The Writing on My Forehead by Nafisa Haji Page B

of it, one of my second cousins would play the dhol, the two-sided drum, to accompany the songs that all of the girl cousins, myself included, had rehearsed until our voices were hoarse—songs whose lyrics included friendly insults we had prepared especially for the family of Zehra’s groom, who would have prepared similar insults to lob at our side.
    When the evening began, I watched from a sullen distance as Belle—a middle-aged, heavyset woman whose waistline rivaled Big Nanima’s and who looked much older than my mother and her sisters, despite their being, as I knew, all close in age (nothing like the beautiful bombshell I had pictured in my mind)—was invited to perform the rassams, the ceremonies, which included taking out sadaqa, alms, and the symbolic application of henna to Zehra’s betel leaf–covered palm. The real henna application would take place the next morning, when the henna applicators, who were servicing the guests now, would come to spend the day working on the intricate designs that would adorn Zehra’s hands and feet.
    “That is an honor she is not even conscious of.” Big Nanima was standing beside me and her comment was mumbled under her breath, meant only for my ears.
    It was the only opening I had been offered by anyone since Belle and her children had arrived in Karachi. “Do you think Mummy was right not to come?”
    Big Nanima’s head tilted to one side. “Right? I don’t think this is a question of what is right or wrong. I think Shabana made a decision with her heart. Right and wrong are questions of the mind, separate from emotions, which can be slippery to live by.”
    I frowned, not understanding. Big Nanima put her hand on my cheek, laughing a little. “Don’t listen to me, Saira. I’m being a little emotional myself and not making any sense. Belle was your grandfather’s choice of companion. He loved her. That is the simple truth of it. Your mother, Lubna, Jamila—they each had to adjust to that truth in the best way that they could. Jamila was the only one who knew him in his second life. Maybe this”—Big Nanima nodded to the circle in which Zehra sat, surrounded by my aunts and Belle and her daughters—“is not a bad thing. Maybe it’s a kind of healing that they have all longed for. Something that Shabana needs to stop running away from, too.” Big Nanima sighed. “But my loyalty is to only one person in this story. To Zahida. My sister. The woman that Kasim Bhai abandoned without a backward glance. So I am not the right one to consult in this matter, Saira. Because my heart sees that woman laughing with your cousin, with my sister’s granddaughter, and all I feel is that this is Zahida’s place she occupies, just as it was Zahida’s husband that she loved.”
    My cousins called me away from Big Nanima’s words, then, to tell me Jamila Khala wanted us to perform the first of the dances that we had prepared, before dinner was served. The floor was cleared as guests scooted back to the edges of the carpets to give us room to dance, all of the female cousins, all of Nanima’s granddaughters together, except for Ameena, moving barefoot, in synchronized rhythm, to the sound of India’s latest film hits. The hems of our long kameeze s—heavy with gold and silver dabka —swung, emphasizing the sway of our hips and the flash of the colors we wore—vivid reds, fuchsias, royal blues. We twirled and circled and squared off while the other guests whistled and clapped and took our measure, thinking of sons and nephews who would need wives in the coming years. When we were done, the smell of tikka s and kabab s, of saffron and spice, was our invitation to dinner—laid out on silk-skirted tables under another festively decorated canopy at the side of Lubna Khala’s garden. That was when Belle sought me out. By the time I saw her coming, it was too late to escape without being obvious.
    She had gone through the buffet already and stood next to me as I went down the