The Writing on My Forehead: A Novel

The Writing on My Forehead: A Novel

by Nafisa Haji
The Writing on My Forehead: A Novel

The Writing on My Forehead: A Novel

by Nafisa Haji

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Overview

A free-spirited and rebellious Muslim-American of Indo-Pakistani descent, willful, intelligent Saira Qader rejected the constricting notions of family, duty, obligation, and fate, choosing instead to become a journalist, making the world her home. But when tragedy strikes, throwing Saira's life into turmoil, the woman who circled the globe to uncover the details of other lives must confront the truths of her own. In need of understanding, she looks to the stories of those who came before—her grandparents, a beloved aunt, her mother and father. As Saira discovers the hope, pain, joy, and passion that defined their lives, she begins to face what she never wanted to admit: that choice is not always our own, and that faith is not merely an intellectual preference.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780061973161
Publisher: HarperCollins
Publication date: 01/17/2024
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 294
File size: 807 KB

About the Author

Nafisa Haji's first novel, The Writing on My Forehead, was a finalist for the Northern California Independent Booksellers Association Book of the Year Award. An American of Indo-Pakistani descent, she was born and raised in Los Angeles and now lives in northern California with her husband and son.

Read an Excerpt

The Writing on My Forehead

Chapter One

I close my eyes and imagine the touch of my mother's hand on my forehead, smoothing away the residue of childhood nightmares. Her finger moves across my forehead, tracing letters and words of prayer that I never understood, never wanted to understand, her mouth whispering in nearly silent accompaniment. Now, waking from the nightmare that has become routine—bathed in sweat, breathing hard, resigned to the sleeplessness that will follow—I remember her soothing touch and appreciate it with an intensity that I never felt when she was alive.

I shake my head to dispel the longing. The world has changed around us, and, because of all that has happened, I know it is my time to give comfort and not to receive it—not that I have yet proven equal to the task. Shoving myself out of bed, I make the quiet nightly journey across the hall. I pause in the doorway of my sister's childhood room. Her daughter, Sakina, is asleep—a little lump, rising and falling slightly with each even breath, curled up in the corner of Ameena's old bed, apparently at ease with the night and its quiet in a way I have not been for a very long time.

Every night, I have the same nightmare.

I search through a crowd of people on an endless expanse of green lawn, pushing past bow-tied waiters in white uniforms who carry trays piled high with biscuits, sandwiches, and tea. There are tables draped in white linen, chairs occupied by aunties and uncles. Beyond the garden, there is a pavilion trimmed in teak, furnished with cane-backed chairs where the pale, white ghosts of British officers and their wives,the founders of this place, whose names are still etched on plaques at the front entrance, congregate to laugh at the antics of the natives, swirling their gin and scotch, clinking their glasses.

My search is urgent, every moment that passes means loss. And death. I know I am dreaming. But the knowledge doesn't alleviate the urgency. If I find Ameena in time, then everything will be all right. As I approach the edge of the crowd, I see what I did not see before—that the endlessness is merely an illusion. There are high walls surrounding the lawn. From beyond them, I hear a roar of sound, which drowns out the clinking of glasses, the laughter and chatter of the people around me. Over the walls, which seem to be shrinking, getting lower so that what is outside is starting to become visible, I see crowds of angry people, clouds of dust and debris that hover over a city of ruins. In the distance, I see twin plumes of smoke rising up out of the chaos.

I turn away from the fearsome sight and see her. She stands alone, at the other edge of the crowd. A path clears. I run. Before I can reach her, I am distracted by voices behind me, calling my name. I stop and turn to see whose they are. There is an old woman urging me to hurry. Another old woman, my grandmother, who shakes her head sadly. An old man dressed like Gandhi, battered and bruised, throws his shoulders back and shouts something I cannot hear, raising his fist in protest. There is another white woman, different from those officers' wives in the pavilion, dancing by herself to a tune I cannot hear, her arms encircling an imaginary partner. These are all familiar characters from stories I know, stories I have lived my life by.

I turn my back on all of them because Ameena is still there, alone, at the edge of the crowd. She is wearing red, the color she wore at her wedding, her head draped by the long dupatta of her outfit. I begin to run when I see her, shouting a warning she does not hear. From somewhere behind me, a gun is shot. Ameena falls to the ground, the red of her blood darkening the red of her clothing. I scream, but I make no sound.

There is someone beside me. A child. She was with me all the time, running through the crowd, trying to save her mother. I turn to face her and see her arms outstretched. I lift my own to meet hers and find I am holding something in my hand. She sees it, too, and recoils. I look down and understand why. I was wrong. The shot did not come from behind me. It came from the gun in my hand.

There are no secrets here—I know exactly what the dream means. It is what I should do that I cannot resolve. I approach the bed and stare down at Sakina for a moment. Her face is hidden, turned away from mine. Her arms are wrapped tightly around a little doll that used to be Ameena's. I wrap mine around myself and marvel at how easily she has staked her claim. On Ameena's room. On Ameena's toys. I remember battles fought with my sister in trying to do the same. Battles and skirmishes, which always ended with a story from our mother. But that was long ago—in the days when I was young enough to want whatever Ameena had. In the days before I began to roll my eyes at our mother's stories. As I turn to leave the room, my eyes fall on a jewelry box on the dresser. And the memory of one of those battles is so clear that I can feel Ameena's arms around me, now, as her daughter sleeps in the room where the skirmish took place.

Ameena's grip around me was so tight that I had to struggle to free one hand. But I did, reaching up immediately to grab a clump of hair and pull for all I was worth. She shrieked, but not as loudly as the howling I had commenced upon losing hold of Ameena's jewelry box, which she had found me playing with in her room. Her hair was her Achilles' heel, long and straight, easy to grab and hold on to. Also a target, perhaps, because I was jealous of it. My own, my mother kept boyishly short—because I was a wild creature, she said, and it was too much trouble for her to try and keep it tame.

The Writing on My Forehead. Copyright © by Nafisa Haji. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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