Shahtoosh

A short story exploring our confounding contradictions!

“Dead and precious” PC: Reena Kapoor. Instagram: @1StarDusty

Shahtoosh

This is the third time in three months that she’s called. She’s my friend and a client — a potential one. I want to help. Gosh, I’d love to help. What a story, a woman like her could tell! Especially in our community, our well placed desi diaspora, our “model minority”. But I’ve been in this business — this woman saving business — long enough. I know, I know, I shouldn’t be using words like “saving” but I get tired. We all get tired.

I talk to so many women. They call. They’re mad, we all get mad and there’s a lot of heat and heaving. Then nothing. The dust settles, half-hearted apologies are issued, bargains are struck. And the players go back to where they were. Until…until I don’t know. The bargains recede into bitterness, sometimes worse. I’ve even seen it cycle back through the kids who grow up angry, or afraid. Sometimes both.

Like our fine traditions, the cycle lives on. 

I worry about her and her candidacy. She loves her trinkets and frills and the adulation that comes with it. Fact is her husband provides amply. More than amply. I know, I’m not supposed to go there either. But he’s one of our biggest donors. She signs the checks but it’s no secret where the money comes from. She has it so good that some days I find myself wondering what it would be like to have her life. 

My mother would happily sign me up for that. She’s always wanted me to “just find a nice boy and settle down,” which translates to submitting to her choice of the right man for me. If nothing else, he’d be rich. And I’d no longer be alone. Lonely, perhaps, but not alone. My mother is right about one thing: “Feminist fumes can only carry you so long!” 

Weirdly, I like my friend’s husband. He’s the usual successful desi man with conventional expectations of work and family and life. But he seems to genuinely listen when I talk about the problems women in our community face. There are only about five hundred such families in this small midwestern town. But those numbers are sufficient for us to be deluged with cases. And to perpetually need funding. He's a rare one in not trying to deny our truths. Or is he just keeping tabs on her? And us?

Whatever it is, I have to be true to our mission. When she called this morning she sounded different, desperate. A little more determined even. That’s good. We are “Women helping women” and a big case like hers could put us on the map. 

She arrives looking tired, and stunning as usual. I stare a little when I open the door. Her lipstick is always a different color, each shade bending to her beauty. She’s always carefully careless with her looks, pretending she’s unaware. But I’ve seen her play coquette or serious-minded depending on the audience. Always an audience. Gifted that way. Her solitaires sparkle, her diamond rings perfect. But it’s me she turns to for help. I’m in the business but I’m also her one friend, who’ll always tell her she deserves better. 

She walks in and we hug. Her boys five and seven follow. They let me hug them. I lead them all into the kitchen. She motions the boys to my family room. We can see them from the kitchen but if we keep our voices low enough they can’t hear us.

“Oh, what does it matter? They won’t understand. Not now, not ever. They’ll grow up to be desi men, anyway,” she declares. The boys have pulled out distractions they brought along — a beaten toy engine, an iPad, a game boy. They sit with their backs to us. 

She sits at the kitchen table. I make a great show of putting everything aside and sit down to face her. She launches, “He’s traveling for work again and I know she’s also on the trip. He promised me it’s all over between them. Then on Friday he calls to say he’s extending his stay by three days. For some customer bullshit! I asked him straight out if she’s there too and he said it doesn’t matter if she’s there or not. I called his secretary and that fat bitch acted like she had no idea. I’m ready to leave for good. But I’m stuck here…with the boys. Even my parents don’t get it...” Angry tears choke her. 

I grab a box of tissues. She snatches a couple and blows her nose. I’ve never seen her do that in public. She goes on. “I hate my life! Constantly driving them to all sorts of garbage and play dates and stuff. I’ve stopped cooking — everyone gets grilled cheese sandwiches. All week. I smoke all the time, thanks to their constant demands,” she says, pointing to the little desi men in my family room. “This morning he called to say it’ll be another week! When I asked who else was staying he brushed me off saying he had to go. Now he’s not even picking up my calls. I’ve had it! Look at me. Who’d believe I got an Ivy League education? Stuck in this god-forsaken town that can barely understand my accent. All of it in service to his career. I’m done with him. DONE!” She bursts into tears. 

