The Writing on My Forehead (6 page)

“‘He’s a very good boy. Decent and kind. He’s taken care of his family from a very young age. Since his father passed away. Not rich, mind you. But he has a lot of potential. Very clever chap. I’m sure he’ll go places. I would be happy to have him as a son-in-law.’ My father had made his approval clear. There seemed to be no escaping the favorable implications—that the hand of destiny might have something to do with the meeting about to take place.

“The only obstacle to happiness in this story, that I could foresee, had to do with the short-term needs of my own family…the financial considerations of the present. Because in the long run, I believed, my single status would only lead to unhappiness. My sisters-in-law were very good to me. I had no doubt of their sincere affection. For the moment, however, their position in the household was subservient to that of their mother-in-law, my mother. Change was an inevitable part of the future. And who could tell how future shifts in the balance of power might affect their view of me?

“Already, there was an underlying tension in their feelings toward Zahida. It was easy to understand. It was difficult to like Zahida. Her beauty was such that it inspired automatic envy and dislike among all young women, even those who were not in a position to have to compete with her directly. In this sense, I knew, I myself posed no similar threat. And Zahida, spoilt by the attention she had received since birth by loved ones and strangers alike, did nothing to aid in her own defense. She was demanding and selfish. She was used to getting things her own way, and wheedled and charmed her way around the house among our brothers, parents, and servants, who all served as her willing victims. Thankfully for all concerned, there was no fear of Zahida remaining in the household for very long. Her marriage prospects were assured.

“But my future was not so certain. And I knew that my sisters-in-law’s present affection for me was no guarantee for my future position in the household. By the dictates of our culture, it was their responsibility, as the wives of my brothers, to care for any of my parents’ surviving dependents, maiden daughters included. The limited independence that my work afforded me, however, had spoilt my taste for a lifetime of dependent toleration. So, marriage was my only long-term option.”

Big Nanima sighed, long and hard. She looked at my plate, saw that I had finished my
kabab
roll, and reached for the jug of sugar cane juice that she had called for with the food, pouring me a glass, handing it to me, before continuing her narrative. “I sat there for a long time, in front of that mirror, thinking of all of these things. And then, from the window in my room, which opened out into the open-air courtyard, I heard unfamiliar voices, their tones raised in an exchange of polite greetings. I knew that my summons was imminent and gave myself one more doubtful look in the mirror and laughed at the nervous expression that I saw there.

“‘That that is, is,’ I quoted Shakespeare, softly, to myself. ‘And that that will be, will be,’ I added, laughing at myself, very pleased with my own improvised wisdom.

“A little while later, from where I sat, things seemed to be going well. I had made my entrance, tea tray in hand, quite some time before. The conversation, carried by my mother and the younger of the two ladies visiting, was flowing. Cordialities and compliments abounded. They had praised the room, its furnishings, the home, and the residents they had yet met. The tea was declared to be delicious. The
pakora
s perfectly spiced. And the bearer of both, myself, assessed surreptitiously between sips of tea, the ladies declared charming. My English skills had not been tested. But then, I had held little expectation that they would be, rightly assuming that the examiners present would themselves not bear the expertise required to make such an evaluation. The fact that I had them had been confirmed, and the verbal assurance had seemed to be sufficient.

“And then, events took a turn which was all the more regrettable because it had been foreseen. Zahida made an unplanned and specifically forbidden entrance. She seemed to stumble in accidentally—though the verb hardly applied to the gliding grace with which she arrived.”

“She—?! Didn’t you say that your mother told her not to be around?! Did she do it on purpose?” I don’t think I even tried to hide my outrage. But then, my loyalty had been firmly engaged some years before, in a fight over fan rights.

Big Nanima laughed at my tone, bringing her story back to human scale. Then she shook her head, still smiling. “I’ll never know the truth of her motives. At the time, it was hard not to believe it was deliberate. And yet I could not let myself give in to the temptation of such a suspicion. I could not see any motive for what Zahida did…not one that would preclude a level of spite and malice that I believe my sister was incapable of.

