The Writing on My Forehead: A Novel

by Nafisa Haji

  “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.”

  “But—”

  “No, Saira. There are no buts. No ifs.” Big Nanima cocked her head to one side and smiled at me for a long moment. Then she resumed her pacing. “Some years later, in 1947, we moved to Karachi, leaving Zahida behind with her husband, with sorrow in our hearts.”

  “Why did you move to Pakistan? I mean, you didn’t have to.”

  “No, no one had to move. Though some thought they must. Most came out of fear—there was anger everywhere and they thought it was better to be among our own than among angry neighbors of a different faith. Yet more Muslims remained in India than those who moved to Pakistan. My father moved because business was bad already. Being a Muslim among angry Hindus didn’t bode well for the future. He thought a fresh start would be a good thing.

  “But that fresh start came with a high cost. No one realized how much blood would be involved in the birth—the birth of twin nations. It seemed to happen overnight: the sudden fanfare and formalities of Independence had hardly been a matter for celebration in light of the need for hasty decisions over the question of national loyalty. The chaos of leaving and the tears of leave-taking blurred in our minds, like the scenery that whizzed by from the train on our journey. Each time we passed populated areas, my father made us draw the shades and keep carefully quiet, praying silently to be left in peace and undiscovered by the mobs of angry people that attacked from—and on—both sides. Each mile took us farther from home and paradoxically closer to it, too. It was impossible not to be collectively afraid. And equally impossible not to be collectively exhilarated: to arrive at our destination and to consciously forget the horrors of our travels, to pretend that the new borders that were constructed were not newly imposed. As if their very artificiality could be ignored in the fury of a nationalism that was as fervent as it was new.

  “I was twenty-six when the flag of Pakistan was raised for the first time and I was intoxicated by the promise of change and progress in a totally new context. Not surprising, really, when one considers the rather limited options left open for me in the life and city that we were leaving behind. Immediately, I began teaching in a girls’ school near home, a school whose governing board was still comprised mostly of British do-gooders.

  “In Pakistan, there was no longer any need to hide the fact that I was teaching. Our family’s downward-spiraling fortunes were at their lowest ebb, and during these turbulent times no one dared to voice any objections to the fact that I was employed and earning. My economic contribution to the household, now, was something that everyone, and not just my father, acknowledged and appreciated. In any case, I was no longer young enough to merit the careful cultivation of the kind of reputation that young, single men would require in a bride. Since Zahida’s marriage, inquiries about me had been few and far between. The last few had been from much older widowers—eager to foist their growing children on a new wife who could also serve as a substitute mother. One of them actually had children older than me!

  “My mother, thankfully, had been as insulted as I was. ‘She is not that old!’ she said. ‘Not yet! And we are not that desperate! We can wait. We can wait for whatever God wills for her.’

  “Two years after settling in Pakistan and two years further away from marital eligibility, I was offered a scholarship to study in England. And I hoped that my mother would view my good fortune in that light. Knowing, of course, that there was no way that my parents could agree. But for a moment, I allowed myself to hope.” There was a light in Big Nanima’s eyes, which sparkled as she clapped her hands together, reliving the moment in a way that made my presence superfluous. “It was an easy thing to do—a natural outcome, really, of living in a newborn country. Opportunities seemed to be abundantly swimming in an ocean of hope. All one had to do was catch them. The optimism was universal…the whole nation seemed to be on a family fishing trip, laughing and chatting companionably as we baited our hooks in the naïve assurance that there were plenty of them—opportunities—to go around. Plenty of potential for industry. Plenty of arable land. Plenty of work. And plenty of progress to roll up one’s sleeves for.

  “Progress.” Big Nanima smacked her lips, savoring the taste of the word. “A wonderful word that implied movement forward, to a better state of being. Unbelievably, the chance to be a part of progress was within my reach and I could hardly imagine what that might mean—to go to England and be able to study English literature! To come back and share my knowledge, my expertise, with my countrywomen on a mission of educational progress! It was an opportunity I had never dared to dream of…a cruelly tempting glimpse at a life that was beyond imagining.

  “But if it was meant to be, then—well, then, it simply was. That is how I approached it with my parents. After meeting the challenge of first finding a private
moment alone with them both—away from my brothers, my sisters-in-law, and my nieces and nephews—I told them, ‘It is a wonderful opportunity. I feel it in my bones. That this is the right thing to do. That this is meant to be. All of the expenses would be paid.’

