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

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