The Writing on My Forehead (10 page)

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 heard, 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.

Our next stop was Hyde Park. I remember resenting the constant chatter of my aunt as we walked, at a leisurely pace, in the direction of Speakers’ Corner. It would have been nice to walk around alone and in silence, absorbing the atmosphere, trying to relate the setting with my grandfather and his twenty-year-old little love story. I did try—looking around, staring at faces in some kind of ridiculous attempt to find something familiar. Of course, I didn’t succeed. The whole venture was a bit disappointing. The soapbox speakers seemed to have less to say than their hecklers. And both were few in number.

Mohsin echoed my thoughts: “Pretty pathetic, isn’t it? But it gets exciting when things are happening…some big deal that gets everyone riled up. Must have been something else in the sixties.” His voice had turned wistful.

I looked at him sharply, wondering if he had guessed the nature of my interest in this London landmark.

Mehnaz spoke before I could ask, rolling her eyes as she said, “Not that again, Mo.” She turned to me to explain, “Mo ’ere is obsessed with the sixties. Reckons ’e would ’ave made a fine ’ippie. A flower child, eh, Mo?”

“It just would have been nice to live in a time when you felt you could have actually made a difference, that’s all.” Mohsin sounded defensive.

“Yeah, well, they bloody didn’t, did they? I mean everything’s even shittier now, innit? Or at least that’s what you’re always going on about…about ’ow bad everything is, ’ow evil the government is.” Mehnaz turned to me again. “Especially
your
government, Saira. Bloody Yanks! Just can’t keep their ’ands off of anything, can they? Or at least that’s what Mo ’ere is always saying.” She said this with a wink and then settled back, arms crossed, to watch whether the match she had just struck would catch.

But it didn’t. Mohsin just grinned back at her and said, “Well, I wouldn’t want to hurt our American cousin’s feelings, now, would I?”

I didn’t rise to the bait either, grinning at Mehnaz’s ruefully deflated expression.

When we headed home, Mehnaz, driving more carefully than ever, said, “Mum? I thought it would be nice if we came back tonight to the city for dinner and a movie at Leicester Square. I’m sure Saira would enjoy ’erself. Yeah, Mohsin? There’s that movie you’ve been wanting to see. What do you say?”

“Oh, Mehnaz. I don’t know. I’m tired and I’m sure your father would rather have dinner at home tonight.” Nasreen Chachi was rubbing her bare feet, marked with the lines of the leather lace-ups she had worn and complained about all day.

“Well, that’s good, innit? ’Cause I didn’t
mean
you. I meant us. The
youngsters
.” She was rude, but still had not utilized any exclamation points. Her tight grip on the steering wheel was a sign of the effort she was exerting to contain her natural volume level and tone.

“Oh. You and Mohsin and Saira? Mmmm…I don’t know. I suppose it would be all right.” Nasreen Chachi was clearly not keen on the idea. “But Saira is younger than you, Mehnaz. I’m not sure what her parents would say. Why don’t you go to the local cinema near the house?”

Mehnaz’s efforts failed for a moment. “Because it’s not the bloody same, is it?! Who wants to spend an evening in the bloody boring suburbs?! I mean,” she dropped down again, hastily, “you did want Saira to see the sights. And Leicester Square is one of them.”

I jumped in. “Oh, my parents would be fine with it, Nasreen Chachi. We’ve gone out before. In London, I mean. With my cousin Zehra. Just us kids, without any adults. They won’t mind if you don’t.”

“Well, I guess it will be all right. Yes. Yes, it will be nice for you all to spend some time together. Just make sure you watch out for your little cousin, yes?”

“Oh, we will. Don’t worry.” Mehnaz winked at me again and I was thrilled at the prospect of a real night out. Mohsin, however, remained rather expressionless.

Later, having escaped Ahmed Chacha—who dismissed us with a cheery wave of one hand and a clink of ice in the glass he held with the other—and as soon as we got back into Mehnaz’s car to head for the city, she said, casually, “Right then, I’ve just got to make a stop on the way into town. To pick up a friend.”

“Then you can drop Saira and me off at the tube station. We’ll go into the city on our own.” Mohsin’s voice was cold now, instead of neutral.