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situation which I was about to face—when a suitable boy’s family came to call to size up the available girl in question—intelligence, or the lack of it, did not seem to count for much. Our parents had been fending off proposals for Zahida before she had even reached puberty.
    “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