The Writing on My Forehead (20 page)

“‘Ballroom Dancing.’ ‘The English Teacher.’” He was reading the titles out loud. The third one made him pause. He looked at me as he said, “‘Bearing Witness’?”

“What you talked about this evening. Funny coincidence, huh?”

“Coincidence? Happenstance? At my age—people become superstitious. They no longer believe in coincidence. They begin to believe in fate. In
kismat
.” His eyes were running down the pages of my writing as he spoke, absentmindedly, making me feel naked and vulnerable in a way that I knew all writers would recognize.

I laughed nervously. “Do you? Believe in fate?”

“Absolutely not.” He was replacing the papers in the folder. “My choices—good and bad ones—are my responsibility.” He held up the folder. “Are they fiction?”

“No. Creative nonfiction, I guess. They—they’re about people in my family. My two grandfathers. And my great-aunt—Adeeba Anwar.”

He stood up suddenly, slapping the folder of stories shut, making his way to the door. We said good-bye there. And that was it. Except that it wasn’t.

I knew already. I knew it was more than that—had designed it to be so by giving him the stories, which would be the excuse, if I needed one, to stay in touch.

I didn’t need the excuse. We met again two days later—by chance—at Three C’s Café. I was there first, with two of my roommates—a
desi,
Smita, American-born like me, and Lamiya, who was half-Arab and half-Iowan. He entered alone and took a seat without seeing me. Smita gave me a pointed look, the same kind we always gave to alert each other to the presence of another
desi
—a warning, I suppose, to not speak in the broken Hindi-Urdu that we occasionally used as code and that we would have to translate later for Lamiya’s sake.

Under her breath, Smita said, “Gorgeous. Think he’s a grad student?”

The restaurant was tiny and I was afraid he’d hear me, so I didn’t explain—suddenly self-conscious because I hadn’t told them about him already. That was when Majid Khan saw me. I felt his gaze catch, from the hyperconscious periphery of my vision. He rose and came to stand beside us.

“Saira.”

I nodded, still not knowing what to call him. I introduced my friends to him and told them, “This is Majid Khan. He’s lecturing at the J-School.”

“Wow! Oh! Majid Khan!” That was Smita.

Lamiya, who was majoring in engineering, had no idea who he was.

After an awkward moment, I asked him to join us and was surprised when he did. I don’t remember what they talked about, only that the conversation flowed between Majid Khan, Smita, and Lamiya, through the arrival and consumption of our blintzes and crêpes, and despite the conspicuous silence that I maintained and that Smita and Lamiya would tease me about, mercilessly, later. Smita stood first, showing us her watch by way of explanation. Lamiya joined her, on her way to the library, where I had planned to be with her, studying for midterms. But I stayed where I was. So did Majid Khan. I didn’t watch them as they left. Neither did he.

“I read your stories.”

I braced myself.

“You are a leech, Miss Saira. You have stolen the stories of your family and made them yours.” He watched my face to gauge my response, but bracing myself had worked. I could feel the blankness of my own expression, consciously maintained as my mind struggled to understand what Majid Khan was saying. “That is what a writer does. You have listened, observed, researched, and reported. But you have also stepped out of line—an inevitable temptation, I suppose. One of the dangers of creative nonfiction. You are too presumptuous, putting words in the mouths and feelings in the hearts of people that you have no way of knowing are accurate. Yet, you have done it in a way that seems to honor them, with such sympathy that I can almost forgive your literary hubris.”

I released the breath I had been holding and smiled. “Almost?”

“Go ahead—smile, laugh, you cheeky girl. From now on, you do all the talking. I refuse to give you any stories of
my
life to steal and make your own.”

“But what’s wrong with that? Putting yourself in the place of the people you’re writing about, so you can write from their perspective?”

“What’s wrong with it? Where will it end? You can’t
feel
your way through facts. If you do, every last pretense at objectivity is gone. You made your grandfather a hero—”

“Not a hero—just human.”

“—what if you were writing about a murderer? Or a terrorist? Would you put yourself in their place, too?”

I thought about it. “Yes.”

“Would you, by God?”

“Yes. I would. Everyone has a story.”

“That’s true—and that would be absolutely fine in a novel. But in journalism, you have to maintain your distance. You can’t bear witness if your eyes are full of tears. You’ll be blind—blinded by emotions.”

“But—as long as I’m crying for
everyone
—the innocent victims as well as the bloodthirsty terrorists—what’s wrong with that?”

“You’ll be accused of bias. By everyone.”

“So—you think a journalist has to stand back and take the humanity out of every story so that no one will accuse them of bias? Nobody does that. Everybody chooses sides.”

