The Writing on My Forehead: A Novel

by Nafisa Haji

  “I was not surprised by my father’s straight talk. He had never been very diplomatic in his characterizations of his children. The boys—there were four of them, all older than me and Zahida—were, respectively: sharp, lazy, too handsome for his own good, and hardworking (at least). I was considered to be the brain. And Zahida, the beauty.

  “Though I must put aside any claim to modesty to say so, I was the most educated girl in the community. And I suffered for it. Gladly. My mother never ceased to complain, saying that I would be left unfit for marriage. Even my father, who was my greatest champion in my quest to study, was less than sensitive in his advocacy.” Big Nanima winked at me, letting me know that her tongue was in her cheek. “He said, ‘Let the poor girl study! What’s the harm? God knows He didn’t gift her with the beauty He granted her younger sister. Let her make the most of what He did grant her.’

  “Our mother had better luck—trying to protect her daughters from educational corruption—with Zahida. When she was five, Zahida was sent off for her first day of school, the same convent school which I attended. She came home crying—so pitifully that our father affectionately gave in to our mother’s objections to having sent her in the first place. ‘All right, all right! Acha, baba, acha! ’ he said. ‘Stop crying, Zahida. You can stay at home with your mother. No schooling for little Zahida, all right?’ I remember our father’s words as he turned to my mother and said, ‘She’s a pretty thing, and doesn’t need to worry her little head over studying and learning English. Everyone can’t be a scholar, just as everyone can’t be a beauty. Her sister can teach her the basics—reading, writing, a little English—at home.’ But Zahida was very naughty. She ran away from the lessons I tried to give her. Despite my best efforts, she never did learn English.

  “I was ashamed to admit that I was grateful for that fact. On that day, standing in front of that mirror. For once, I needn’t worry about being upstaged by my beautiful little sister. And—just to be safe—our mother had taken the precaution of giving Zahida strict instructions to stay out of sight. In the meantime, while I waited for our guests to arrive, I did the best I could, tried to do something with my hair, wishing, not for the first time, that my mother would have allowed me to cut it down to size, like so many of the Englishwomen I had gotten to know through school. They were visitors from England, educational experts who had been invited to observe and help to improve the British-run convent school that I used to attend. The school where I now taught English. Though no one but my father knew that.”

  “What do you mean? You—your job was a secret?” My mouth was full of kabab roll, my eyes watery from the spicy chutney that I dipped into before each bite.

  “Yes. From everyone except my father. My mother was suspicious, I think, when my father told her that I would continue to go to school every day, for ‘special studies’ that the teachers had deemed me worthy of. ‘Why? What is the point of all this study?’ she had asked him. ‘It is time for her to be married. It was time for her to be married a long time ago!’

  “‘Yes, yes! We know all that,’ my father had replied, ‘but it’s not that she has a choice, is it? Let her study…what difference does it make? It keeps her busy. She’s a very good student. And those silly old British women think she’s a very clever girl.’ My father had winked at me then, and I could see the amusement that twinkled in his eyes as his plan to trick the family fell into place.

  “‘Just go along with whatever I say,’ he had told me. ‘Don’t contradict me. And make sure you hide whatever your earnings are. Don’t go showing off to your brothers and sister, mind you! Or there’ll be hell to pay!’

  “That instruction had been more difficult to follow than expected. Since the marriages of my two eldest brothers, things in the household had become complicated. My new sisters-in-law had proven their value and fertility very quickly by producing one son each, within one year of matrimony. Household expenses had increased dramatically. And my father’s small business, never a very profitable enterprise, had taken a downturn that made it difficult for him to pay the bills. My hand had itched with the desire to ease the burden that now fell on my father’s head. Ultimately, his need had outweighed his pride.

  “He had come to me within the first two months of my employment. His embarrassment, even now, makes me cringe in sympathy for how his dignity must have suffered. His head had hung low and his eyes were cast downward. ‘Adeeba, uh, well—things have been very—uh—difficult lately. All of the strikes and boycotts. They have affected the business. And with all of the talk of Independence, so many of the British are leaving. And you know that some of them have been our best customers. Adeeba, beti, I am ashamed to ask, but I have to do it—’

  “I interrupted him then, ‘No, Aba, please don’t ask. You don’t have to ask. I have been saving my salary. I wanted to give it to you from the beginning. I don’t need it. I have everything I need. Please, please take it.’ I went into my wardrobe, rummaged through it to find the old talcum powder tin, which I had wrapped in an old shawl, and took out my meager savings.

  “My father stared down at my hand, full of money and extended toward him. I can never be sure, but I thought I saw moisture collect at the corners of his eyes as he put his hand over mine, held it firmly, caressed it, and withdrew it, having accepted the transfer of funds within his hand. That day, in front of the mirror, as I waited for the guests to arrive, I worried about what might happen if things turned out the way my father and mother hoped they would. I knew, with all humility, that my secret contribution to the household finances was what kept up the appearance of even a minimal level of prosperity. And yet I was practical enough to realize that marriage was a requirement for my own future security.

  “I was not a stranger to ideas of romance. Part of the reason I so loved English literature was because of the importance it gave to romantic love. It was an abstract ideal, however, and one which I was perfectly happy to wait to discover within the context of social acceptability and economic necessity. One of my favorite authors—you know, Saira—was Jane Austen, who well understood the need for reason and pragmatism with regard to matters of the heart. The success of a marriage depended no less on economics than on an intellectual understanding between its participants. And here, finally, there was hope for that. I had not given much thought to the boy in question, beyond marveling at the progressive nature of his desire to be wed to an educated girl—a girl who spoke English, no less! My father had met him before, had known his father.

  “‘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 pakoras 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 re
freshments 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.’