Read an Excerpt
1
Call to Set
Fall 1922
Sometimes Perveen Mistry felt like the only person in Bombay who didn’t care for the summer monsoon. Yes, the rain was a relief after springtime’s burning temperatures and thick humidity. A solid deluge was necessary for the life of plants and animals. Yet every year, from June through September, the ferocious rainfall brought floods that washed away shanties, houses, and even people. One couldn’t hang laundry in the morning without knowing whether it would be wetter by day’s end. Rainy season was like the worst legal opponent: someone with unlimited resources to draw out the battle.
Therefore, when Perveen awoke on a mid-September morning to a hammering sound on the roof, she was irritated. Three days had passed since she’d been able to get to the law office in South Bombay. She imagined a pile of damp, unread mail was moldering to bits inside. In that pile could be necessary work to finish . . . and perhaps a discreet letter from someone special.
She smiled, thinking of Colin Sandringham, in his flat close to the city center. By now, her secret paramour had probably finished his morning exercises and was either on to the newspapers or any one of the letters she’d sent him during the rainy season, when chance meetings between them seemed all but impossible.
Resolutely, Perveen swung her feet from the bed down to the soft Agra carpet. She tied on the light summer-weight cotton dressing gown and trod along the black-and-white marble checkerboard hall and stairs.
The rain had been too fierce for the newspaper boy to come, so she had to make peace with rereading yesterday’s Bombay Chronicle and Samachar lying on the dining table. As usual, the family’s chief maid, Gita, had meticulously refolded the pages after her father’s inspection. Jamshedji Mistry, who was also the senior partner in their family law practice, always got the first read.
She wasn’t seated long before she heard the swift, soft footsteps of Hiba. The household’s baby-ayah carried in Khushy, who despite the early hour was already wearing a spotless white muslin frock and the creamy remnants of porridge on her cheek.
“Good morning!” Hiba greeted Perveen while placing the four-month-old on a small cotton mat on the floor for morning exercise. “Khushy’s glad to see her aunty’s come down. Rustom-sahib isn’t yet awake.”
Perveen smiled. Her older brother—Khushy’s father—was an infamous late sleeper. She picked up the small red ball that Hiba handed her and began rolling it back and forth with her bare foot—a morning exercise that benefited both aunt and niece, in a small way.
“Gah!” Khushy chortled, her tiny brown eyes fixed on the ball.
“Ball,” Perveen proclaimed in English, although the baby manual said that Khushy could not be expected to speak for several more months. “You are a clever one, aren’t you? Ba-a-all.”
After stretching out the word, she became suddenly uncomfortable.
“Let Khushy know her mother tongue,” Rustom had scolded Perveen and her parents at the dinner table a few nights earlier. The word “mother” had made Perveen wince, because Gulnaz, Rustom’s wife, was estranged from him and, at the moment, enjoying Paris with her parents. The fact was, the Mistrys had always spoken more English than Gujarati around the house—even Rustom himself. This was typical for ambitious Parsi families, who raised each generation to work and socialize closely with the British. Their staff, who were all from different religious and ethnic groups, spoke a mixture of English, Hindi, and Marathi.
Perveen kept rolling the ball as she turned to the newspaper. Amid advertisements for fail-proof umbrellas and anti-mildew powders, she saw a continuation of an article about the cotton market. Bombay’s chief commodity had lost value in recent years, and the impact of monsoon had been a slowing of orders worldwide. It was fortunate for the Mistry family that their specialty was in another field: construction. Perveen’s father, Jamshedji Mistry, had worked hard to persuade his family to let him take up the practice of law. But lawyers could work, regardless of weather, while her brother, Rustom, now in charge of the construction business, couldn’t keep his men working during the rains.
A sound in the hallway drew her attention away. Jamshedji Mistry had emerged from his study. It was his policy to be correctly dressed for a day of work, rain or shine. Today, he wore a lightweight gray wool suit that picked up the silver in his thick head of hair. Although fifty-four, he had the trim appearance and movements of a younger man.
Khushy turned her head to take in the sight of her handsome grandfather, who bent to ruffle the baby’s short curls.
“Good morning to you, Khushy-jaan,” he said as the baby made a sound of recognition from her place on the blanket. Looking at Perveen, he said, “We have a business prospect.”
Perveen closed the newspaper and smiled up at him. “Tell me.”
Gita, the slender young Bengali woman who served the meals prepared by John, bustled in with the silver coffeepot and poured a cup for Jamshedji, who said, “Our prospective client asked if we could meet them at their office. You’re free this afternoon, so I’m calling you along.”
Perveen shook her head at Gita’s murmured offer of more coffee. “A meeting today, in these rains?”
“Only in West Dadar. No reason to worry.”
Gita gave Perveen a quick, intense look. She probably was recalling how the family’s Daimler had been almost swallowed by a flash flood a week earlier. Although Perveen had exited the car safely with the chauffeur’s help, it was days until it was operable. When Gita had left the room, Perveen asked, “Tell me, who is this new client?”
“Champa Films. We will meet with the owner, Subhas Ghoshal, and his wife, an actress from Calcutta. They’ve got a new film called Queen of Hearts coming out in a few weeks.”
With about two dozen theaters providing Bombay’s restless middle class with a social outing—and refuge from rain—cinema was one of the few businesses that could defy monsoon. Thousands of people turned out regularly to watch pictures imported from Europe and especially those produced by Indians in the new studios being set up in Calcutta, Madras, and Bombay. The studio he’d mentioned, Champa Films, was becoming as well-known as Madan Theatres, Royal Indian Pictures, and Kohinoor Film Company. “No introduction needed! I’m familiar with his films and the Calcutta star he’s married.”