“Bad journalists do. Good journalists stand back. They tell facts—all the facts, please, regardless of who you’re offending. If you’re feeling your way through—you’re lost. You don’t know what objectivity is.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“Of course there isn’t. Not pure objectivity. But that is the goal—”

“What’s the point of having a goal that’s unattainable?”

“Miss Saira!” Majid Khan banged his hand on the table.

I banged mine so that it landed right next to his. “Mr. Majid!”

“Mr. Majid?” He fell silent. “Is that what you’ve decided to call me?”

“You started it.”

“I did. To maintain my distance.”

“Is that necessary?”

He laughed. “Don’t you think it is?”

“No. I don’t.” Our eyes were locked in some kind of struggle.

“I remember that look. A shameless teenager stared at me in just that way once. In Karachi. At Gymkhana.” He laughed at whatever he saw in my face.

It was my turn to laugh. “I’m not a teenager. Not anymore.”

“Saira, this is ridiculous. You’re half my age. Go home and be a good, respectable girl. Instead of hanging out with rogues like me.”

“I don’t want to be good. Or respectable.”

“Then find someone your own age.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Saira, this will never work out.”

“I know that. I don’t expect anything to come of it.” I moved my hand an inch to the left, so that it was touching his. “The here and now will do.”

M
Y BRIEF AFFAIR
with Majid Khan, the defining relationship of my college years, did not remain the secret I had planned it to be. And with discovery came consequences. Painful consequences from which I had to escape.

Exile. I found haven in the unlikeliest of contexts—in the aftermath of forgotten wars, in the midst of ongoing conflicts, in the miseries of forsaken peoples. After I graduated from college, Mohsin and I traveled the world, bearing witness, with his camera and my words, to the callousness of humanity’s indifference.

But exile, even when it is self-imposed, is by definition temporal. When Ameena summoned me home, I did not hesitate to comply.

Daddy opened the door when I knocked, letting out a yelp of surprise so subdued that I knew the urgency of Ameena’s call had been sincere. Any awkwardness I may have felt at arriving, unheralded, after five years of absence, was dispelled by the sight of him—a gray and grim shadow of what I remembered him to be. I asked him for all the bleak details, and knew the whole truth when he was done. Mummy was dying.

I made my way to my parents’ room. There she was, a small, shriveled shell of life. I stood and stared for only a second before her eyes opened to see me.

Her hand came out from under the covers, reaching out as she said, “Saira. You’re home. My little girl is home.” She started to sit up, I was at her side, fluffing up pillows and smoothing blankets around her, with one hand only, the other firmly in her grip. She moved over and patted the space at her side. I climbed into bed with her and rested my head on her shoulder as she stroked my hair and wiped my forehead clean. “I have worried so much about you, Saira. The places you’ve been! The risks you’ve taken! My fearless little girl. That is what you have always been, Saira—fearless, fearless, heedless of danger.”

I was crying so hard that her words seemed to come from a great distance. I knew what I owed her—an explanation, excuses, contrition—all that I had not offered before.

“Mummy, I—I’m sorry—I—”

“Shhh. Shhh, Saira. No tears. What is done, is done. You are here with me now—thank God—and that is all that matters.”

“You’re not angry, Mummy? About why I went away? That I stayed away so long?”

“Of course not, Saira. I knew why you went. I understood. You kept in touch. Those letters you sent were from so far away. They made me realize and learn what I should have learned long ago. About anger and forgiveness.”

“I wasn’t angry with you—I told you—”

“I know. I was speaking of myself, Saira. The anger I felt at my father. Who was human, I know. I learned that from you, from your stories, which opened my eyes. See? Here they are.” She pointed to a copy of my first book at her bedside. “The one you wrote about him—you made me see. How I wasted the last years of his life. But I acted on what I learned. I wrote and told you what I did.”

I nodded, my hand on her wet cheek.

“Let me show you”—she was reaching for the drawer at her bedside—“see these?” Pulling out photographs and letters. “They’re pictures of my sisters and their families—Tara and Ruksana. And of Adam.” She had separated one photograph from the rest. “This is Ruksana’s son. Kasim. Born last month. I didn’t have time to write to you about him. She named him after our father. You see? I am in touch with them all, Saira. Even Belle. There is no room—no time—in this short life, to stay angry and hold grudges.”

I knew about it all—about the trip she had taken to London two years before, about the visit Ruksana, Tara, and Adam had made to Los Angeles in return. But I made her tell me again, the new ending to an old story.

