The Writing on My Forehead (4 page)

Razia Nani started fumbling in her giant purse, in search of something.
“Aré!”
She was clicking her tongue between her teeth in dismay, her hands getting more desperate in their quest. “Oh, no! I’ve left my
paandan
in my hand luggage.
Beta,
please get my bag down for me. I must have it.”

I stood up, squeezing myself past Razia Nani and into the aisle, and brought her bulky bag down for her. I waited, standing awkwardly exposed in the aisle, while she searched her bag for the round stainless steel box in which she kept all of the ingredients and paraphernalia she needed for the creation of the homemade
paan
s, laced with tobacco, which she ate at regular intervals. When she had found and removed it, I put the bag back into the overhead bin before making the return trip to my seat in eager anticipation of hearing more.

I had to wait for a few minutes while Razia Nani used little spoons and spatulas to sprinkle and brush mysterious and strangely aromatic powders and pastes onto the shiny green
paan
leaf that she prepared. She hummed to herself a little as she scooped a pinch of finely cut betel nut onto the leaf and folded it up expertly into a triangular kind of pocket. I watched her stuff the triangle into her mouth, tongue it over to one side, and park it, before finally prodding her back to the beginning of the story, which I had heard already from my mother. And then on, through it, to the end, which I had not.

“So, after Kasim Bhai left Zahida—your grandmother—she moved to Pakistan. To live with her older sister, Adeeba.”

“With Big Nanima.”

Razia Nani nodded. “Exactly. It was good for Adeeba. She had no children who would have visited, bringing little ones. So she was able to share Zahida’s. And your grandfather? Well, he lived out the rest of his life with his Englishwoman—Belle—and the children she bore him in London.” Razia Nani’s voice, after having run a monologue of marathon proportions, came to a sudden halt.

I was silent for a moment. Then, all of the questions that I had been stifling, in a way that I would have been incapable of during the course of one of Mummy’s stories, came pouring out. “But Nanima’s home was in India. Didn’t she ever go back?”

“Never.”

“Why not?”

“At first, it was because she couldn’t face them, poor thing—the rest of the family in Bombay, Kasim Bhai’s younger brothers and their wives. Before, it was
her
house that they all lived in together. I remember visiting her in Bombay. Before it happened. With what grandeur she used to live…so many, many servants she had. And your grandfather kept her like a queen! She was the
begum sahiba
of the house. Now, with no husband, she had nothing and no place in that home. Oh, they made a lot of noise on her behalf in the beginning, the family in Bombay, swearing up and down that they would never forgive their older brother for what he had done to Zahida. But Kasim Bhai was the head of the family. And the business. So, when he brought Belle to India a few months after he took up with her, they had no choice but to accept her. It was a humiliation for Zahida. What a fall she took. From where she started and where she ended up! She never went back to India. And neither did your mother, who was furious with her father’s family for accepting what her father had done.”

It had never occurred to me to wonder why we visited Pakistan and never India, where my mother and father were actually from. Now, I knew. That Mummy had forsaken her country because of her anger at her father. That in breaking ties with him, she had also broken off with the rest of his family.

“Did Nana ever go back to India with Belle? After that first time?”

“Every year. With their children.”

“Are they all coming to the wedding, Razia Nani? All of the children? Have you ever met them?”

“Well, of course! Many, many times. They are beautiful children, of course. Fair and beautiful. But then, they would be, wouldn’t they? Being half-white as they are,
chee
! Let’s see…Tara is the oldest.” Razia Nani held up her finger, bending it backward with her other hand at a painful-looking angle as she spoke. My eyes focused on the finger, associating her words with it as if it truly represented, as she meant it to, the person she was describing.

“She has light eyes…not blue, but light-colored. She is your cousin Zehra’s friend. I think she is a year, maybe two, younger than Zehra. Though, who knows what the truth is?” Razia Nani’s brows lifted suggestively.