The boys are now looking at us. I nod at them mouthing, “It’s OK” before I put my arm around her. “I’m so sorry.” My mind jumps into high gear. I sit back and put my other hand on her diamond-studded one. “How can I help?” 

She wipes her face and faces me. “First, I need a job. Then I need to get the hell out. Help me!” 

I barely contain my excitement. “Of course! With your education, there are plenty of jobs out there. One opening is all you need.” 

She looks at me hopefully. “Really?” 

“Absolutely!” I gush on, “SO many options in sales or client management for a small company or at a bank or even teaching…” 

She’s looking at me with her beautiful, wet eyes. “But my lack of experience? I don’t even know where to start.” 

I swell at her need. I’ll be there for her. This is how women help women. I start to list all the ideas I have for her. She nods. Suddenly she blurts, “You know Debra — the woman in the house two doors down from us? She worked for ten years, became a director and had kids. Now she’s home — doing nothing. What’s the point? Wasted her life.” 

I bite my tongue. One of these days we’ll need to correct this attitude. Can’t have her blabbing her prejudices, if she’s going to be a spokeswoman for us.

I go to the fridge and pull out sandwiches I’ve ordered ahead. I get lunch set up and bring the boys their plates. I’m hungry but she nibbles. The boys eat quietly, keeping one hand on their distractions. I try to smile at them but they don’t look at me. I can’t help but sympathize with them. They’re innocent in this drama. 

Back to the mission at hand. “Send me your info or better yet let me send you a resume template. Let’s get started right away. I know businesses everywhere have openings. You’re going to have no trouble.” She nods, looking distracted. I want her attention back. But she’s probably depressed. We’ll fix it. 

Soon it’s time for her to leave. We hug. Before I can hug her boys, they’re outside standing by her car, looking back at us. I wave at them. They turn away. But I’m excited. Once she starts working, the world will open up for her — and us. If she goes through with this we’ll likely lose some donors. But she’ll make an amazing spokeswoman. Telling other women how we helped and how she turned her life around. That should bring in more funding.

But first things first. That evening I send her a bunch of information. She responds promptly. After a few days her responses slow down. That happens. I overwhelmed her. It’s OK, I tell myself. Go gentler. A week later I call her. She tells me she’s busy and then nothing. I have to be patient. 

Two weeks later I arrive at a party. I know she’ll be there. I’m usually the only single desi woman at such gatherings. Several of the men are awkward around me. I wonder sometimes if they invite me out of pity. I know the women like to keep me close. Is it in case they ever need an out? I’m not sure. The men probably like to keep me closer, as in keeping your enemies closer. But I need them too. They’re the main source of most of my donations. I know my work has little meaning for them. But they’re creatures of social mimicry. I know how to milk that. All I have to do is make a few social media posts recognizing one of them for a donation and the rest come rushing in. Then they shout about it from their facebook rooftops. Always trying to gauge who donated more. I don’t regret igniting these games. All for a good cause. 

This evening though I need to talk to her alone. She looks up, gives me a faint nod and continues talking. She’s beautiful, holding court as usual, surrounded by her coterie who can’t get enough of her, her baubles, her beauty. I’m glad I’m one of the few allowed behind the curtain. I go over, try to hug her. I get a watery response. She avoids my eyes. Her fans mill about. I let it go. 

Then I notice they’re all admiring something about her. A new ring? I can’t tell. 

“Hush! Not so loud!” She giggles to them in mock horror. “The finesse is mind blowing. It even works with my smallest ring!” She points to a ring with monstrous chocolate diamonds on her pinky. “You can’t buy it on the open market. He really had to go fishing.” She looks over at her husband who’s standing in a circle of men talking animatedly. He catches her eye and they exchange smiles. My heart sinks. The women talk all at once. I feel like I’m on the verge of seeing something but I can’t put my finger on it. 

I look for a break in the evening. Nothing. I’m about to give up when she gets a call and walks away into the foyer. I follow her. She sounds irritated on the phone. “No, wake him up NOW and make him eat. I can’t have him awake and hungry in the middle of the night. We’ll be home after eleven. Bye.” She ends the call, turns around and sees me. She raises an eyebrow.  

I babble, “How’re you? Did you get my emails?” 

