The Writing on My Forehead: A Novel

by Nafisa Haji

  Mehnaz snorted in reply.

  The miles from Heathrow into the posh London suburb where my uncle lived whirred by as Mehnaz drove, maybe to punish her brother and maybe by habit, like a crazy woman convinced of her own lone sanity. The horn was sounded every few miles or so, accompanied by colorful—and I mean that literally—commentary about the other drivers she encountered.

  “Bloody dirt-colored Paki! Go back where you bloody came from!

  “Did you see that bloody yellow Chinker?! Oy! Lady! Open your bloody eyes, would you?!

  “Hey, white boy! Watch what you’re fuckin’ doing! Oh, yeah? Well, fuck you and your whole bloody fuckin’ racist country!”

  I shrank back in the tiny space of the back seat, in horror, grateful that the windows were rolled up and hoping that no one could actually hear her. Once, when I must have moaned out loud, Mohsin looked back at me, white-knuckled and knock-kneed. He nodded his head in the direction of his sister and rolled his eyes, then held his camera up and shot a picture of me. I tried to smile, but it was too late. He laughed, silently, and turned his head back again to look straight ahead.

  He took a few more pictures from the passenger seat of the car on our way home.

  I asked, “Do you always carry your camera around? Everywhere?”

  Mohsin nodded. “I have to, don’t I?”

  “You have to?”

  “To bear witness.”

  I shook my head, thinking I’d misheard him—his accent was clearer than his sister’s, but it was an accent, still, to my ears.

  When we finally turned into the driveway of my uncle’s house, my aunt came out of the house to greet us, no doubt alerted to our arrival by the screech of brakes in the driveway. She embraced me, told me how nice it was to see me and how happy she was to spend some time with me. Mehnaz, mumbling something about a phone call she had to make, disappeared into the house. My aunt was just beginning to list all of the places she wanted me to see when Mohsin interrupted.

  “Why don’t you ask Saira what she’d like to see, Mum? She’s a big girl, you know. She might have some ideas of her own.”

  I looked up sharply, searching his face for any trace of sarcasm. Not finding any, I bit my lip, thinking. The obvious light bulb came on, “Well, I would like to see Hyde Park. I mean, I’ve heard about Speakers’ Corner, you know? But I’ve never been there.”

  Mohsin gave me a measuring look.

  His mother said, “Hyde Park? Yes, we can go there. We can go there tomorrow, after Madame Tussaud’s. It’s a wax museum. You’ll see all the famous people there. The Chamber of Horrors also. Very scary. Just what you youngsters enjoy. The next day, we’ll go to Bekonscot. It’s a miniature English village. Small, small houses. Small, small gardens. Small, small trains. They move, also, from station to station. So cute. You’ll love it!” She clapped her hands together in excitement.

  “Oh, yeah. I remember that place. Jamila Khala took us there. A long time ago. When I was little,” I added, hoping to get out of the childish excursion.

  “Oh? You’ve been there already?” The disappointment in her voice was clear.

  “But I’d love to go again, Nasreen Chachi,” I said, trying to be polite, hoping she would notice the lack of enthusiasm in my voice.

  Mohsin heaved one of my bags up onto his back.

  “Beta! Don’t carry that like a junglee! You’ll hurt your back! Come, why are we standing outside? Come into the house and I’ll get you something to eat. Come, come, you must be hungry. I bought some nice shepherd’s pie, frozen, from Sainsbury’s. I’ll just pop it into the micro. And chocolates. Lots of chocolates. Everybody loves English chocolates.”

  I followed my aunt into the house and paused, for a second, at the entrance to the living room. There it was—Ahmed Chacha’s bar, well stocked with an assortment of bottles that held fascination for Ameena and me, raised in a house where alcohol was strictly forbidden. We had asked Mummy about it on past visits. She had pursed her lips and shaken her head, her disapproval too strong for words. Ameena and I had marveled at how two brothers, our father and Ahmed Chacha, could be so very, very different from each other.

  Controversy erupted a half-hour and two servings of readymade shepherd’s pie later. Mehnaz came into the kitchen, wearing a leather miniskirt that would have made my mother faint. Her heels were even higher and deadlier than before. She had on more makeup than seemed possible. I saw my aunt’s face as her eyes fell on her daughter, and slid out of my seat to sidle over to the other side of the cavernous kitchen, where I tried to look busy and involved with the task of washing my plate.