“In any case, the change in the air was immediate and obvious. In mid-conversation, the attention of both visitors shifted from one of my mother’s daughters to the other. And—I saw it happen before my very eyes—so did their interest. My mother tried to steer them back onto course, pointing out in the first few moments of Zahida’s arrival that she was a rather simple girl, not inclined to study and therefore non-conversant in English. The two ladies exchanged a glance and I saw the grandmother give a little shrug before asking another question of Zahida. My own presence, I knew, was no longer required or even noticed. There was nothing for me to do but wait politely for my mother to dismiss me, along with Zahida.

“When she did, we left the sitting room together and ran into an awkward pause in the hallway outside. Zahida was wringing her hands together and biting her lip in obvious discomfort. I looked at her. The words, in reference to the scene that had just unfolded in the sitting room, remained unsaid. These were matters that we sisters had never before discussed, and I saw no reason to change that now. I turned and walked down the hallway toward our room. And Zahida, who was apparently less content with the silence, followed me.

“‘Adeeba?’ Zahida said. Resenting her urge to communicate, I didn’t answer right away. ‘Adeeba? Are you angry with me?’ she tried again. Big teardrops gathered at the corners of her eyes. I watched them make a trail down my sister’s beautiful face. And I saw—I couldn’t help it—how the marks of sorrow seemed to enhance her loveliness. ‘Please, Adeeba. I can’t bear to have you angry with me.’

“I sighed. It was no use. It would be like the leaf resenting the flower. And we both belonged to the same plant. ‘No, Zahida, I’m not angry with you.’ I remember that I paused before asking, out of sheer curiosity, ‘What reason would I have to be angry with you?’

“She said, ‘I’m not sure. I shouldn’t have gone in. But I couldn’t help it, really I couldn’t. I was so curious! I wanted to know what was happening.’

“I shook my head and said, ‘I understand.’ And then I turned away, wishing to let the matter drop.

“But it was picked up again later. I overheard my parents that evening, as my mother recounted the afternoon’s events to my father. ‘But didn’t you tell her to stay away?’ My father sounded angry.

“My mother, no less so. ‘Yes! Yes, of course I did. I told Imran to take care of her for the afternoon. They were supposed to have gone out.’

“‘So? What happened?’ my father asked.

“‘I don’t know,’ my mother answered, sounding as puzzled as I had felt.

“‘Did you ask Imran?’

“‘No. Not yet. I wasn’t sure what I could even say…’ My mother’s voice had trailed off. And I had understood her dilemma. Had faced it myself in my brief exchange with Zahida. What, exactly, could one say? To be frank was to be less than delicate. And the situation called for nothing if not delicacy.

“My father was silent for a moment before he sighed and said, ‘I don’t know. There’s nothing that can be done, I suppose. Or said. And how did the visit go?’

“‘Before or after Zahida danced her way into the room?’ I remember that I winced at the sharpness in my mother’s voice as she asked the question, rhetorically, sighed, and then continued, ‘It went well. They seemed to like Adeeba. And then, they seemed to like Zahida even more.’

“‘Hmmm. Well, I suppose there’s nothing that can be done. What will happen, will happen.’ I remember smiling at my father’s words. They echoed exactly what I had said to myself earlier in the day, in front of that cursed mirror. ‘He’s a good boy and we would be lucky to have him marry our daughter. Whichever daughter that may be.’”

Big Nanima had picked up the photograph again, having laid it aside when she poured me the juice. She looked at it for a long moment and then stood up to put it back on the shelf I had taken it down from. Then, instead of coming back to the sofa where I sat, she began to pace up and down the room. Her hands were clasped behind her back. She wasn’t looking at me, but at the floor, at the wall, out the window. I had never seen her in a classroom. But I imagined that this is what she might look like there, in the middle of a lecture, engrossed in her own thoughts, formulating the sentences she would utter to express them. I didn’t have much time to marvel at the contrast—between the introspective, intellectual person pacing in front of me and the fun-loving, food-loving, sound effect–prone storyteller I knew her to be.

