9

Pierced Walls

Bombay, February 1921

Perveen followed Sakina up the wide marble staircase into the Farid widows’ private world. Here every window was shaded with a marble jali screen, casting dotted bits of light everywhere. It was beautiful but dim, reminding Perveen of what it was like to try to read on her balcony after the sun had set.

The zenana hallways upstairs were in the shape of an L. Sakina led her through a long hallway and into a shorter one that ended with a metal jali screen. Drawing closer, Perveen noticed that the delicately tooled metalwork was made to resemble a trellis covered with clusters of grapes and their vines.

“Such lovely metalwork; it reminds me of the doors of a cabinet in our office. I wonder if your cabinet was made by the same metalsmith.” As Perveen moved closer, she saw that the golden jali appeared to be locked on the other side and had a wide slot in the middle with a hinged covering. “What’s this?”

Sakina smiled at the compliment before answering. “This jali makes a border between our zenana and the main house. The opening is a place where we may pass papers and other small things. It is a relic from the old days, but now that Mukri-sahib is here, we find it convenient to use it again.”  

“Is this the place where you sit when you converse with Mukri-sahib?” Perveen regarded a small bench covered in pink velvet.

“Yes. There’s a seat on the other side for any gentleman who has been approved to come into the bungalow and needs to speak with us.”

Perveen wanted a sense of how many personal connections the women had. “Besides Mukri-sahib, who has come recently?”

“Many mourners came in December. Two weeks ago, a military officer came to discuss some matters of the wakf with Razia, but he could not enter the house because of our mourning period.”

Sakina had referred to the household’s senior wife by her first name only—an act that did not show the respect that adding “begum” would have provided. Perveen wondered what Mustafa would think. “How often do your own relatives visit?”

“My family is from Poona; therefore, visits aren’t frequent.” Sakina had straightened slightly, as if she were less comfortable. “But I’m not lonely. As you can see, we have a very lively home, and we can sit outside in our gardens when the weather is fine.”

Perveen didn’t entirely believe her. “What about telephoning—can you ever chat?”

The widow’s long-lashed eyes flared. “Telephone calls are expensive. And the telephone set is in the main section. It is for business matters only.”

“Do you visit friends elsewhere in Malabar Hill or Bombay?” Perveen was worried that Sakina was putting up a brave front.

“A few acquaintances.” Sakina gave Perveen a level glance. “I hope you don’t consider us poor, trapped females because we observe purdah? It is entirely by choice.”

“I understand you’ve chosen to live this way.” But Perveen remained concerned about how little contact they had with others—and not even a telephone for emergencies.

“I thank Allah daily that we are not on the streets surrounded by dangerous types and that our daughters are growing like roses in a walled garden. This is a special, peaceful life. If only we can keep together and stay in this home, I will have no worries.”

“Of course, we will try to ensure that, Sakina-begum.” Feeling chastised, Perveen followed Sakina through the doorway that was closest to the golden jali. Inside was a sumptuously decorated bedroom dominated by a big four-poster dressed in pink silk. The drapery color was exactly the same as that of the roses in the blue-and-pink mosaic tiled borders around the windows and doors.

“What a charming room. And it looks like another room is attached.” Lowering her voice, Perveen said, “Is your baby son sleeping there?”

“All the children stay in the nursery with Ayah. Jum-Jum is always sleeping this time of day—he’s just turned one. I use the other room for taking tea with visiting relatives or friends, for simply enjoying some rest,” Sakina said with the gracious smile that Perveen realized was her hallmark. “Let’s go in together.”

“How many servants work in the house?” Perveen asked, settling down on a purple velvet settee while Sakina took a matching wing chair. A black lacquered curio cabinet was filled with English and French china figurines, and a grand mahogany commode was topped by an arrangement of lilies and tuberose in a bowl. There was a feeling of luxury and peace in the room. “Did you make the lovely flower arrangements?”

“Yes,” Sakina said, looking a bit startled. “I must take care of the flowers now. I go very early in the morning, when the sun is not strong. We did have a gardener, but to conserve funds, we let him go, as well as the governess Amina mentioned, the cook’s assistant, and our head bearer.”

“You are very talented at it,” Perveen said, realizing that Sakina seemed ashamed to be performing an art that many other ladies would have prided themselves in. “If so many staff are gone, do Fatima and Zeid take care of the cleaning?”

“Yes. Their father, Mohsen, is our durwan. We still have Iqbal—our cook—and Taiba-ayah, who has been with the family since my late husband’s childhood.”

Fatima came in, awkwardly carrying a silver tray weighed down with two tall crystal goblets brimming with a pale pink beverage. The fruit-and-milk punch was room temperature, not chilled, and Perveen realized the house didn’t have an icebox.

“Delicious,” she said after sipping. “And is Mukri-sahib staying in the house or visiting when needed?”

