The Writing on My Forehead Read Free

He made her wear her saris with sleeveless blouses, the kind that were in fashion among the Bombay film crowd. Her mother-in-law pursed her lips disapprovingly when she first saw her in one of these. Her grandmother-in-law said, ‘Your arms will burn in hell from here to here.’” My mother’s hand swept down from her shoulder blade to her wrist.
    “Did she tell her husband?”
    “Yes, of course. When his wife told him, in tears, what his grandmother had said, he said, ‘Next time tell her that her arms will burn from here to here.’” This time, my mother swept her hand down from mid-upper arm to wrist, which the traditional sari blouse left exposed. “‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘it’s only a few inches’ difference. It won’t hurt much more than hers.’ He took her to all of the latest clubs and nightspots. She was from a conservative family, like his own, and she was pitied and admired for gallantly suffering the whims of her husband. He even took her ballroom dancing, actually hiring a tutor to teach her the steps!
    “The word we use to describe men like that is shaukeen. It means ‘keen’—he was keenly interested in trying out new things, keenly enthusiastic about the way things looked and tasted, keenly excited about life in general.” Mummy sighed. She got up to pour a cup of tea. “It’s always wonderful to meet someone who is shaukeen. You find people sort of riding along in their wake. They bring a kind of energy with them when they enter a room.” Tea in hand, Mummy turned back to face me, walked back to the table, and stared at me for a moment before getting on with the story.
    “This man’s wife learned, very quickly, how to ride quietly in that wake. It wasn’t easy for her. She had been a young bride, a child. The transition from her parents’ home to her husband’s had been a challenge. But she was lucky for two reasons. One was that she had been brought up well enough to understand the difference in what was expected of her—before, she had been a pampered, youngest child. Everyone in her house, her parents, her brothers, her sister—had spoilt her and cherished her. But now, she was a daughter-in-law. And she had to learn to obey not only her husband, but also his mother and grandmother. They were constantly complaining and criticizing. But she managed to learn the steps of this dance, too. To maintain her composure, to nod her head respectfully in front of her in-laws. The other reason that she was lucky was that her husband really was a charming gentleman. He was kind with her, and patient and loving.
    “During the time of Partition, when India was divided into India and Pakistan, her family, her parents, decided to leave Bombay for Pakistan, where they settled in Karachi. Like so many, many others. Though she was sad to have to say good-bye to her family, she knew that her place was with her husband. That her home was where he was. That her happiness depended on his.
    “She built her life around him. They had three children. When her grandmother-in-law and mother-in-law died, she finally gained control of her household. She supervised the servants—there were many of them now that her husband had become a rich man. And took care of her husband’s brothers and their wives, whose marriages she had helped to arrange. They all lived together, still, as a joint family in a big, new house he had bought. She took pride in maintaining an ordered and disciplined home. She was not a materialistic person, but she took pleasure in her husband’s success, because it gave him pleasure. She had always been a pious woman, but she became more religious as the years passed—spending more and more time on her prayer rug and focusing more of her thoughts on the remembrance of God. Her husband was pleased. He used to say that his wife’s piety was another reason that God smiled upon them with such favor.”
    “Was he religious, too?”
    “Religious? Yes. He prayed. He didn’t drink.