Free The Writing on My Forehead by Nafisa Haji Page B

Well, I suppose there’s nothing that can be done. What will happen, will happen.’ I remember smiling at my father’s words. They echoed exactly what I had said to myself earlier in the day, in front of that cursed mirror. ‘He’s a good boy and we would be lucky to have him marry our daughter. Whichever daughter that may be.’”
    Big Nanima had picked up the photograph again, having laid it aside when she poured me the juice. She looked at it for a long moment and then stood up to put it back on the shelf I had taken it down from. Then, instead of coming back to the sofa where I sat, she began to pace up and down the room. Her hands were clasped behind her back. She wasn’t looking at me, but at the floor, at the wall, out the window. I had never seen her in a classroom. But I imagined that this is what she might look like there, in the middle of a lecture, engrossed in her own thoughts, formulating the sentences she would utter to express them. I didn’t have much time to marvel at the contrast—between the introspective, intellectual person pacing in front of me and the fun-loving, food-loving, sound effect–prone storyteller I knew her to be.
    Because, after a few lengths around the room, Big Nanima spoke again, as she had been speaking, in perfectly chosen words, which she delivered flawlessly, as if reading to me from one of the novels she had read aloud when I was younger. “In the way that partly held expectations can still come as surprises, my father received a visit, the following evening, from the uncle of the boy. The men were served refreshments in the sitting room, this time, less controversially, by the servant. The uncle waited until the servant had left the room before embarking on an explanation for his call.
    “‘Well, uh—Mahboob Sahib—uh—er—my sister was quite taken with your daughter yesterday. She has asked me to bring a proposal on behalf of her son. She has also asked me to remind you of your friendship with the boy’s father. She hopes that this friendship would cause you to look favorably upon my nephew, Kasim. He—uh—he’s a very intelligent and able young man. Not wealthy, you know. But a very good boy. With a bright future, I am sure. The blessing of such a marriage would, I have no doubt, seal the promise of that future.’
    “My father cleared his throat delicately and said, ‘I am flattered, Abbas Sahib, but I have to point out that I have two daughters.’
    “The visitor said, ‘Yes. Oh, yes. I am sorry. I am speaking of your younger daughter, Zahida.’
    “My father was silent for a long moment. He put his hands together and leaned his chin forward onto them before saying, ‘Zahida. Yes, Zahida. I had heard that Kasim—’ He broke off and was silent for another moment and then seemed to change his mind as well as the direction of his words. ‘Yes. Well, I am sure you will understand that I will have to defer an answer to you until I am able to consult with the members of my household.’
    “The boy’s uncle said, ‘Of course, Mahboob Sahib, of course. Take your time, please. I will come back for an answer whenever you call me. I am at your disposal.’
    “Kasim Bhai’s uncle took his leave and my father saw him out before returning to the sitting room, sinking into the favored armchair that his guest had just vacated, and putting his head into his hands. I had been hovering near enough to have heard everything—the identity of our guest, the purpose of his visit, the fact of his departure as well as the dilemma he would have caused for my father. Now, I entered the room and sat down on the rug, at my father’s feet.
    “His eyes still closed, he moved one of his hands from his head to mine and said, ‘I am sorry, beti. I wish that things could have been different.’
    “I said, ‘I don’t, Aba. I’m glad they turned out this way,’ and as I said the words, I realized that they were true. ‘I like things just the way they are. I know that this