  “Mehnaz! What do you think—?!” My aunt paused, remembering, perhaps, that I was still in the kitchen. Her voice was a notch more controlled as she continued, “What are you wearing, Mehnaz? Are you going somewhere? Because I wanted us all to be together tonight. We’re going out for dinner. Taking your cousin to a restaurant. As soon as your father comes home.” Her tightly held composure slipped, just a little, when she said, “Which will be any minute. Please go up and change your clothes.”

  “Oh, sorry Mum. Can’t. Going out tonight. I’ll be ’ome late. Don’t wait up for me.” Mehnaz’s voice was cool, casual.

  “Mehnaz, no! We’re all going out together!”

  “Sorry, Mum, I told you. I’ve got bloody plans, don’t I? And I can’t bloody well change ’em!”

  “Plans? Cancel them, I’m telling you. Now! Before your father—” she was interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming.

  “Sorry, Mum. Got to run.” Mehnaz slipped out the back door before her mother could answer and just barely before my uncle came into the kitchen.

  He walked in, put his briefcase down on the table, and came toward me, hand extended for a handshake. “Hullo, hullo, Saira. Welcome, welcome. So nice that we’ll get some time with you. How was the wedding?”

  “Very nice, Ahmed Chacha. Everyone in Karachi sent you their salaams.” My voice strained with the effort to conceal my part, as witness, in the scene that had just taken place.

  “Good, good. Well, your aunt and I—and your cousins, of course—have been looking forward to your visit. Isn’t that so, Nasreen?”

  “Oh, yes! We were just talking about where we should go to eat dinner.” I could hear the same strain in my aunt’s voice.

  “Well, Saira? What are you in the mood for? Pakistani food? You’ve probably had your fill these past weeks, eh? Chinese? Italian? There’s a lovely little French place close by. Whatever you like, okay?” My uncle clapped his hands and rubbed them together, as if to indicate his readiness for anything. “Nasreen? Where are the children?”

  “Uh—” My aunt was interrupted by the arrival of one of them, Mohsin, who had earlier disappeared. “Here’s Mohsin. And Mehnaz is—has gone out. She had plans.”

  I saw my uncle’s lips purse and then curl into a miserable attempt at a smile, something that came out looking more like a sneer. “Plans?” He gave me a quick look and said, “Oh, well. We’ll just go without her, shall we? In”—he glanced down at his watch—“a half an hour?” He looked up at each of us for confirmation.

  My aunt said, “Yes. That’s perfect.”

  Mohsin didn’t say anything.

  And I, ignoring the weight of the convenience food I’d just consumed, nodded my agreement. “Ummm—can I—uh—just freshen up a little?”

  Nasreen Chachi said, “Of course! Let me show you up to your room.”

  The house was huge. I started to wonder, for the first time, about how little I knew about this uncle and his family. The wealth on display, like art in a frame, was not inherited. At least not by my uncle, because what wealth would have passed to him from his parents, presumably, would have also passed on to my own father. I knew, from hearing my father and mother talk, that Ahmed Chacha had a very good position at a local, Pakistani-owned bank. A bank, I had learned from Razia Nani, that was founded by his wife’s father. His reputation, Razia Nani had informed me, as a hardwork
ing man of integrity is what had earned him the attention and sponsorship—and eventually the daughter—of the rich, self-made man he considered his mentor.

  Nasreen Chachi left me at the door to the guest room, where my bags—thanks to Mohsin—were already propped up against the wall. I went into the private, attached bathroom that Nasreen Chachi had pointed out and stopped to stare, for a moment, at the bidet sitting next to the toilet, wondering what and how the use of what was basically a seatless potty could be. I shrugged and contented myself with the use of the equipment I was familiar with. The fixtures in the bathroom were crystal and gold. Gaudy, but faithful in the fulfillment of their purpose—function and the demonstration of immense wealth.