“He has taken a room in the main section of the house. Having a responsible man inside the house was my husband’s wish; it keeps us safe. We hope he will continue living here, although it is certainly an imposition for him.”

Because of Mukri’s casual clothing the day before, Perveen had guessed he lived in the home. But it certainly was unconventional for a man who wasn’t their blood relative. She wondered if he had anyone to keep him company on the other side of the house. “Has he a wife and children?”

“No. That is the reason my husband thought he would be able to dedicate himself to helping us.” Sakina carefully set down her own glass of falooda on an embroidered cloth on the table before them. “Perveen-bibi, were you going to explain about the necessary papers?”

“Sorry,” Perveen said, realizing she’d strayed too far into the personal. “I’d like to start by reviewing the mahr papers your husband signed in 1913.”

Perveen opened her briefcase and presented the Urdu version of Sakina’s mahr agreement. Sakina’s eyes ran slowly over the lines. “I understand. The paper describes the jewelry set that I’m planning to give to the wakf.”

“I assume such valuable jewelry is in a vault at a bank?” Perveen said, taking a legal pad out to begin her notes.

“No bank,” she said dismissively. “My father-in-law built safes in all the bedrooms, and that is where I’ve always kept my jewelry.”

“Oh! It’s right here, then.”

“Would you like to see it? I haven’t looked at it since before my husband’s illness.”

“Certainly.” Perveen was pleased that verification would be so simple.

Sakina rose gracefully from her seat and went to the wall, where she shifted aside a small painting of orchids. Behind it was a brass plate with two round dials. After a few seconds’ work, the door sprang open, and she pulled out a drawer with boxes. Sakina returned to Perveen and set down a series of velvet boxes on the table between them.

“What beautiful pieces,” Perveen said as Sakina brought forward a gleaming necklace of emeralds, diamonds, and delicate gold links. She opened a smaller box, showing the matching bangles and yet another one with fine emerald drop earrings. The size and clarity of the gems was astounding. Perveen was not the same kind of jewelry connoisseur as her sister-in-law. She suddenly wished Gulnaz was with her.

“The earrings and the pendant all are made with four-carat emeralds from Burma and two-carat diamonds from India. The bangles are studded with five single-carat emeralds and five single-carat diamonds each.” Sakina’s eyes glowed as she looked up at Perveen.

Perveen still couldn’t guess how much wealth was lying in front of them. “Have you had an appraisal done?”

“Never. As a young bride, I saw how much my husband valued me with this gift. But now he is gone, and there is no use for such extravagant jewelry. It’s better to gift it all to the wakf.”

Perveen nodded, taking note of what Sakina thought about her late husband’s feelings. Perhaps Perveen’s earlier thoughts of love between the husband and his three wives had been too sentimental. She wrote in her notebook, Consented. “Now, what about the five thousand rupees that are coming to you as the second half of the mahr payment?”

“That can go to the wakf. All of us are giving it up; we’ve agreed.”

Perhaps Sakina’s attitude was natural in a joint family with multiple wives and children. Everything was shared. But Perveen sensed the widow didn’t understand the implications of giving up such an asset. “How much have you heard about the rules of Muslim charitable trusts?”

Sakina gave an apologetic smile. “Razia is the one who concerned herself with it—she doesn’t speak much of it to me.”

“I suppose the best thing is for you to read it. I brought the official document explaining the wakf’s purpose, including the shares distributed to your family. It’s in English, though.”

Smiling again, she said, “Just explain it to me, then.”

Perveen summarized the wakf’s purpose of contributing fifteen thousand rupees each year toward necessities and continuing care for wounded army veterans. As she’d discussed with Mr. Mukri, the wakf paid each of the Farid wives one thousand and one rupees per year. The same allotment would be granted to each of the Farid children from the age of eighteen onward.

At the end of the complicated report, Sakina sighed. “Fifteen thousand is a lot, isn’t it? When my husband was alive, he donated to the wakf every year! Perhaps he was too generous. The trouble is how to keep funding the wakf with his income gone.”

“There will still be income flowing to you; he didn’t sell the company,” Perveen explained, surprised she hadn’t known that. “Did Mukri-sahib mention a plan for the wakf to start a madrassa?”

“Yes. He spoke of it when we met at the jali screen last month. It is a sensible thing to do, since the war is over. Also, so many poor Muslim boys cannot afford schooling.”

Perveen looked at Sakina’s open, sweet face and wondered whether her own schooling had ended at age fifteen, when she’d married, or even earlier. Gently, Perveen said, “Literacy is valuable for both boys and girls. Did you know the literacy rate for Muslim girls in India is less than two percent?”

“My girls will read well!” she retorted. “They must learn the important prayers and to converse politely in Hindustani and Urdu. They also learn stitching and fine needlepoint from me.”