  “‘But England?’ My father was shocked—my mother’s silence an indication of being no less so. ‘Adeeba, how can we let you go so far away? Alone? It is not right, beti, it is not right that a young woman—an unmarried young woman—should be so far away from her family.’

  “I pleaded with him, ‘But, Aba, it would only be for a few years. And I would stay with a sponsor family. I would not be alone. And it is so important! Not just for me—think of what it means for the country. If everyone thinks as you do, then we’ll never get ahead. Never! Aba, you have always supported me in my education. Please. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. I cannot pass it up. I cannot!’

  “Finally, my mother had spoken, in a daze, ‘But why? Why would they do this? Offer you so much? For free? What do they get out of it?’

  “I was happy to have the chance to explain, happy that my request had not been refused without a chance to do so. ‘It’s a charitable foundation, Ama. They want to help developing countries through education. They want to help train and educate teachers so that we can come back and share our learning with others here. They’re helping to build a college here, too. And will work in partnership with the board. If I go, and if I complete the degree, then I will be guaranteed a position at the college. As a professor.’

  “Something flickered in my mother’s eyes. Suddenly, the person I had thought of as my biggest obstacle switched sides to become my biggest ally. The first sign of support came in the form of silence. That night, my mother offered no further argument against my going.

  “That first evening, my father closed the discussion by saying he needed time to think it over. He had seemed to run out of things to say and had looked in my mother’s direction several times in confusion—trying to gauge her uncharacteristic silence and failing to take its measure.

  “The next day, I anxiously waited for my father to raise the subject again. But he did not. After dinner, when I dejectedly served him tea, convinced that his reticence was an indication of his continued opposition, it was my mother, finally, who broke her own silence in order to force my father to break his.

  “She asked, ‘How many years, Adeeba? How many years would you be away?’

  “My father had looked up from his tea in unhappy surprise and I took a deep breath before answering, ‘Three years. Only three years.’

  “‘And you realize, don’t you, that this might make marriage out of the question?’ My mother’s face was never very expressive to begin with. Now, it looked like it was set in stone.

  “I tried to hide my excitement, my hope, as I answered her look with one I hoped would be as expressionless, but which I knew was not. ‘Yes. But that may be so even if I stay.’

  “‘No!’ My father’s voice had rung out in protest. ‘No, it is out of the question! I will not permit it.’

  “My mother shocked me with her next words, rearranging my whole view of life, as she said, ‘I’m not sure if she is really interested in whether you permit it or not. She has done enough for you. Enough for all of us. The boys’ business is doing well, now. We will survive without her. The only thing left to consider is her future. Her feelings. Not ours.’

  “My father’s eyes flashed in angry disbelief. But my mother had more to say: ‘It is her life. She has to decide. I cannot say I approve. But the whole world has changed. Everything is different. And she has been a good daughter—is still a good daughter. Because she has given us the option to refuse her. I don’t want to test her obedience any further. I don’t want to give her reason to defy us. And I’m afraid that if we say no, we will.’

  “I could feel my own eyes widen in surprise. Defiance had never been an option. Until now. Until my mother had suggested that it was. She was right. This was a question of my life. My future. I would have liked to have my parents’ blessing. But, for the first time, I realized—because of the argument that I would never have dared to offer myself, the one that my mother had just offered on my behalf—that the choice was mine to make.

  “My father saw it, too—saw the power that my mother had just granted to me, his daughter. And his own power in the matter was suddenly lost in the face of it. No one said anything else that night. Nor for the next few nights.

  “One week later, my father took one of the shipping trunks out of the storeroom. He was dusting it off, himself, with a rag, when my mother and I and the other women of the household walked in from the kitchen area where we had been washing and preparing unripe mangoes for pickling. I was too afraid to hope. I looked at my mother and saw the same combination of puzzlement and anxiety that I felt reflected on her face. My sisters-in-law were frowning, only puzzled, not having any knowledge of the dilemma that we three had faced, in isolation, over the past week.

  “My older sister-in-law stepped forward as she spoke, ‘Aba, please, let me clean it for you,’ her hands outstretched in a gesture of solicitous service.