  The bedroom was a little too pretty—a Laura Ashley kind of décor with ruffles and floral prints everywhere. I unpacked my nightgown and my toothbrush and (I couldn’t help myself ) opened all of the drawers and closets to find any evidence of past guests. Disappointed, I turned and left the room, stepping out on the landing to hear the sound of raised, angry voices, muted and unclear, carrying up from the kitchen on the floor below. I decided some tactful delay was in order. I circled the landing, peeking into open doors. One of them—wide-open already, I swear—was in rather horrendous disorder. The panties and bras strewn about the floor, pop-star posters hung haphazardly about the walls, and stench of stale cigarette smoke declared its owner to be Mehnaz. I passed on, finding myself strangely uncurious as to what snooper’s treasures I might find there.

  Another room, similarly aromatic but otherwise tidy, was a bit more interesting. Standing at the entrance, where the door had been left only slightly ajar, I could see that the posters on the wall were of people—with the exception of one of John Lennon—unconnected with the music industry. Malcolm X. And Martin Luther King Jr. A picture of Gandhi. And others, whom I did not recognize. Some I learned of later. Cesar Chavez. Ho Chi Min. Ché Guevara. There were books everywhere, some of them stacked on an old-fashioned shipping trunk located at the foot of the bed, dilapidated and worn, a precursor to the modern luggage located in the guest room I occupied.

  As I stood there, hovering on the threshold between curiosity and voyeurism, I could hear the voices from below, drifting—louder now and less muffled, still fading in and out—up the stairs.

  “—I don’t care what she said, you should have bloody stopped her—bloody—ungrateful—slut—girl! After all I’ve given her—a car—everything she asks for—still—no gratitude—shameless—absolutely no shame!”

  “But, Ahmed—she—friends—important—plans—can’t expect—” Nasreen Chachi’s voice did not come up as clearly as her husband’s and slipped out of hearing completely as I took a step into the room that was, of course, Mohsin’s.

  Ahmed Chacha’s furious reply was still audible, if less distinctly so. “Friends—friend—scandal!” Then my uncle seemed to shift focus. “And you—Mohsin—bloody nonsense—how many bloody times—to get rid of that bloody earring—cut your bloody hair—and that color—purple bloody hair—no more of this bloody nonsense—no son of mine—walk around town like a bloody—what are they called?—a bloody punk! Grow up, Mohsin—be a man—for—sake!”

  Inside the room, I saw the other wall, opposite the posters, which I had not been able to see from the doorway. It was covered with photographs which drew me further into Mohsin’s space so that all I heard now was Nasreen Chachi’s pleading tone and Ahmed Chacha’s correspondingly angrier one. The subjects of the photographs were all people—a few smiling, most of them somber and sad, their faces smudged with dirt, hair matted, and clothing ragged. Some of the pictures, with their telltale background flashes of red—double-decker buses, post boxes, telephone booths—were taken in London. Many—with the gaudier background blaze of multicolored, tassel-swinging rickshaws and buses, the latter marked with Urdu script—were from Karachi. There were children in these pictures—rummaging in garbage heaps. Horribly deformed beggars, too—immediately familiar to me from the sight of them on the streets of the city I had left merely hours ago. I studied them all. So hard that I forgot I was trespassing. So closely that I failed to hear the silence that had replaced the angry voices downstairs, the tread on the stairs, the owner of the room making his entrance.

  Mohsin was behind me before I detected his presence, startling me so that I jumped and whirled to face him, embarrassed at having been caught on the voyeur side of the threshold that had beckoned. He stood quietly, hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched as if stuck in a shrug.

  I stuttered and stammered out a lame explanation: “I—I saw the—the posters. And then—I came in to look and saw—these pictures. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. Come into your room. Without permission.”

  Mohsin finished the shrug and freed his hands from the confinement of his pockets. He took a few steps and stood beside me, looking up at the pictures that had been the source of my entrapment, as if for the first time, not saying anything, yet seeming to give permission to continue what I had begun.

  I did, taking my time over each photograph. After a while, I asked, “Did you take all of these?”

  Mohsin nodded.

  “They’re—really good. I mean—I don’t know anything about photography, but—I—” I broke off, still visually ensnared by the evidence of his talent.

  “You—? What?”

  I dragged my eyes from the wall to find him looking at me with an expression that was intense and difficult to read.

  “I—can’t look away.”

  Mohsin’s expression lightened as he nodded again.

  “What did you say before, Mohsin? In the car? When I asked you whether you always carry your camera around? You said you had to?”

  “Yes. To bear witness.”

