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

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