The Writing on My Forehead (7 page)

“But—”

“No, Saira. There are no buts. No ifs.” Big Nanima cocked her head to one side and smiled at me for a long moment. Then she resumed her pacing. “Some years later, in 1947, we moved to Karachi, leaving Zahida behind with her husband, with sorrow in our hearts.”

“Why did you move to Pakistan? I mean, you didn’t
have
to.”

“No, no one
had
to move. Though some thought they must. Most came out of fear—there was anger everywhere and they thought it was better to be among our own than among angry neighbors of a different faith. Yet more Muslims remained in India than those who moved to Pakistan. My father moved because business was bad already. Being a Muslim among angry Hindus didn’t bode well for the future. He thought a fresh start would be a good thing.

“But that fresh start came with a high cost. No one realized how much blood would be involved in the birth—the birth of twin nations. It seemed to happen overnight: the sudden fanfare and formalities of Independence had hardly been a matter for celebration in light of the need for hasty decisions over the question of national loyalty. The chaos of leaving and the tears of leave-taking blurred in our minds, like the scenery that whizzed by from the train on our journey. Each time we passed populated areas, my father made us draw the shades and keep carefully quiet, praying silently to be left in peace and undiscovered by the mobs of angry people that attacked from—and on—both sides. Each mile took us farther from home and paradoxically closer to it, too. It was impossible not to be collectively afraid. And equally impossible not to be collectively exhilarated: to arrive at our destination and to consciously forget the horrors of our travels, to pretend that the new borders that were constructed were not newly imposed. As if their very artificiality could be ignored in the fury of a nationalism that was as fervent as it was new.

“I was twenty-six when the flag of Pakistan was raised for the first time and I was intoxicated by the promise of change and progress in a totally new context. Not surprising, really, when one considers the rather limited options left open for me in the life and city that we were leaving behind. Immediately, I began teaching in a girls’ school near home, a school whose governing board was still comprised mostly of British do-gooders.

“In Pakistan, there was no longer any need to hide the fact that I was teaching. Our family’s downward-spiraling fortunes were at their lowest ebb, and during these turbulent times no one dared to voice any objections to the fact that I was employed and earning. My economic contribution to the household, now, was something that everyone, and not just my father, acknowledged and appreciated. In any case, I was no longer young enough to merit the careful cultivation of the kind of reputation that young, single men would require in a bride. Since Zahida’s marriage, inquiries about me had been few and far between. The last few had been from much older widowers—eager to foist their growing children on a new wife who could also serve as a substitute mother. One of them actually had children older than me!

“My mother, thankfully, had been as insulted as I was. ‘She is not that old!’ she said. ‘Not yet! And we are not that desperate! We can wait. We can wait for whatever God wills for her.’

“Two years after settling in Pakistan and two years further away from marital eligibility, I was offered a scholarship to study in England. And I hoped that my mother would view my good fortune in that light. Knowing, of course, that there was no way that my parents could agree. But for a moment, I allowed myself to hope.” There was a light in Big Nanima’s eyes, which sparkled as she clapped her hands together, reliving the moment in a way that made my presence superfluous. “It was an easy thing to do—a natural outcome, really, of living in a newborn country. Opportunities seemed to be abundantly swimming in an ocean of hope. All one had to do was catch them. The optimism was universal…the whole nation seemed to be on a family fishing trip, laughing and chatting companionably as we baited our hooks in the naïve assurance that there were plenty of them—opportunities—to go around. Plenty of potential for industry. Plenty of arable land. Plenty of work. And plenty of progress to roll up one’s sleeves for.

“Progress.” Big Nanima smacked her lips, savoring the taste of the word. “A wonderful word that implied movement forward, to a better state of being. Unbelievably, the chance to be a part of progress was within my reach and I could hardly imagine what that might mean—to go to England and be able to study English literature! To come back and share my knowledge, my expertise, with my countrywomen on a mission of educational progress! It was an opportunity I had never dared to dream of…a cruelly tempting glimpse at a life that was beyond imagining.