  I had heard him correctly, but I still didn’t understand. I opened my mouth to ask what he meant at the same time that I heard Nasreen Chachi calling to ask if we were ready to leave.

  When we went back downstairs, Nasreen Chachi was as effusively cheerful as before and Ahmed Chacha was jovial—even more so after draining the little glass of amber liquid that he refilled once before we left for the restaurant.

  Dinner—at the French restaurant that my uncle had recommended—was uncomfortable. Little aftershocks of my uncle’s earlier outburst—which I had to pretend not to know about—reverberated throughout the evening. My own discomfort became acutely personal when my uncle began the meal by offering me wine.

  When I refused, as politely as I could, he said, rather forcefully, “Oh, I insist, Saira. What is French food without French wine, after all? Don’t worry, we won’t tell your parents.” His conspiratorial wink made me feel somehow disloyal. I refused again, pointing out that I was underage.

  “Oh, they won’t care here. We come to this restaurant quite often. And they’re not as strict about such things here in England as I believe they are in America. No? Not even a taste? You’re sure?”

  “She already said no, Dad,” said Mohsin.

  My uncle, whose cheeks were glowing red and whose upper lip shone with moisture, smirked and said, “Ah, yes! My son. Defender of the faithful. And the oppressed. The weak and the poor.” Ahmed Chacha turned back to me and said, with no less sarcasm, “So! My brother has done a good job raising his daughters, eh? Good Muslim girls? Obedient? No boyfriends, eh, Saira? No, of course not. No, no. No drinking either. Very bad—drinking is a very bad habit. No justification for it. None at all.” He took another sip of his wine. “Clearly, it is forbidden. And you, Mohsin? No wine today, eh? Keeping your cousin company? Very good. Good boy. A gentleman. A gentleman with bloody purple hair!” Ahmed Chacha laughed heartily and then looked around with some surprise to find no one laughing with him.

  The food, I remember, was really very good and quite adequate compensation for the awkward, slightly drunken, company of my uncle. When we returned home, I was yawning frequently enough to legitimately excuse myself for the night. But I must not have been as tired as I thought because I he
ard, again, the raised voices from downstairs, confirming that the pause before dinner had been for my sake rather than because the argument had been over.

  I must have fallen asleep at some point. Because I was awakened again at what seemed to be an outrageous hour by the screech of a car outside, doors slamming, and feet stomping around downstairs. The voices resumed their loud business—with even more fury now—indicating, in contrast to the silence of moments before, that they had stopped temporarily sometime after I had fallen asleep.

  The next day, thankfully, was a weekday and my uncle left early, in his chauffeur-driven car, for the bank. My aunt was up early, too, to serve breakfast to Ahmed Chacha before beginning a round of phone calls—social calls, by the sound of them, involving the circulation of news: death, birth, marriage, and scandal had to be assimilated and circulated to audiences eager to be informed.

  Mohsin and I had our breakfast together in silence before he disappeared, camera in hand, telling his mother he’d be back at noon to spend the day sightseeing with us. It was eleven o’clock before Mehnaz shuffled downstairs with huge black circles under her bloodshot eyes, which—it took me a moment to realize—were the residue of last night’s makeup binge. Then, when Mohsin returned and Mehnaz had showered and dressed, we were finally off. The lack of any conversation in the car that Mehnaz drove—rather sedately, in what was surely uncharacteristic deference to my aunt’s request—was a welcome change from the noise of the night before.

  I must admit that I was not as old or sophisticated as I would have liked to claim, because I enjoyed Madame Tussaud’s museum immensely. Especially the famous Chamber of Horrors. Mehnaz and Mohsin started off coolly, taking pains to prove how above sightseeing they both were. Eventually, though, Mehnaz descended enough to direct some of her deadly sarcasm—in kinder, gentler form—at me, so that I felt, perversely, less of a stranger. Mohsin shared his coolness, putting me on the right end of his humor as he mocked the more pompous expressions to be found among the famous wax faces. He teased me, too, tapping my shoulder from this way and that, mercilessly, in the Chamber, even managing to scare me once as I paused before one of Jack the Ripper’s unfortunate victims, catching me and my tonsils with his camera as I screamed. Nasreen Chachi laughed with her children, scolding them only a few times, whenever they lit up what they called cancer sticks, which they both did at every chance they got.