Read Online The Writing on My Forehead by Nafisa Haji - Free Book Online
Authors: Nafisa Haji
Tags: en
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my hand, and sat down on the sofa, patting the cushion next to hers, inviting me to sit down with her.
When I did, she continued, “It’s a good story, Saira—the answer to your question. In the beginning, you see, I thought I was the unlucky one. But time has a way of proving all of us wrong in the end. Every single one of us. Sit. Listen, and I’ll tell you.” Big Nanima set the photograph down on the coffee table and reached for the food she had spread there earlier. She unwrapped one of the kabab rolls she had called for from down the street, scooping extra chutney on the side of my plate before handing it to me.
Then, picking up the photograph, she ran the end of her dupatta over it, as if removing dust I could not see. “See how short my hair was in this picture? How I always hated it—so curly and unkempt! Since our days in Bombay, before Partition, I had longed to chop it off. But only when I was in London, far away from my mother, did I have the courage to finally do it. I was never very interested in such things—in my appearance and in what others thought of it. Though, truthfully, that is because I knew that the impression I made on others wasn’t a very favorable one. Only once do I remember spending any length of time in front of the mirror, which was little Zahida’s favorite place in the house!” Big Nanima laughed. “That day—I remember it so well! Important for me—because of what did not happen. And for Zahida—because of what did.
“It was—when was it? Oh—1941, if I’m not mistaken. We were still living in Bombay. Yes, I remember standing at the mirror in the room I shared with your grandmother, smoothing my hands down over my kameez, hating myself for the sweaty palms that made the action necessary. I put my hands together, squeezing them, trying to suppress the nervousness that filled me up, ’til here.” Big Nanima pointed to her throat. “I looked in the mirror and saw myself the way his mother would see me, and his grandmother. A plain face. With skin that was—well, rather dark.” Big Nanima smiled gently at me, shaking her head ruefully. “And hair that is easier to laugh at now than it was then. I tried everything. Pigtails, a ponytail, braids, a bun. But nothing could tame that unruly mass.
“It is one of the few times I remember resenting my father—for being so brutally honest regarding the situation about to unfold. I thought that perhaps Gray, the poet, was right, and ignorance, in this instance, would have been preferable to the folly of knowledge. That is, preferable to the painful awareness that my father’s words had caused. That everything hinged on the outcome of this meeting. That one of my flaws, for once, might actually become an asset.
“The boy’s mother and grandmother were due to arrive at any moment. To meet and assess my worth as a potential wife for the boy they represented. A boy who had expressed the specific and very unusual desire to be wed to a ‘read and written’ girl. An English-speaking girl. ‘Beti,’ my father had said bluntly, ‘this might be your only chance. And finally, I hope, we will prove your mother wrong. That I was right to allow you to study.’
“You see, I was already a little too old to be single. My parents were worried for me. There had been few enough inquiries made about me. And of those, I had suffered, in the way of comparison. Because my younger sister, Zahida—your Nanima—was startlingly beautiful. She had light brown hair, green eyes, and sharply symmetrical features. Zahida’s skin was translucent and luminous, and she was pale. With oh-so-beautiful, silky, straight hair that fell to her waist. She was also—well, not academically inclined.” Big Nanima looked up at me, a smile in her eyes. “Why lie? Your grandmother was only sixteen. And she was a stupid girl. I should know, as her occasional tutor, unkind as it is to say, to even think such a thing about one’s own sister. But, in the
When I did, she continued, “It’s a good story, Saira—the answer to your question. In the beginning, you see, I thought I was the unlucky one. But time has a way of proving all of us wrong in the end. Every single one of us. Sit. Listen, and I’ll tell you.” Big Nanima set the photograph down on the coffee table and reached for the food she had spread there earlier. She unwrapped one of the kabab rolls she had called for from down the street, scooping extra chutney on the side of my plate before handing it to me.
Then, picking up the photograph, she ran the end of her dupatta over it, as if removing dust I could not see. “See how short my hair was in this picture? How I always hated it—so curly and unkempt! Since our days in Bombay, before Partition, I had longed to chop it off. But only when I was in London, far away from my mother, did I have the courage to finally do it. I was never very interested in such things—in my appearance and in what others thought of it. Though, truthfully, that is because I knew that the impression I made on others wasn’t a very favorable one. Only once do I remember spending any length of time in front of the mirror, which was little Zahida’s favorite place in the house!” Big Nanima laughed. “That day—I remember it so well! Important for me—because of what did not happen. And for Zahida—because of what did.
“It was—when was it? Oh—1941, if I’m not mistaken. We were still living in Bombay. Yes, I remember standing at the mirror in the room I shared with your grandmother, smoothing my hands down over my kameez, hating myself for the sweaty palms that made the action necessary. I put my hands together, squeezing them, trying to suppress the nervousness that filled me up, ’til here.” Big Nanima pointed to her throat. “I looked in the mirror and saw myself the way his mother would see me, and his grandmother. A plain face. With skin that was—well, rather dark.” Big Nanima smiled gently at me, shaking her head ruefully. “And hair that is easier to laugh at now than it was then. I tried everything. Pigtails, a ponytail, braids, a bun. But nothing could tame that unruly mass.
“It is one of the few times I remember resenting my father—for being so brutally honest regarding the situation about to unfold. I thought that perhaps Gray, the poet, was right, and ignorance, in this instance, would have been preferable to the folly of knowledge. That is, preferable to the painful awareness that my father’s words had caused. That everything hinged on the outcome of this meeting. That one of my flaws, for once, might actually become an asset.
“The boy’s mother and grandmother were due to arrive at any moment. To meet and assess my worth as a potential wife for the boy they represented. A boy who had expressed the specific and very unusual desire to be wed to a ‘read and written’ girl. An English-speaking girl. ‘Beti,’ my father had said bluntly, ‘this might be your only chance. And finally, I hope, we will prove your mother wrong. That I was right to allow you to study.’
“You see, I was already a little too old to be single. My parents were worried for me. There had been few enough inquiries made about me. And of those, I had suffered, in the way of comparison. Because my younger sister, Zahida—your Nanima—was startlingly beautiful. She had light brown hair, green eyes, and sharply symmetrical features. Zahida’s skin was translucent and luminous, and she was pale. With oh-so-beautiful, silky, straight hair that fell to her waist. She was also—well, not academically inclined.” Big Nanima looked up at me, a smile in her eyes. “Why lie? Your grandmother was only sixteen. And she was a stupid girl. I should know, as her occasional tutor, unkind as it is to say, to even think such a thing about one’s own sister. But, in the
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