  “My younger sister-in-law was not to be outdone. She stepped in a little closer, actually reaching out to take the rag from her father-in-law’s hands in order to take over his task. Neither one of them thought to question the reason for their labor. My father, brow and upper lip beaded with moisture, took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face, avoiding the questions in the eyes of all of the women before him.

  “His older daughter-in-law, finally, seemed unable to contain her curiosity and took a deep swallow for courage before asking, in a carefully respectful voice, ‘Are you going on a trip, Aba?’

  “He only said, ‘No,’ and didn’t reward her courage with any further explanation. Until his eyes, finally, met mine. ‘No. But Adeeba is. A very long journey. I am very happy for my daughter.’ With these words, my father turned and left the room, oblivious to all of the mouths he left hanging open behind him.

  “Immediately, the braver of my sisters-in-law jumped to the wrong conclusion. ‘Is Adeeba getting married? But that’s wonderful news! Hai, Allah! A long journey? Is she going back to India? Oh! We will miss her too much! Who is the boy? Ama, how could you have kept this from me? Am I not the older daughter-in-law? Surely I should have been consulted! When did this all happen? Why all the secrecy?’

  “I could not fault my sister-in-law for her mistake. Until a few days before, the only journey I had ever again contemplated taking was the same kind that she envisioned. The kind that all girls are prepared, from a young age, to have to take. The physical journey from father’s home to husband’s home—the one that symbolizes the journey to becoming a woman and, most important, the transfer of power from one mehram to another. When the burden of responsibility that men bear—the mantle of protection—passes from a father to a husband.

  “My mother said, ‘Adeeba is not getting married.’ I saw the looks of bewilderment on the faces of my sisters-in-law. Saw, too, the hesitation on my mother’s. This was, for her, the point of no return. The point at which the whole question of my future ceased to be, strictly speaking, a family matter. Because though my sisters-in-law were part of our family, they were also still a part of their own and were therefore a link that connected me to countless others—to the whole community, in fact. Their reaction, my mother was well aware, would be the first indication of how the community at large might view me in the future.

  “It was not a good sign, therefore, when the explanation that my mother offered to her daughters-in-law was met with absolute silence. It meant that their reaction was strong enough that they felt the need to hide it. Which meant that the disapproval they would share, later, with their own families would be the most dangerous kind—the kind that is expressed behind one’s back, in the form of gossip, impossible to defend oneself against.”

  Unwittingly, I stepped into a cultural chasm with my next word
s. “But—did it really matter? What they thought? What anybody else thought? If you and your parents were okay with it, I mean.” The sugarcane juice was long finished. I was now working on a little bag of chili chips—spiced potato chips—that had somehow appeared on the table in front of us over the course of Big Nanima’s story. I was eating them mindlessly, totally engrossed in the pictures Big Nanima was painting, my eyes glued to her face as if it were a television screen I could not tear myself away from.

  She laughed at me, hooted really, so that her whole self shook, like it used to when she was a little more substantial than she was now. “Spoken like a true American! Here, beti, we have to care what people think. We live among people, around people, in the midst of people. Our decisions affect them. Theirs affect us. We cannot just jump on a horse and ride away into the sunset”—Big Nanima’s tongue was in her cheek again—“as I believe they do in America.”

  I could see what she was saying. But I was struck by how unfair it all seemed. Though I was too interested in hearing more to stop and debate the point. “Go on. That’s when you went to England.”

  “Yes.” She walked again to the shelf, the home of the photograph that had prompted the story she had almost finished telling me. Again, she wiped off the imaginary dust with her dupatta. “That was a wonderful time. A gift. That would never have happened, you understand, if I had married your grandfather.” Her eyes lifted and met mine to watch the point hit home.

  I nodded, understanding—kind of—what she had meant when she had talked of kismat before.

  “Three years in England! What an adventure that was! All the more so because of how unbelievable it all was!” The smile on Big Nanima’s face, the light in the eyes, which were trained on that photograph, said all that she didn’t. Because when she picked up her story again, she was already back. “In such a short, short time, in 1952, I was back home in Karachi. And you are right, in a way. I was more fortunate than most. Whatever people may have said about me did not matter. I was older. Wiser. I had a degree in hand. And though I was less eligible for marriage than I had ever been, now I had a well-paying job, too. That gave me a level of independence that made my marital status—or lack of one—palatable in a way that most spinsters, as I was now officially referred to, could only envy.