“But if it was meant to be, then—well, then, it simply was. That is how I approached it with my parents. After meeting the challenge of first finding a private moment alone with them both—away from my brothers, my sisters-in-law, and my nieces and nephews—I told them, ‘It is a wonderful opportunity. I feel it in my bones. That this is the right thing to do. That this is meant to be. All of the expenses would be paid.’

“‘But England?’ My father was shocked—my mother’s silence an indication of being no less so. ‘Adeeba, how can we let you go so far away? Alone? It is not right,
beti,
it is not right that a young woman—an unmarried young woman—should be so far away from her family.’

“I pleaded with him, ‘But, Aba, it would only be for a few years. And I would stay with a sponsor family. I would not be alone. And it is so important! Not just for me—think of what it means for the country. If everyone thinks as you do, then we’ll never get ahead. Never! Aba, you have always supported me in my education. Please. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. I cannot pass it up. I cannot!’

“Finally, my mother had spoken, in a daze, ‘But why? Why would they do this? Offer you so much? For free? What do they get out of it?’

“I was happy to have the chance to explain, happy that my request had not been refused without a chance to do so. ‘It’s a charitable foundation, Ama. They want to help developing countries through education. They want to help train and educate teachers so that we can come back and share our learning with others here. They’re helping to build a college here, too. And will work in partnership with the board. If I go, and if I complete the degree, then I will be guaranteed a position at the college. As a professor.’

“Something flickered in my mother’s eyes. Suddenly, the person I had thought of as my biggest obstacle switched sides to become my biggest ally. The first sign of support came in the form of silence. That night, my mother offered no further argument against my going.

“That first evening, my father closed the discussion by saying he needed time to think it over. He had seemed to run out of things to say and had looked in my mother’s direction several times in confusion—trying to gauge her uncharacteristic silence and failing to take its measure.

“The next day, I anxiously waited for my father to raise the subject again. But he did not. After dinner, when I dejectedly served him tea, convinced that his reticence was an indication of his continued opposition, it was my mother, finally, who broke her own silence in order to force my father to break his.

“She asked, ‘How many years, Adeeba? How many years would you be away?’

“My father had looked up from his tea in unhappy surprise and I took a deep breath before answering, ‘Three years. Only three years.’

“‘And you realize, don’t you, that this might make marriage out of the question?’ My mother’s face was never very expressive to begin with. Now, it looked like it was set in stone.

“I tried to hide my excitement, my hope, as I answered her look with one I hoped would be as expressionless, but which I knew was not. ‘Yes. But that may be so even if I stay.’

“‘No!’ My father’s voice had rung out in protest. ‘No, it is out of the question! I will not permit it.’

“My mother shocked me with her next words, rearranging my whole view of life, as she said, ‘I’m not sure if she is really interested in whether you permit it or not. She has done enough for you. Enough for all of us. The boys’ business is doing well, now. We will survive without her. The only thing left to consider is her future. Her feelings. Not ours.’

“My father’s eyes flashed in angry disbelief. But my mother had more to say: ‘It is her life. She has to decide. I cannot say I approve. But the whole world has changed. Everything is different. And she has been a good daughter—is still a good daughter. Because she has given us the option to refuse her. I don’t want to test her obedience any further. I don’t want to give her reason to defy us. And I’m afraid that if we say no, we will.’

“I could feel my own eyes widen in surprise. Defiance had never been an option. Until now. Until my mother had suggested that it was. She was right. This was a question of my life. My future. I would have liked to have my parents’ blessing. But, for the first time, I realized—because of the argument that I would never have dared to offer myself, the one that my mother had just offered on my behalf—that the choice was mine to make.

“My father saw it, too—saw the power that my mother had just granted to me, his daughter. And his own power in the matter was suddenly lost in the face of it. No one said anything else that night. Nor for the next few nights.