Because, after a few lengths around the room, Big Nanima spoke again, as she had been speaking, in perfectly chosen words, which she delivered flawlessly, as if reading to me from one of the novels she had read aloud when I was younger. “In the way that partly held expectations can still come as surprises, my father received a visit, the following evening, from the uncle of the boy. The men were served refreshments in the sitting room, this time, less controversially, by the servant. The uncle waited until the servant had left the room before embarking on an explanation for his call.

“‘Well, uh—Mahboob Sahib—uh—er—my sister was quite taken with your daughter yesterday. She has asked me to bring a proposal on behalf of her son. She has also asked me to remind you of your friendship with the boy’s father. She hopes that this friendship would cause you to look favorably upon my nephew, Kasim. He—uh—he’s a very intelligent and able young man. Not wealthy, you know. But a very good boy. With a bright future, I am sure. The blessing of such a marriage would, I have no doubt, seal the promise of that future.’

“My father cleared his throat delicately and said, ‘I am flattered, Abbas Sahib, but I have to point out that I have two daughters.’

“The visitor said, ‘Yes. Oh, yes. I am sorry. I am speaking of your younger daughter, Zahida.’

“My father was silent for a long moment. He put his hands together and leaned his chin forward onto them before saying, ‘Zahida. Yes, Zahida. I had heard that Kasim—’ He broke off and was silent for another moment and then seemed to change his mind as well as the direction of his words. ‘Yes. Well, I am sure you will understand that I will have to defer an answer to you until I am able to consult with the members of my household.’

“The boy’s uncle said, ‘Of course, Mahboob Sahib, of course. Take your time, please. I will come back for an answer whenever you call me. I am at your disposal.’

“Kasim Bhai’s uncle took his leave and my father saw him out before returning to the sitting room, sinking into the favored armchair that his guest had just vacated, and putting his head into his hands. I had been hovering near enough to have heard everything—the identity of our guest, the purpose of his visit, the fact of his departure as well as the dilemma he would have caused for my father. Now, I entered the room and sat down on the rug, at my father’s feet.

“His eyes still closed, he moved one of his hands from his head to mine and said, ‘I am sorry,
beti.
I wish that things could have been different.’

“I said, ‘I don’t, Aba. I’m glad they turned out this way,’ and as I said the words, I realized that they were true. ‘I like things just the way they are. I know that this may change. But whatever happens, happens for a reason. If I had to go away, to leave you, then I would worry.’ I regretted saying the words as soon as they were out of my mouth.

“My father froze. And then he sighed, a long and heavy breath, saying, ‘It’s all right. I know what you mean. And the truth is, I don’t know what I would do without the help you have been giving me. I should be ashamed to admit that. But it’s true. I would miss you if you went away, that’s true. As I will miss Zahida. But you, Adeeba, right now—I don’t know if I could spare you. Maybe Allah has decided to let me keep you for a little while longer. Only Allah knows…’ He broke off on a ragged breath. And then continued, ‘Adeeba, forgive me, but I will even need your help for the wedding expenses. If it had been your wedding I had to plan, then I would have had to go into debt. More debt, even, than I am in already. So, you see, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. A blessing for me. A blessing for Zahida, and for the family. I’m not sure it’s such a blessing for you, though,
beti
.’” Big Nanima stopped pacing and talking at the same second.

I took advantage of the brief pause. “But—what did Nana say when he found out that Zahida—I mean Nanima—didn’t speak English? Was he mad?”

“What could he say? It was too late by then. They were already married. And besides, she was so beautiful that I don’t think he cared what language she spoke or didn’t speak.”

“But—did she ever say she was sorry? That she stole—”

“No, no, Saira. She didn’t steal anything. Nothing that wasn’t hers already.”

“But—if she hadn’t come into the room—”

“If? There’s no if. There is only what is. What was. What will be. I am not giving you this history lesson in order to find blame. No story worth telling should ever be about blame or regret. What happened was what was meant to happen.
Kismat.
My life was not over. My
kismat
was different than my sister’s. She had her journey to travel. And I had mine.” Big Nanima paused to give me a piercing look, the look of a professor pausing to assess how well her student understood. Whatever she saw in my face made her shake her head and sigh. “You won’t understand this now, Saira. Later, perhaps. When you are older. When you learn that life is not only about the choices
you
make. That some of them will be made for you.”