“You see, Saira? I’ve been busy in your absence.”

“How is Ameena?”

“She is well—she and Sakina and Shuja. They left only an hour before you came. You know that they live here now? Only two miles away? They moved soon after—but you know this already.”

We fell silent.

Resting her head back against the pillows, closing her eyes to block the pain and weariness of her illness, Mummy said, “I have read everything you’ve written. Such beautiful, horrible stories. From Rwanda to Chechnya. From Mozambique to Afghanistan. I want to hear it all in your voice, now. Instead of reading it from a distance.”

On these words, Mummy’s eyes closed again. I kissed her forehead before standing up. “I’ll tell you everything, Mummy. Later. You should rest, now.”

She squeezed my hand for a second, then let go. “Yes. For a little while. I’ll rest. And then, you’ll tell me all of your stories.”

Before I left the room, Mummy spoke again. “Saira?”

“Yes, Mummy?”

“The reason you went away—? Will you be able to—”

“I’m fine, Mummy. I’ll be fine.” I shut the door gently, hoping I was right.

Another reunion awaited me in the kitchen. Ameena was there, and whatever I had anticipated feeling at the sight of her flew from my mind, so changed did I find her—not her features, though, which were remarkably the same.

“A
hijab
?” I was stunned to see her in a scarf, every hair tucked out of view. “You wear
hijab
?”

She nodded as she embraced me, but I had to step back to take in how she looked. What she saw in my face made her laugh nervously. “You don’t approve.”

The fact that she wasn’t asking made me realize how transparent my feelings were. I reined in my expression and said, “It’s not my place to approve.”

She didn’t answer, and the subject was added to a list of others, begun long ago, which we never talked about.

“Daddy called you? I thought I wouldn’t see you until tomorrow.”

“I had to come right away. I didn’t want to disturb you while you were with Mummy. It must have shocked you to see her.”

I nodded and bit my lip. “Thank you for calling me, Ameena.”

“I knew you’d come.”

“Of course.”

“Saira—when you went away—”

I cut Ameena off, sensing that she was going to venture into the vicinity of that forbidden list. “It’s so good to see you, Ameena. When will I see Shuja? And Sakina?”

“Tomorrow. But—are you—?”

“I can’t wait! How old is she now?”

Ameena was silent for a long moment. And then took my cue, however reluctantly. “She’s five. In kindergarten.”

“And Shuja? He’s happy in L.A.?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me all about them.” My voice was bright and cheerful, incongruously so, given the scene I had just been a part of and the fact that I had been away so long.

THE NEXT MORNING,
I woke up, keeping my eyes shut, to the feel of her breath on my face. Little, shallow breaths. Very slowly, I opened my eyes to the sight of a small face, inches from mine, peering at me with wide, curious eyes of its own.

Beyond my room, I heard Ameena calling, giving a name to my intruder, “Sakina! Sakina, where are you?”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The door opened. “There you are, Sakina! What are you doing?” My sister’s whisper was loud and raspy. “I told you not to disturb—you see, you’ve woken her up!” Ameena was in the room in an instant, her hold on Sakina’s hand tight and firm, tugging her away from me in a motion that was protective. “I’m sorry, Saira. Go back to sleep.”

Sakina was looking over her shoulder as her mother tugged her out of the room, eyes twinkling and lips twitching with a mischievous humor that left me breathless.

A short while later, I came into the kitchen, in desperate need of coffee in a house where only tea was available. Shuja was there.

He embraced me, saying, gently, “It’s good to have you home.”

“It’s good to be home. Why aren’t you at work?”

“The same reason Sakina was able to wake you up this morning. It’s Saturday.”

I was going through the kitchen cupboards in a vain search for instant coffee. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little forehead peek out from behind the dining-room doorway. Eyes, on me, followed.

Unaided by the needed boost of caffeine, I had to manufacture the heartiness in my cheerful greeting, “Well, hello there!”

I heard a giggle as the forehead and eyes were retracted. A moment later, a conversation began, two sides of it conducted by the same voice. “Is she really your aunt?—Yes, her name is Sairakhala.—And you’ve never met her before?—No, never.—Why not?—Because she lives all over the world.—Do you like her?—Of course I like her. I love her. She’s my Sairakhala.—Then why don’t you talk to her?—Because I’m shy.—But she doesn’t know that. She’ll think you’re rude.—No she won’t. She knows. She’s Sairakhala.—Do you think she’s gotten you a present?—Of course! She’s my Sairakhala.”

Shuja’s eyes met mine, his lips twitching, the rest of his face contorted into a bizarre blend of emotion and query that I could not answer.

