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.

“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; Cyrus 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.