The Writing on My Forehead Read Online Free PDF

snow cone, one of the deadliest sins and a sure harbinger of deathly illness in Nanima’s eyes because of the unknown quality and origin of the water used to form the ice that was its primary ingredient. Ameena and Nanima were in the dining room, both seated at the table. Ameena was shuffling her fingers through a tray of uncooked rice, sifting through it for stones and pests. Nanima was slicing onions as she talked, her quiet, firmly uttered words punctuated by the rhythmic thud of the knife falling effortlessly, it seemed, and repeatedly, on the cutting board. It was the only time that I remember being drawn into their company—the topic was personal and there was a wistful, smiling tone to Nanima’s voice that, because her back was to me, I am not absolutely sure I would have found confirmation of on her face.
    “You never met him? Never even talked to him before the wedding?” asked Ameena, who was so engrossed in Nanima’s words that she didn’t notice me standing in the doorway to the room.
    “Oh, no. It wasn’t done. No, no. Not until the wedding day. And even then—I was veiled, my face was covered. So was his. He wore a veil of roses, a sehera . When I peeked up, once—when I thought no one was looking—all I could see were strings and strings of bright red roses.” Nanima laughed, “Your poor grandfather! He must have been so hot! Oh, yes. It was a very hot day. Maybe as hot as it is today.”
    “But how could you have—I mean—” Ameena’s relatively fluent Urdu seemed to fail her.
    “Well, that was the way it was done. It was very, very different then. And it worked. Your grandfather and I—” Nanima faltered inexplicably for a moment, using the end of her scarf to wipe her face, her eyes. For one brief second, I thought she was crying. Then I remembered the onions. And she continued, her voice strong again, “Your nana and I were very happy. For many, many years.”
    They were both quiet for a few moments, had both seemed to settle back into the tasks at hand and into the cheerless, boring kind of companionship that they enjoyed in each other, when Ameena’s fingers stopped shuffling. She pushed the tray away from her, put her elbows on the table, and propped her face into the cup of her hands.
    “Nanima, that’s the way I want to get married. Like you.”
    Nanima laughed and shook her head. “No, Ameena. Times are different. I was only sixteen when I got married! Just a child! You will meet your husband before you marry. Like your mother met your father, at your uncle’s wedding. He will be someone they find for you, yes. Someone they approve of. Your mother and father will have a tough time of it, I know.” Nanima’s head tilted as she looked into Ameena’s face. “You are a beautiful child, Mashallah . Like I was. The boys will line up at your father’s door, like they did at mine. But you will get engaged only after you have seen the man your parents find worthy of you. And met him. Then, he will take you out. For ice cream, maybe. And you will get to know each other. You will not marry a stranger.”
    A hand touched my shoulder. I gasped, but not loudly enough to disturb Nanima and Ameena. It was Big Nanima. I don’t know how long she had been there, how much she had heard. She had a thoughtful look on her face when she beckoned silently for me to come. She took my hand as we left the house, unusually quiet. But then, so was I.
    When I had finished my gola ganda, I asked, wiping the sticky red syrup on my clothes before taking Big Nanima’s hand again, “Is that true?”
    “Is what true?” Big Nanima squeezed my hand, unconcerned about the residual stickiness that I could feel clinging, still, to my fingers.
    “Is that the way it used to be? The way that Nanima got married? She and Nana didn’t even know each other?”
    Big Nanima frowned and paused before answering, “Used to be? It still is! Too, too often. Girls married off before they become women, like cows at an