The Writing on My Forehead by Nafisa Haji Page A

children, of course. Your mother and your khalas, out of loyalty to their mother, refused to accept any gifts from their father, though he tried to send them checks, too, on birthdays and when their children were born—you and Ameena, also. When Zahida and Kasim Bhai were both gone, the girls relented. It was quite a large amount they all stood to inherit. All of them, except your mother. Who never took a cent, not while her parents lived, and not after they died.”
    We were quiet together for a while. I stood up to look at the pictures again, and then walked around the room before I came to stand before Big Nanima. “I always knew you were a teacher. A professor. But I guess I never realized what an accomplishment that was.”
    Big Nanima smiled. “An accomplishment? Maybe in my time it was. But, for your generation—getting an education, making a contribution to the world you live in—that is your right and your duty.”
    Again, I looked around the room. “So—this house? It belongs to the college?”
    “Yes. I’ll have to leave it behind when I retire.”
    “What will you do then?”
    “I have a little flat that I bought for my retirement. I’ll live there.”
    I thought of the uneasy companionship that Nanima and Big Nanima had established. “Alone?”
    “Yes. For as long as I can. That is my fear for the future.”
    I raised my eyebrows, questioning.
    “That eventually I will become too old or sick to care for myself. May God take me from this life before that day ever comes. But I have to be prepared for the worst. Because I have no children to rely on. It should have been me, you see. Instead of your nanima . I always hoped that I would be the one to go first. Because she was not alone. She had three daughters to go to when the time came.”
    “You’re not alone, Big Nanima.”
    “In the end, Saira, we are all alone. Some of us more than others, perhaps.”
    I put my hand in hers, like I had when I was younger.

FIVE
     
    M OST OF THE rest of my stay in Karachi centered around the drama of anticipation that I felt at the thought of finally meeting the Englishwoman for whom my grandfather had left my grandmother. Despite the behind-the-scenes trauma that she and her children caused before their arrival, my family treated the Foreign Guests—as they had been dubbed—with a gracious, formal kind of welcome that quickly thawed to a genuine, if hesitant, warmth. Because Belle was clearly thrilled to be among us, throwing herself into the festivities of Zehra’s wedding with a carefree kind of abandon that was hard to resist—though I tried to, for longer than most of my relatives. Belle’s presence was the reason for my mother’s absence, and I resisted her smiles and laughter—at first—out of simple, biological loyalty.
    The fact that Belle and her children were put up at a hotel instead of at the house of one of my relatives—an insult the import of which she could not have known in a cultural context where hospitality is defined by even giving up one’s bed for one’s guest if called for—made my initially aloof stance imperceptible, because she was not a part of the day-to-day preparations for the wedding, which we were all so involved with. When I did finally fall victim to her charm, I was bolstered, in my defeat, by knowing that Big Nanima, who had resisted Belle with as much effort as I had, fell soon after me.
    Zehra’s mehndi ceremony was the first of the official wedding functions and for ladies only. It took place in Lubna Khala’s magically transformed garden—the lawn was covered with beautifully woven carpets laid under a colorfully patterned canopy. Chairs lined the perimeter for elders to sit on. Lanterns lit the place, casting an Arabian-nights flavor over the whole affair. A low platform was set at one end of the garden, decorated with strings of flowers and pillows, where Zehra would sit with her bridegroom—the only male invited—wearing traditional yellow. In front