Chapter 12: The Parsi Trust

The Parsi trust that had owned the Grant Road building was: traceable. Meri traced it in: forty minutes, from the hotel room in Colaba, using the specific combination of government databases, property registration portals, and the: sheer bloody-mindedness that her generation deployed when pursuing: information.

"The Jehangir Charitable Trust," she announced. "Established 1921. They owned several properties on Grant Road and Falkland Road. The building — our building, the Royal Variety Club building — was acquired by the trust in 1938 and sold to the Patel family in 1968. The trust still exists. They have an office on Mahatma Gandhi Road, Fort."

"The trust might have: records."

"The Parsis keep records of: everything. It's practically a: religious obligation."

The Jehangir Charitable Trust office was on the third floor of a building in Fort that was: magnificently decrepit — the kind of Bombay building that was simultaneously: crumbling and: beautiful, the stone facade stained by monsoons, the wooden staircase worn smooth by a century of: footsteps. The office itself was: a room. One room. A desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet that was: ancient, and a woman behind the desk who was: also ancient, in the way that certain Parsi women were ancient — elegantly, fiercely, with cheekbones that could: cut and eyes that could: evaluate.

"Mrs. Daruwala," said the nameplate. "Trustee."

Mrs. Daruwala was: eighty-seven. She wore a sari — the Parsi-style drape, the specific manner of wearing that was: a cultural signature, the pallu over the right shoulder. Her hair was: white, pinned. Her English was: the English of a Bombay Parsi — precise, slightly accented, the English that had been spoken in these buildings since the: 1850s.

"Farida Khatoon," she said. Not a question. The same: recognition that Bilqis Begum had shown. The same: name-as-legend quality.

"You know: her?"

"I knew: of her. My mother — my mother was a trustee before me. She managed the Grant Road properties during the War. She issued the: lease for the Royal Variety Club. And she: knew Farida."

Amma, who had been: quiet since the basement — the quiet of a woman processing: everything — leaned: forward.

"Your mother: knew her personally?"

"Personally. My mother — Mehernosh Daruwala, née Bharucha — was a: patron. She attended the shows. She supported the performers — not with: money, although there was: money, because the trust's charitable purpose included 'promotion of the arts and culture.' She supported them with: protection."

"Protection from: the British?"

"Protection from: everyone. The performers in 1940s Bombay were: vulnerable. The women especially. The British watched them for: sedition. The local police watched them for: morality. The landlords exploited: them. And the audience — the audience was: unpredictable. My mother believed that art required: a shield. And the trust provided: that shield."

"The trust was: protecting Farida?"

"The trust was protecting: all of them. The dancers, the singers, the musicians. My mother hosted: gatherings at our home — performances, but also: meetings. The performers met with — with certain people." Mrs. Daruwala paused. The pause of a woman choosing: words. The same pause that Dr. Fatima had made. The pause that meant: there are things I know and things I can: say, and the distance between the two is: the distance between history and: safety.

"Certain: people?"

"People from: the movement. The nationalist movement. The performers were — they were a: conduit. Between the movement's leaders and: the public. The songs, the dances — these were not: art for art's sake. These were: communication. And my mother's drawing room was: the place where the communication was: planned."

"Your mother was: part of the movement."

"My mother was: Parsi. The Parsis had: complicated loyalties during the independence movement. Many were: loyal to the British — the British had been good to the: Parsis, commercially and socially. But my mother was: not loyal to the British. My mother was loyal to: India. And she expressed that loyalty through: the arts."

Mrs. Daruwala opened the filing cabinet. The drawer: protested — the sound of metal that had not been: opened in years, the specific screech of a filing cabinet reclaiming: its purpose. She withdrew: a folder. Leather. The leather was: cracked, the colour faded from: what had been brown to what was now: the colour of old: earth.

"My mother's records," she said. "She kept: everything. Every lease, every performer, every: event."

She opened the folder. Inside: documents. Typed, handwritten, the specific variety of a woman who had: documented her life with the: thoroughness of a historian.

And: photographs. Photographs that made the bookshop trunk photographs look: amateur. Professional photographs. Studio quality. The performers — on stage, backstage, in what appeared to be a: drawing room (Mrs. Daruwala's mother's drawing room, the: shield).

"There," Mrs. Daruwala said, pointing.

A photograph. A group. Eight people. Standing in a drawing room — wood panelling, a piano in the background, the specific interior of a: Parsi home. The people were: varied. Men and women. Indian and: one British face. Performers — you could tell by the: carriage, the way performers stood, the awareness of: space that came from years of: occupying stages.

In the centre: Farida. The red choli. The smile. Older than the trunk photograph — or perhaps not older, but: different. The smile was: harder. The smile of a woman who had been: warned and had not: stopped.

Next to Farida: a man. Small, dark, with: a musician's hands — the hands that Professor Qureshi had described, the hands of a tabla player. Riyaz. R. Riyaz Ahmed.

And next to Riyaz: a man I recognised. Not from: life — from: photographs. From the photographs in Grandfather's house. From the: regiment albums.

"Amma," I said.

Amma looked. Her hand went to: her mouth. The gesture of a woman seeing: something she had been: told did not exist.

"That's: your grandfather," she said.

Grandfather. In Bombay. In a Parsi drawing room. Standing next to Farida Khatoon and Riyaz Ahmed and: five other people whose names we didn't know but whose: presence meant: the network. The redacted network. The network that Inspector Wilkins had: documented and that the government had: classified.

Grandfather had been: in the network. Not just a friend. Not just an: audience member. Not just a sepoy who attended: shows. He had been: there. In Bombay. In the: room where the resistance was: planned.

"Mrs. Daruwala," I said. "The other people in this photograph. Do you know: who they are?"

"Some. My mother labelled: some." She turned the photograph over. On the back, in pencil, the handwriting of a woman who had been: careful:

Mehernosh's salon, Bombay, March 1943. L to R: R. Ahmed (tabla), F. Khatoon (dancer), V.S. Rawat (Garhwal Rifles), [illegible], S. Mistry (piano), [illegible], K. Deshpande, M. Daruwala (hostess).

V.S. Rawat. Vikram Singh Rawat. Grandfather. Named. In Bombay. In: 1943.

"He: went to Bombay," I said.

"He followed: her," Amma said. The tears were: back. Not the quiet tears of the bookshop. These were: the tears of a woman whose entire understanding of her marriage, her husband, her: life had just been: revised.

"He followed Farida to: Bombay. And he never: told me."