“One week later, my father took one of the shipping trunks out of the storeroom. He was dusting it off, himself, with a rag, when my mother and I and the other women of the household walked in from the kitchen area where we had been washing and preparing unripe mangoes for pickling. I was too afraid to hope. I looked at my mother and saw the same combination of puzzlement and anxiety that I felt reflected on her face. My sisters-in-law were frowning, only puzzled, not having any knowledge of the dilemma that we three had faced, in isolation, over the past week.

“My older sister-in-law stepped forward as she spoke, ‘Aba, please, let me clean it for you,’ her hands outstretched in a gesture of solicitous service.

“My younger sister-in-law was not to be outdone. She stepped in a little closer, actually reaching out to take the rag from her father-in-law’s hands in order to take over his task. Neither one of them thought to question the reason for their labor. My father, brow and upper lip beaded with moisture, took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face, avoiding the questions in the eyes of all of the women before him.

“His older daughter-in-law, finally, seemed unable to contain her curiosity and took a deep swallow for courage before asking, in a carefully respectful voice, ‘Are you going on a trip, Aba?’

“He only said, ‘No,’ and didn’t reward her courage with any further explanation. Until his eyes, finally, met mine. ‘No. But Adeeba is. A very long journey. I am very happy for my daughter.’ With these words, my father turned and left the room, oblivious to all of the mouths he left hanging open behind him.

“Immediately, the braver of my sisters-in-law jumped to the wrong conclusion. ‘Is Adeeba getting married? But that’s wonderful news!
Hai, Allah!
A long journey? Is she going back to India? Oh! We will miss her too much! Who is the boy? Ama, how could you have kept this from me? Am I not the older daughter-in-law? Surely I should have been consulted! When did this all happen? Why all the secrecy?’

“I could not fault my sister-in-law for her mistake. Until a few days before, the only journey I had ever again contemplated taking was the same kind that she envisioned. The kind that all girls are prepared, from a young age, to have to take. The physical journey from father’s home to husband’s home—the one that symbolizes the journey to becoming a woman and, most important, the transfer of power from one
mehram
to another. When the burden of responsibility that men bear—the mantle of protection—passes from a father to a husband.

“My mother said, ‘Adeeba is not getting married.’ I saw the looks of bewilderment on the faces of my sisters-in-law. Saw, too, the hesitation on my mother’s. This was, for her, the point of no return. The point at which the whole question of my future ceased to be, strictly speaking, a family matter. Because though my sisters-in-law were part of our family, they were also still a part of their own and were therefore a link that connected me to countless others—to the whole community, in fact. Their reaction, my mother was well aware, would be the first indication of how the community at large might view me in the future.

“It was not a good sign, therefore, when the explanation that my mother offered to her daughters-in-law was met with absolute silence. It meant that their reaction was strong enough that they felt the need to hide it. Which meant that the disapproval they would share, later, with their own families would be the most dangerous kind—the kind that is expressed behind one’s back, in the form of gossip, impossible to defend oneself against.”

Unwittingly, I stepped into a cultural chasm with my next words. “But—did it really matter? What
they
thought? What
any
body else thought? If you and your parents were okay with it, I mean.” The sugarcane juice was long finished. I was now working on a little bag of chili chips—spiced potato chips—that had somehow appeared on the table in front of us over the course of Big Nanima’s story. I was eating them mindlessly, totally engrossed in the pictures Big Nanima was painting, my eyes glued to her face as if it were a television screen I could not tear myself away from.

She laughed at me, hooted really, so that her whole self shook, like it used to when she was a little more substantial than she was now. “Spoken like a true American! Here,
beti,
we have to care what people think. We live among people, around people, in the midst of people. Our decisions affect them. Theirs affect us. We cannot just jump on a horse and ride away into the sunset”—Big Nanima’s tongue was in her cheek again—“as I believe they do in America.”