She forces a patient smile. “Oh dear! I’m good, hon’. You’re so sweet.” 

I try again. “Are you done with your resume? I sent you a few links. I’ve been looking for…” 

She looks exasperated. “C’mon! I’m not going to mess up my life because of one bad day. He’s a good man. He loves me.” She starts walking past me towards the party room.

I’m desperate now. “But we made all these plans. You’d do so well. I was even thinking of featuring your case in our newsletter…” 

She laughs out loud. She’s standing at the entrance to the main living room looking back at me. The other women are staring at us now. I force a smile. 

She steps towards me and stops. “My case? Listen to you, darling. Well, thanks for your concern, but I don’t need it. What did you think? I’d take up teaching? or be a bank clerk at some podunk bank? What would I even make?” I notice she’s stroking her shawl. 

Shaking her head she turns back to the party. This time it’s the men who come up to her. I watch in fascination from the foyer. I can’t decide what fascinates them more. Her beauty, her diamonds, all of it is irresistible. Or are they trying to divine what keeps a woman like her in thrall?

Her husband sees me looking lost and walks over. “How’re you doing?” 

I nod and mumble. I’m still staring at her. 

He chuckles. “Don’t tell me even you’re enamored by the shawl. I thought you were above all that!” He’s laughing. “Did you touch it? People hear the word shahtoosh and they want to touch it. Called in a few favors to even get one. Told them I had to save my marriage!” He guffaws. 

I don’t say anything. He stiffens at my reticence. “Rest assured, I paid them all very well. Those shawl makers need to make a living too. Who are we to say the Chiru’s life is more precious than their livelihood? In fact, making it illegal has made the whole enterprise even more profitable for poachers.” He’s looking at me as if asking me to defy his reasoning. 

I just nod. 

A memory comes flooding back. A shahtoosh — Persian for royal wool — was passed down in my father’s family. It was a prized object belonging to my grandmother. Even more rare after 1979 when the Chiru antelope was deemed endangered and weaving its hair for these shawls was declared illegal.

I’d only seen the shawl once. It was remarkably fine even to my teenage touch. So fine that it slipped into every crack of every grievance and grudge my father’s family had ever nursed, tearing us apart after my grandmother died. My father had called it the Chiru’s curse. 

“How much was it?” I shock myself by asking. 

He looks surprised, hesitates. “Twenty-five grand…USD.” He pauses then goes on, “...and worth it. She’s worth it.” He looks at her. 

The men around her are gingerly touching the shawl. One of them takes off his ring to put the shahtoosh to the test. She hands over the shawl. It passes through his ring. They all clap. It’s a sight to behold. 

It dawns on me then. I’m invited to these parties so the women can reassure themselves that they chose wisely. Look at the alternative. Me. Alone. Unadorned. I start walking towards the door. 

Her husband calls from behind, “Not staying for dinner?” 

I shake my head. “I need to get back and finish some work…” 

He nods. “Ah OK. You received my check?” 

I manage a smile. “No. Not yet. But thanks.” 

He goes on, “No, I should thank you. I know you helped her through… her struggles.” 

I stop smiling, turning fully to look at him. Is he warning me? He looks genuine and unreadable, as usual. 

I search his face, then nod. “No problem,” I say and start to hurry away. 

“And you’ll be getting a match from the company too,” he calls again from behind.

In my car I make a list. First order of business: recognize her husband's donation on social media ASAP! 

As I leave, I wonder if the Chiru went on to thrive after 1979 once the regulatory protections became binding? Or were they poached at even higher rates as the shawls became even more rare and expensive? 

Life is complicated.

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reena kapoor | 2022

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*desi: literally means local - a slang used for people or anything with origins in the Indian subcontinent.
*Chiru and Shahtoosh: Tibetan antelopes that are hunted for their extremely soft, light and warm underfur which is usually obtained after death. This underfur, known as shahtoosh (Persian word meaning "king of fine wools"), is used to weave luxury shawls although the production, sale, and acquisition of shahtoosh has been illegal since 1979. Shahtoosh shawls never stopped selling on the black market for handsome prices.

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This is purely a work of fiction. An earlier version of it was first published in the literary journal, Literary Yard in July 2022.

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