Her second finger went up, alongside of the first, and she subjected it to the same awkward contortions that the Tara finger had gone through. “And the middle one is a boy. I think he’s about sixteen years old.” Razia Nani nodded. “I remember the shame of it, your grandfather having children at the same pace that his grandchildren were being born! His name is Adam. Only they say it in the English way,
chee, chee
. He’s a very quiet boy. Tall. His hair is golden.”

It was the third finger’s turn to be punished. “And the last one is Ruksana. But they say it the English way. Roxanna.” Razia Nani’s lips were pursed in disapproval and her pronunciation was an unconscious parody of the English one. “She’s very sweet. The most like your grandfather. Round and plump. And darker than the others, though, of course, she’s still very fair. I think she’s twelve? Eleven? No, twelve, I think.”

“She’s younger than me?” For some reason, this was the most shocking news of all.

Razia Nani seemed surprised. “Well, yes, I suppose so.” She was quiet for a long moment and I regretted my outburst, fearing that she might be reflecting on my age with regard to the appropriateness of the subject. She gave a little shrug, finally, and said, “Well, you will meet them all yourself soon enough. They will be at the wedding, after all. With their mother.”

“The reason Mummy’s not coming to the wedding.” I managed to say it with confidence, leaving off the question mark.

“And who can blame her, after all? Shabana—your mummy—is a very strong woman, you know. She decides what is right and what is wrong. And she sticks with it. Very strong. Like her mother. Your Jamila Khala is different. She likes to make people happy. Likes there to be peace. Your mummy said she would never forgive her father. That he was dead to her. And she kept her word. Never spoke to him again. I suppose it was more difficult for your Jamila Khala. They lived in London, after all. And he was her father. She didn’t want to tell your
nanima
—when she started to keep up with
them
. With your
nana
and Belle. She didn’t want to hurt her, after all.”

Over the course of her story, Razia Nani’s betel nut had softened and marinated to a consistency that she found quite enjoyable. I could tell by the way she swished it around in her mouth, lingeringly, and by the maroonish-red hue of the spit that she collected and cradled in a pool between her lower lip and gums, which spilled over, from time to time, and stained the crevices at the corners of her mouth. I remember, quite vividly, thinking how ghoulishly like blood the stains on her mouth appeared to be. The darkened lights of the airplane cabin and the shadows they cast on Razia Nani’s face did nothing to detract from the vampiric impression. Her mouth was full, which caused her words to be muffled, and though I had found it more and more difficult to follow her story as the plot and the
paan
progressed and developed, I worried less about eavesdroppers because of it.

I watched her manipulate her mouth with her tongue for a few seconds more and then prompted Razia Nani again, “You were saying about Jamila Khala not wanting to hurt Nanima?”

“Of course she was hurt, your
nanima,
very badly, when she found out that her own daughter had betrayed her.”

“How did she find out?”

“Who knows how? People talk. God knows I am not one to speak about other people’s business or to break a confidence. But there are some in this world who like to talk—to gossip—regardless of who they’re hurting and without thought to the damage their words can do.” She said this, endearingly enough, with a wholly convincing kind of sincerity that left no room for any level of self-consciousness.

“Did Lubna Khala”—I was referring to my mother’s younger sister—“keep in touch with Nana?”

“No. But then, she was so far away, settled in Pakistan. Far away, like your mother. Who was furious with Jamila, when she heard that they were in touch. But Zahida interfered. She told your mother that it was wrong to fight with her sister.”

“And what about Nana? When did he
really
die?” I remembered that my ignorance was something I had tried to cover before, and quickly added, “I mean, when exactly? I forget.”

Razia Nani was too busy riding the wave of her own knowledge to notice my slip. “Oh? Let’s see, was it May? June? Yes, June. Of last year. A massive heart attack. Your
nanima
had a stroke and died one week later. Poor Zahida. As if she was still waiting for him. As if, when he died, there was nothing left to wait for. So now Adeeba is alone again.”

“I never met him. Nana.” This was not a question.

Razia Nani glanced at me for a second, probably looking for material for her next news hour. I kept my face blank. Disappointed, she said, “No, well—your mother never forgave him, ever. She said she wouldn’t and she didn’t.”

