To its tender contents, Minwalla has largely layered mounds of research over three laborious years. Her sources vary from The Bombay Chronicle—respectively established and edited by Pherozeshah Mehta and BG Horniman, pillars of support to the freedom struggle—to anecdotal accounts of the city jazz scene in Naresh Fernandes’ Taj Mahal Foxtrot. In an ancestral home she renames Robertson House there actually lived three musicians: jazz greats Lucilla Pacheco and Alex Correa, and the classical pianist-flautist Harry Lyttler.    

Though separated by almost a century, both Zainabs push out of their comfort zones to become their own, strikingly individualistic selves. Interspersing the voice of her muses with archival references to tumultuous local news and global catastrophes all the way from World War II to the COVID virus outbreak in Wuhan, Minwalla explains her compassionate weave of parallel plotlines, rooted in soft romance along with the cruel chaos of sweeping communalism. Her response to excerpted lines from the text of Zen.

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“‘You should see the monstrous things my mum’s cousins post,’ Zen said. ‘The weird part is that half of them live in America and Singapore but seem to spend half their life spreading hatred in India.’”
… ‘These people have never felt loyalty towards India. No gratitude. If you aren’t happy in India then go to Pakistan. Who’s stopping you?’”
Fear of “the other”, resentment with barely concealed restraint are among the issues that have been simmering and now boiled over, resulting in todays’ rampant, dangerously spreading polarisation. What has formed is a divide in opinion and barriers within families and awkwardness with friends. Little attempt is made to hide biases and prejudices any longer. Sides are openly taken with impunity, with vehemence. 
My wanting to create a love story exploring the possibility of crossing this divide goes back to first-hand experience. Just after our marriage, my Tam Bram husband and I settled in 1994 in Hindu Colony, Dadar, close to the terrible months of 1992-93. We were shocked to learn about a letter circulated through the building. It asked our neighbours if they had no objection to a half-Muslim resident—I’m Bohri and 
Parsi. We moved to Colaba where I’d grown up. 

“‘I had an unpleasant argument at work,’ Salim remarked. ‘Dorab insists there is no problem with this CAA business, and I protested. It became quite ugly.’ 
Zen looked up in astonishment. Salim Currimji hated confrontation. He especially hated confrontation at work. Only something seriously serious would have made him argue with his favourite colleague.”
The modern Zen was born out of an immense sense of despair following the mood and events of December 2019, with the Citizenship Amendment Act announced. Like Zen Currimji, my three daughters then attended protests held in August 
Kranti Maidan and Azad 
Maidan. Making posters, they felt the need to speak out. My editor suggested this could be the subject of a book.       

“‘My friend Kritika and I applied to the same places,’ Ruksana mumbled. ‘She got five interviews, I got one. The man interviewing me didn’t even look at my marksheet or work experience. The minute he heard Ruksana Siddiqui, he pointed at the door.’
‘They’re evil,’ Zen agreed. ‘How demeaning it was. He looked at me as if I was a hairball that needed to be swept away.’”
The sense of being edged out—from jobs, accommodation, opportunities—is sad. Many of us try to take other deteriorations in our stride, like the crumbling city, its pollution, bad roads, crazy traffic. But the descent into distrust and overall intolerance is the gut-wrenching worst. Those haunting milestones have trailed from the 1992 Babri Masjid demolition to the next year’s bomb blasts, the Godhra carnage and more recently the CAA. As far as the characters go, each Zen has organically softened or broadened in her reaction to her times. 

“‘Till we got Independence, Indians were not allowed to enter the club,’ Zen spat. ‘There’s a famous story about a Parsi businessman who donated a billiards table to the Yacht Club. They snatched his gift with grabby hands, but did they allow him to enter 
the club?’”
Here too is a backdrop of discrimination. The story of Zainab unfolds in 1935, a tumultuous time for India. While it’s easy to evoke nostalgia, remember every Indian faced rejection in several places. I mention a jazz band playing Stardust at the Yacht Club. Only Europeans were permitted to enter this bastion of aspiration. Even Parsis, some considered colonial sympathisers, weren’t exempt because of not being whites. 
Conducting research into the 1930s, it was interesting to discover quaint shop names and polite entertainments like picnics and sewing circles for women. It’s also incredible to figure that I live presently on an extended part of the old Cotton Green, where the wealth of the city entered and made Mumbai. To imagine my grandmother and her sisters walking across that green in odhna and ghagra leaves me with an amazing feeling, wondering about the rich inner life of women like them.

Author-publisher Meher Marfatia writes fortnightly on everything that makes her love Mumbai and adore Bombay. You can reach her at meher.marfatia@mid-day.com/www.meher marfatia.com