Free The Writing on My Forehead by Nafisa Haji Page A

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    Big Nanima laughed at my tone, bringing her story back to human scale. Then she shook her head, still smiling. “I’ll never know the truth of her motives. At the time, it was hard not to believe it was deliberate. And yet I could not let myself give in to the temptation of such a suspicion. I could not see any motive for what Zahida did…not one that would preclude a level of spite and malice that I believe my sister was incapable of.
    “In any case, the change in the air was immediate and obvious. In mid-conversation, the attention of both visitors shifted from one of my mother’s daughters to the other. And—I saw it happen before my very eyes—so did their interest. My mother tried to steer them back onto course, pointing out in the first few moments of Zahida’s arrival that she was a rather simple girl, not inclined to study and therefore non-conversant in English. The two ladies exchanged a glance and I saw the grandmother give a little shrug before asking another question of Zahida. My own presence, I knew, was no longer required or even noticed. There was nothing for me to do but wait politely for my mother to dismiss me, along with Zahida.
    “When she did, we left the sitting room together and ran into an awkward pause in the hallway outside. Zahida was wringing her hands together and biting her lip in obvious discomfort. I looked at her. The words, in reference to the scene that had just unfolded in the sitting room, remained unsaid. These were matters that we sisters had never before discussed, and I saw no reason to change that now. I turned and walked down the hallway toward our room. And Zahida, who was apparently less content with the silence, followed me.
    “‘Adeeba?’ Zahida said. Resenting her urge to communicate, I didn’t answer right away. ‘Adeeba? Are you angry with me?’ she tried again. Big teardrops gathered at the corners of her eyes. I watched them make a trail down my sister’s beautiful face. And I saw—I couldn’t help it—how the marks of sorrow seemed to enhance her loveliness. ‘Please, Adeeba. I can’t bear to have you angry with me.’
    “I sighed. It was no use. It would be like the leaf resenting the flower. And we both belonged to the same plant. ‘No, Zahida, I’m not angry with you.’ I remember that I paused before asking, out of sheer curiosity, ‘What reason would I have to be angry with you?’
    “She said, ‘I’m not sure. I shouldn’t have gone in. But I couldn’t help it, really I couldn’t. I was so curious! I wanted to know what was happening.’
    “I shook my head and said, ‘I understand.’ And then I turned away, wishing to let the matter drop.
    “But it was picked up again later. I overheard my parents that evening, as my mother recounted the afternoon’s events to my father. ‘But didn’t you tell her to stay away?’ My father sounded angry.
    “My mother, no less so. ‘Yes! Yes, of course I did. I told Imran to take care of her for the afternoon. They were supposed to have gone out.’
    “‘So? What happened?’ my father asked.
    “‘I don’t know,’ my mother answered, sounding as puzzled as I had felt.
    “‘Did you ask Imran?’
    “‘No. Not yet. I wasn’t sure what I could even say…’ My mother’s voice had trailed off. And I had understood her dilemma. Had faced it myself in my brief exchange with Zahida. What, exactly, could one say? To be frank was to be less than delicate. And the situation called for nothing if not delicacy.
    “My father was silent for a moment before he sighed and said, ‘I don’t know. There’s nothing that can be done, I suppose. Or said. And how did the visit go?’
    “‘Before or after Zahida danced her way into the room?’ I remember that I winced at the sharpness in my mother’s voice as she asked the question, rhetorically, sighed, and then continued, ‘It went well. They seemed to like Adeeba. And then, they seemed to like Zahida even more.’
    “‘Hmmm.