I leaned back in my seat and yawned, falling asleep to the sound of Razia Nani’s voice, which had moved on to lament other scandals and tragedies involving people I was less interested in.

When my eyes opened, I heard the captain’s voice, more muffled than Razia Nani’s had been, announcing the beginning of our descent. Razia Nani, hand on chest, exclaimed at how time had flown—I don’t think any pun had been intended—and directed me back to the overhead bin to retrieve her hand luggage. She extracted an old blue-and-white-striped grocery bag—from Tesco, I think—stuffed full and as wrinkled and creased as the face she began to pat and primp with the creams and cosmetics that came out of it.

Before long, we were on the ground. And welcomed, embraced, and folded into the sweaty armpits of loving relatives. For a few seconds, I felt lost among them, looking for Nanima before remembering that she was gone.

Jamila Khala and Lubna Khala, my mother’s older and younger sisters, were there to receive me. Along with Zehra, the bride, whom I was surprised to see. She was beautiful, radiating happiness and health and hope. Her eyes were lined thickly with kohl, emphasizing the shine of their whites, her hair long—much longer than when I last saw her—straight and smooth, like Ameena’s.

I hugged her, laughing a little as I asked, “What are you doing here? Isn’t the bride supposed to be locked up indoors for weeks before the wedding?”

She laughed back, making a face as she nodded toward her mother, and said, “If Mum had her way I would be.”

“Nonsense, Zehra.” Jamila Khala frowned up at her daughter with the same expression my mother so frequently frowned with at me, its effect greatly diminished by her being a half a head shorter than Zehra, four-inch heels notwithstanding. “Of course she had to come to the airport to receive you, Saira. You’ve flown all this way to attend your cousin’s wedding. We are only sorry that Ameena didn’t come with you. And your mother also, of course.” Jamila Khala pursed her lips, slightly, on these last words, running a hand through her short, perm-frizzed hair.

“Where’s Big Nanima?” Hers was the other face I had looked for and missed.

“She’s at my house,” Lubna Khala said, “waiting to see you. You have all your bags? Good. Say good-bye to Razia Nani and we’ll go.” She turned to her driver, an old, bearded man with red, hennaed hair, and pushed my luggage cart toward him, gesturing with an imperious wave of her hand, setting off clinks with her gold bangles, every red-tipped finger ablaze with the sparkle of diamonds and emeralds and rubies. “Driver, take these bags to the car!
Chalo, chalo!
Let’s get out of here as quickly as we can.”

I turned to Razia Nani, who put her hand on my head, “
Khudahafiz,
Saira. We’ll meet soon. When the wedding functions begin, eh?” As she turned to walk away with her son and daughter-in-law, who had come to receive her at the airport, I heard her say, “Such a good girl she is. So respectful and well-mannered. Shabana has done well with her.”

As Lubna Khala promised, Big Nanima was waiting for me at the house. Opening her arms wide, she folded me into flesh that felt less substantial to my arms, which were longer and stronger than the last time I had embraced her, two years before. She asked after my mother and father and Ameena. And then cried a little as she remembered her sister, my grandmother. I shed a few tears myself, sharing in the grief of my grandmother’s sister as I had not been able to with my own.

“So,” Big Nanima said finally, wiping the corners of her eyes with the end of her sari. “Your mother didn’t come.”

“No.” I was not sure what else I should say, self-conscious about the revelations I had received from Razia Nani on the plane.

Big Nanima put her hand under my chin, telling me again how much I’d grown. “You are starting to bloom, eh, Saira? All of my sister’s grandchildren have blossomed into such beautiful young men and women.”

“
Your
grandchildren, too, Adeeba Khala,” Jamila Khala chided Big Nanima. “Are we not your children also?”

“That you are.” Big Nanima, whose eyes were still on me, asked, “Has your Jamila Khala told you about the foreign guests that are to be present at Zehra’s wedding? Did your mother tell you why she refused to attend?”

I shook my head. “No.” My chin lifted a little, in defiance or resentment, I’m not sure which. “But Razia Nani told me.”

Big Nanima clicked her tongue. “So you found out the truth from a stranger. Your mother should have told you before, warned you.”