I opened my mouth to reassure the voices that their expectation was not in vain. Ignoring Shuja, I said, to myself, “Who is that little girl who keeps popping in and out of sight?—Don’t you know? That’s Sakina!—Oh! Sakina! Well, why doesn’t she just come and introduce herself?—I don’t know. Maybe she’s shy.—But if she stays far away, how will you give her the presents you have for her?—I don’t know. I guess I will just have to wait for her to want to be friends.—But how long will you have to wait?—I don’t know. Not long, I hope.”

A hand gripped the frame of the door, closely followed by feet, legs, and the rest of my alarm clock. The quest for coffee forgotten, I squatted down to Sakina’s eye level and regarded her as soberly, as curiously, as she had regarded me earlier. We stared at each other for some long, torturous moments. Finally, a giggle burst through the solemnity of her assumed expression and my eyes were relieved from the torment of remaining open and neutral in response to hers, which were intense and inquisitive. I looked up to gauge Shuja’s reaction to my ice-breaking techniques. He was smiling and nodding.

I crooked a finger to invite Sakina to follow me back to my room. There, she watched me rummage around in my bag, looking for the dolls I had brought for her, from all over Asia and Africa and parts of Europe. She took them wordlessly, running her fingers over their dresses to explore their textures. A movement in the doorway caught my attention. I looked up and smiled when I saw Ameena.

She smiled back at me with moist eyes and said to Sakina, “Have you thanked Saira Khala?”

Sakina came close to me, put a thin arm around my neck, and whispered, in my ear, “Thank you, Sairakhala.”

“You’re welcome, Sakina.”

“Come, Sakina, Nanima is asking for you. You can show her your new dolls.”

After a while, Ameena and my father helped Mummy into the living room, Shuja bringing up the rear, carrying the IV stand within range. I watched them arrange her on the couch and surveyed the evidence of my mother’s weakness, Sakina’s restless feet carrying her in and out of the room in a patter of steps and a chatter of song that played on in the background. We all sat together until Mummy fell asleep. Then Ameena and her family left, promising to return later in the afternoon. I must have fallen asleep soon after.

When my eyes opened, Mummy was still asleep and Daddy was still in his armchair, his face veiled from my mother’s potential sight behind a newspaper—but not from mine. From my angle in the room, I saw his face clearly, saw his hand reaching up, from time to time, to wipe his eyes. I had never before seen my father cry. Every once in a while, he would lift his eyes from the newsprint he was pretending to read, and gaze at my mother, unable to stem the flow of tears that he was trying so hard to hide.

My instinct, learned from him, was to flee the room. Daddy had always melted away into the background, remote and absent through all the controversies and trauma of the past. It occurred to me suddenly that my father’s relationship to me and Ameena could only be traced through Mummy. He had opened the door to welcome me to my mother’s deathbed, without one reference to my having been away for so long. All of our lives, it had been her job to interact and intercede, his only to pay the bills and provide. When she was gone—where would that leave us? Where would it leave him?

I fought against instinct and approached him, putting my hand on his arm. He didn’t look at me, his eyes still on the paper that rustled a bit in his hands. After a few seconds, he let half fall into his lap as he loosened his grip and moved one hand to rest on mine. A squeeze, a sniff. That was all.

“
DADDY KNOWS?
”

“Of course he knows.”

I took a moment to absorb what Mummy told me. I was lying next to her on her bed about a week after I had returned from exile. Such a long time passed in silence that I was surprised to turn and see her still awake, her eyes on my face.

I said one of the things that had been on my mind since I came home, “It’s strange to see Ameena in
hijab
.”

“Hmmm,” Mummy said, her lips pursed in the way they so frequently had because of something I said or did.

“You don’t like it?”

“I don’t agree with it. The idea that a woman has to cover her hair. Modesty, yes. But not
hijab
. There was no such thing when I was growing up. Some women wore their
dupatta
s on their head when they went out—conservative women. From conservative, old-fashioned families. I don’t understand what this new fashion is about. It’s like a uniform. A declaration of one’s piety.”

I laughed. “Like a bumper sticker.”

“That is what I told her.”

“And?”

“She said it was something she had to do. She has become very religious. Since you went away. She feels guilty, I think.”

I sat up in bed. This had not occurred to me. “She has no reason to.”

“Doesn’t she? Whatever you say, you are not at peace. Anyone can see that, Saira. You avoid her.”

“No I don’t. I don’t.”

“Yes. You look through her. You don’t see her. And the whole thing is festering.”

“It’s—been hard. Coming home. That’s all. I knew it would be.”