Read Online The Writing on My Forehead by Nafisa Haji - Free Book Online Page B

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