune are there now?”

  She nodded, feeling pride that she’d caught something her father should have known. “I consulted the map of his holdings we have on file. Part two of the mahr, to be awarded at time of husband’s death or divorce, was listed as five thousand rupees.” Perveen was glad to have the papers handy so she could keep the details of all the wives’ arrangements straight. “Farid-sahib’s second wife, Sakina Chivne, received a very different kind of mahr: a diamond and emerald jewelry set comprised of earrings, a necklace, and bangles. Her second mahr payment was also five thousand rupees.”

  “Mr. Farid was doing well by 1914 when he married his second wife,” Jamshedji said. “I don’t recall the cost of that jewelry, but we have the insurance papers for many of his valuables.”

  “Why did Mr. Farid decide to take a second wife?” Perveen asked. Despite what her father had said about the client’s good character, she felt squeamish about polygyny, which was still practiced by many Muslims and a smaller number of elite Hindus. In truth, there was surely polygyny in her own parents’ family histories. Parsis hadn’t made it a crime until 1865.

  “The obvious reason.” Jamshedji raised his thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “Offspring.”

  “But the first wife, Razia-begum, had borne him a daughter—eleven years old now, I believe,” Perveen said evenly. “He had his heir.”

  “But no son—he needed someone to work inside the mills. His parents were the ones who insisted and found Sakina Chivne. I tell you, it was quite a disappointment when she bore two daughters straightaway. Sakina-begum’s son was born a year and a half ago. By then, the complaining parents had both passed.”

  “Like I said, he got his son.” Perveen crossed her arms. “Why did he also need a third wife?”

  “He met Mumtaz just last year and married her five months before his death. It was a legal choice freely made by him.” Jamshedji shook his head. “Although I considered it rather strange.”

  Eagerly, Perveen picked up on his language. “What do you mean by that?”

  Jamshedji toyed with a few leftover grains of rice. “She was a musician working in the entertainment district on Falkland Road.”

  “That’s the reason for her mahr: two sitars and one veena,” Perveen mused. “Did she know he hadn’t long to live?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Jamshedji said. “He was very frail at that time of his life. But those musical instruments are a pittance compared to what the others received. I don’t think she did it for money.”

  “Look at this!” Perveen said, studying Mumtaz’s marriage contract with new interest. “Mumtaz signed this document in July 1920 with an X. Yet her name is signed on the new letter. Did she learn to write in the last seven months? I’m interested to ask her about that discrepancy.”

  Jamshedji blinked. “What do you mean, ask her?”

  She’d gotten ahead of herself. Taking a deep breath, she asked, “Might secluded Muslim ladies be willing to meet with a female lawyer?”

  He gave her a long look. “There’s a chance.”

  “I’d like to speak to them directly rather than continue my one-way correspondence with Mr. Mukri.” Perveen tried to sound detached and professional.

  Jamshedji sipped the last dregs of tea and put down his cup. “I’m not certain you’re ready to make a personal call to secluded women. You must use caution.”

  Perveen felt wounded. “I’m always cautious!”

  “No,” he said with a soft smile, “you are impatient and impetuous. I’ve overheard you speaking about the government.”

  Perveen made a face at him. “In private circles only. I know Mistry Construction depends on government contracts.”

  “You’ve also said more than most are ready to hear about women’s rights.”

  “Other Parsi women are doing the same. Mamma’s groups are always working on women’s welfare and education.” She felt on firm ground because her father had donated generously to her mother’s causes.

  “What you say will sound like Latin to these ladies who’ve been sheltered their whole lives. Your Urdu is less than rudimentary, and you haven’t studied enough Mohammedan law.”

  Were these honest criticisms—or was he just trying to discern how motivated she’d be? Perveen did her best to answer coolly. “I’ve read Mr. Mulla’s Principles of Mahomedan Law, which explains everything I need to know. I can speak with the ladies in Hindustani—surely they’ll understand me.”

  “But they’ve very likely never met a Parsi,” Jamshedji objected.

  Perveen’s frustration spilled over. “Pappa, you own the only law firm in Bombay with an employee who can communicate directly with secluded women. Why not take advantage of the greatly underused asset that is your daughter?”

  Jamshedji closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, he gave Perveen a serious look. “If you go, you must carry out the consultations with the same deference you employ with our male clients. Omar Farid would rise from the grave if he knew I didn’t serve his family members with respect.”

  “He is not in the grave anymore. He is in heaven!” Mustafa objected from the corner.

  “Mr. Farid will be smiling from the clouds once I’ve helped his family.” Perveen said, leaning over to kiss her father’s cheek.

  After lunch, Jamshedji strolled off to the Ripon Club. Perveen knew he was headed for one of the Parsi social club’s long-armed teak lounge chairs in which certain barristers were infamous for putting up their legs and snoring away. He probably wanted praise from his friends, a glass of port, and then a long nap.

  Perveen went back upstairs to the cabinet where client files were stored. As the door swung open, she breathed in the cloying scent of camphor and surveyed stacks of cloth-, leather-, and cardboard folios.

  After a few minutes, she located a slim folder of newspaper clippings. Although Omar Farid had died just the past year at the age of forty-five, the coverage of him spanned only the last five years of his life. There was an article from 1915 about Farid Fabrics creating a new section of mills to weave cotton drill cloth for Indian army uniforms. Another report, dated 1917, discussed Mr. Farid’s charitable donations to returning military casualties. Finally, she reviewed his December 1920 obituary, which included mention of the mills and his charity. The last line read: Mr. Farid is survived by his family, including one son.

  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 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 SS 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 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. Outside of 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 behavior.

  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 sunbonnet.

  Ramchandra cycled easily through the streets and out to Ballard Pier, where she could see the impressive bulk of a white Pacific & Oriental steamship rising up behind the high stone walls.