“Amina is learning different things,” Perveen said, watching her for a reaction.

Sakina smiled. “It’s her mother’s choice—and she had the advantage of a governess for more years of study. After the estate is settled and we know our financial situation, Mukri-sahib can seek a new governess—but in the meantime, Razia and I can give them their religious training.”

Perveen realized Sakina could not picture a life for girls different than what she knew in her home. “I understand you trust Mukri-sahib greatly. However, there’s a problem with his desire to use the wakf to fund a school. The law is written so that a wakf cannot change its charitable purpose. Because the wakf was defined as a foundation to benefit injured veterans, only a judge can allow the funds to go elsewhere.”

Sakina was silent for a moment. Then she looked at Perveen. “Does this mean a lawyer could help us—you could do that?”

Perveen shifted uncomfortably on the settee. How could she answer? Of course, she was there to do all she could to help the family. However, she couldn’t go against the law. “Such work would be done in steps. Firstly, the plan to change a beneficiary for a wakf must be ordered by the mutawalli—the person who is the wakf administrator. And then comes the decision to hire a lawyer.”

“Mukri-sahib has already done the first part, by speaking to you, hasn’t he?” Sakina queried.

Perveen saw that Sakina was missing the obvious point. “Actually, he’s not in charge. Razia-begum has always been the wakf’s mutawalli.”

Sakina looked as if she’d been punched. Taking a shaky breath, she said, “What do you mean? Razia helps with the wakf—but it was my husband’s foundation. And now Mukri-sahib has naturally taken it over.”

“No. Her name is listed in the paper as the mutawalli—the administrator in charge of everything.”

Sakina still looked disbelieving. “A woman can do that?”

“Mohammedan law allows for a mutawalli to be any religion or gender. I shall ask Razia-begum about whether she thinks both missions can be accomplished. I imagine that if she looks at the accounting, she might realize two projects could deplete the wakf’s funding.”

Sakina’s look toward Perveen was pleading. “What should we do, then?”

Perveen felt awkward because she could not steer Sakina, and her confused, unhappy state was clearly the result of the new information. “One thing at a time. Do you still wish to give up all of your mahr to the wakf?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was shaky, as if she were about to cry.

“I’m terribly sorry to have surprised you like this, Sakina-begum.” Perveen was belatedly realizing her explanation of Razia’s status could become the start of a family feud. “I thought this was something you already knew.”

Sakina wiped a tear from her face. “Now I understand why you wanted to speak to each of us alone! Two of us have bad news and only one person good.”

Perveen felt apprehensive. “What does that mean?”

Looking down, Sakina murmured, “I thought our late husband had treated all of us well—but if he gave Razia the wakf, it means she was his favorite. And how can she decide sensibly on matters when she knows even less about the world than Mumtaz and I do?”

Mumtaz had surely experienced hard times if she’d had to support herself as a musician. She had to be street-smart, although her illiteracy would prohibit her from being able to perform the tasks of a mutawalli. But Perveen couldn’t understand why Sakina felt so righteous about her own powers. “Sakina-begum, weren’t you raised inside a zenana?”

“Yes—but our compound in Poona was large and always filled with relatives coming and going. It was a happy place. I learned everything from my father, my brothers, and cousins—” She broke off, her face pinkening.

Sakina probably was embarrassed to give the impression she was brought up with more freedom than she had now. Trying to sound understanding, Perveen said, “That must have been a happy time for you.”

Softly, she said, “Children are happiest if they grow up playing with many sisters and brothers. For this reason, I want my daughters and son to live with Amina and their aunts. That is why the wakf must stay strong. It keeps us together. No one of us wives should have power over the others.”

Perveen put her hand over Sakina’s, thinking she now understood why the second wife had referred to the senior wife by first name only—although, as a lawyer in service to the family, she herself could not. “We can’t change your husband’s decision to give guardianship of the wakf to Razia-begum. I urge you to speak with her about whether there’s any change in her intentions for the wakf. Take time to decide whether to sign over your assets. If you don’t give your jewelry and money to the mahr, they could be financial security for you, or an inheritance for your daughters.”

Sakina flicked off Perveen’s hand to take up the emerald necklace. She turned the elaborate piece this way and that so its stones flashed in the soft light coming through the jali. To Perveen, it didn’t look as if Sakina wanted to lose it. But she’d already made the point about choice—and the choice was the widow’s.

Perveen withdrew one of her business cards from her briefcase and laid it on the silver tray next to the glass of falooda that Sakina hadn’t touched. “My card has telephone numbers for my house and office and also my mailing address. I’m able to come back, if you’d rather speak in person.”

Sakina shook her head.

As Perveen took hold of her briefcase and stood to take her leave, she studied the woman, who’d stopped putting her jewelry away. Sakina was running her emerald necklace gently through her hands, as if weighing something a good deal heavier than twenty-four carats.