Jamshedji’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows arched upward. “You are?”
“Rochana is very famous. Why, she happens to be Alice Hobson-Jones’s favorite actress!”
“Miss Hobson-Jones watches Indian films?”
Perveen understood his puzzlement, because the vast majority of the films screened in India came from America and Britain. Perveen and Alice, who’d been steadfast friends since their days at Oxford, had always been filmgoers, particularly enjoying those made by Charlie Chaplin. Indian films were something else entirely. “It started when I brought Alice to see a film based on a story from the Mahabharat called Nala and Damayanti. And then, there are these other kinds of pictures: modern stories with villains and perilous situations in which the heroines are the ones who prevail.”
His mouth quirked. “Oh dear, that sounds a bit like you.”
“No, no,” Perveen said quickly. “Rochana’s involved in sword fights and riding runaway horses and car chases. She’s quite famous for being the best at it. When Alice saw Rochana at the races in Poona last winter, she even got her autograph.”
“So, it sounds as if Mrs. Ghoshal gets about in society?”
Perveen sensed some skepticism. Film was considered a dubious profession for most women in India. This was the reason that most of the stars in India had international backgrounds. Jewish girls like Ruby Myers, now called Sulochana, and the Anglo-Indian Patience Cooper rode high on the top of the theater marquees. Perveen mused, “Rochana sounds like a name that could be Hindu or Muslim, doesn’t it? But she is quite fair—she might have European blood.”
“All I heard from Mr. Ghoshal is that his wife is now serving as the studio’s executive producer. Perhaps she’s given up the stage lights for propriety.”
“Oh.” Perveen felt conflicted about the idea. Although Bombay needed more women in professional roles, she would miss the vicarious thrill of seeing Rochana win so many sword fights. “Pappa, if time allows, maybe we should go together for an early screening of Rochana’s current film, Train in Trouble. Then you can see the creativity of the Ghoshals before meeting them.”
“No, thank you. Moving pictures are a marvel, but they don’t stir my emotion.” Jamshedji dramatically pressed his hand to his heart. “There’s nothing like Parsi theater, with flesh and blood people wearing colorful clothes singing songs and speaking words.”
He was referring to the lively musical plays that their own community, Zoroastrians from Persia who’d long ago settled in India, excelled in.
“I wonder if there’s a link between Parsis being prominent not only in theater but law,” Perveen mused. “Both require commanding a stage and sometimes making a spectacle.”
He chuckled. “That may be true. Now, tell me something about Train in Trouble, so I will be able to compliment them.”
Perveen summarized the storyline. Rochana’s character had raced to defeat a pair of bandits in a scene filmed atop a moving train. “It was a damned fine debut picture for Champa Films. I’ve also watched some of her earlier films from Royal Indian Pictures. Do you want to hear about those?”
Jamshedji waved his hand, the gold of his thick signet ring catching the table lamp’s glow. “No need. Given the depth of your enthusiasm, I’m thinking that you’d be well suited for lead counsel.”
Perveen felt herself swell with joy. As if to punctuate the declaration, a clap of thunder broke out.
“Baa!” Khushy said from the floor.
“And she calls my name!” Jamshedji boasted, beaming at the child.
“Are you sure?” Perveen spoke casually, rolling the ball back toward the baby with her foot. “She’s looking at the ball.”
“Yes, you heard it as clear as day, she is trying to say Bapavaji. It will take some time to get all of it expressed—but she is a quick study.”
His granddaughter’s supposed flattery had diverted him, so Perveen said, “Yes, of course she is! But could putting me forward as lead counsel diminish the likelihood the Ghoshals will hire us?”
Before she could answer, Perveen turned to see her mother, Camellia Mistry, had joined them.
“Everyone’s up so early!” said Camellia, who at forty-nine, still had the physique and thick, black hair of a younger lady. Because of the early hour, her hair fell loose to the middle of her back, and she wore a softly draped pink silk robe embroidered in the blooms that were her namesake.
“Good morning, Mamma!” Perveen said, wondering why it was that her mother always managed to look better than everyone else in the morning.
Camellia crouched down to pick up her only grandchild. “Khushy-jaan, you’d like your sweetheart to stay home with you today, isn’t it?”
Perveen felt her back go up. Camellia longed for her daughter to play Mamma just as vehemently as Jamshedji thought she should work hard as a solicitor. “Mamma, I can manage work and still love Khushy.”
“Of course. It’s just that you are her special one!”
“No.” She swallowed hard. “We mustn’t pretend I’m her mother.”
“And I am here, too. You misunderstood me,” Camellia protested fervently.
Perveen relented, remembering how much her mother had loved Gulnaz. It must have been a shock to have had a daughter-in-law walk out of one of the most kindly and progressive families in Bombay’s upper-class Zoroastrian community. Gulnaz hadn’t left because of anyone’s cruelty. Doctors said that Gulnaz’s problems were tortures made by her own mind, an inscrutable condition that had revealed itself only after Khushy’s birth.
“Perveen is fully right,” Jamshedji said briskly. “She is still the sole female solicitor in the city, and it would be a shame for the city to lose having her. And if Mr. Ghoshal would grant his actress wife the position of executive producer, he is far from conservative. I think that if we play our cards right, Perveen could have Queen of Hearts and much more on her table.”
