Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  I stuck my head between the front seats. “Are you sure you know where the accelerator is, Fahim? It’s that pedal on the right. The one you’re not pressing.”

  He ignored me.

  I settled back against the seat, trying to get comfortable despite the carry-on wheels jabbing into my ribs. “Tell me about your family, Rashid.”

  “My parents are both accountants, and they have sent me to Canada to learn all about accounting.” Grinning, he added, “They don’t know about the athletic scholarship.”

  “And why did you decide to visit Canada, Kawkab Khala?” I asked. “Did you hear about our breathtaking parks? Niagara Falls? Poutine?”

  Kawkab Khala didn’t reply. Maybe I would let my alleged aunt sleep on the sofa after all.

  Fahim parked in the driveway and, together with Rashid, unloaded the luggage. My aunt walked to the door with only a slight curl to her lip and a single “This is where you live?” remark.

  I helped her inside and, after checking on my father and giving Fazee a quick update, headed back to the restaurant. I had a few questions to ask Mom, specifically about my alleged aunt and where she would be sleeping.

  Rashid dashed out the front door and joined me. “Don’t you want to rest after your long flight?” I asked hopefully.

  He shook his head, his body vibrating with youthful energy. “I want to greet your mother. Also, I must see the restaurant and familiarize myself with the family operation. I don’t want to look foolish when I begin my post tomorrow.” His eyes were intelligent and took in every detail of the street. “I thought your restaurant was the only one in the neighborhood.”

  “It is,” I answered. We were approaching the south end of Golden Crescent, passing the lone empty storefront before heading into the strip proper.

  “Then what is that?”

  Rashid had stopped in front of the abandoned building. Except it was no longer a hollowed-out shell. Various vehicles were parked out front, and a construction crew milled around. A large sign was plastered across the front. coming soon! wholistic burgers and grill. gourmet halal done right. try something different!

  My world tilted on its axis.

  Rashid was still talking, but I heard only Aydin’s words from a few nights ago. The only reason you’re still open is because you don’t have any competition. You’re the only halal restaurant in Golden Crescent. . . . It’s clear this area is about to change, maybe one day soon. And Zulfa’s words at the airport: I can’t wait for the grand opening, followed by Aydin’s abrupt response.

  That sneaky spy. He had come to Three Sisters to scope out the competition in the neighborhood. He had been digging for dirt and then trash-talking our restaurant to my face, once he realized I was the daughter of the owner.

  I stalked toward Three Sisters, Rashid trailing after me.

  “Assalamu alaikum, Hana!” Yusuf called from across the street. I remembered that Yusuf’s dad, Brother Musa, was the president of our local BOA, the Business Owners Association. I gestured him over.

  “Whose restaurant is that?” I asked.

  A startled expression crossed Yusuf’s face before it settled into understanding. He had known, I realized, and he hadn’t bothered to warn me, or my mother.

  My friend shrugged as if it were no big deal. I wondered if he would have the same reaction if a Whole Foods decided to open beside his father’s grocer shop. “Dad said it’s someone from outside the neighborhood. The new owners will be at the BOA meeting tomorrow night.” Yusuf looked from me to Rashid, expectant. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  The problem with living in a close-knit community is that everyone knows everything, or wants to. “We have family visiting from India. This is my cousin Rashid.”

  Rashid put out his hand to shake. Instead of taking it, Yusuf took a step closer and bellowed, “Assalamu alaikum! My. Name. Is. Yusuf. What. Is. Your. Name?”

  “Ra-shid,” my cousin said, echoing Yusuf’s slow pronunciation.

  Yusuf nodded and put an arm around my cousin. “Welcome to Canada!” he boomed. “You are free here!”

  Rashid looked over at me and waggled his brows. I motioned my cousin into Three Sisters and pulled my beautiful, idiotic friend to the curbside. “What’s wrong with you?” I whispered to Yusuf, furious. “He’s from India, not a time traveler from the 1700s.”

  Yusuf shifted uncomfortably. “I just thought he might be, you know, too poor for the stuff we take for granted. You don’t know the situations I’ve read about in case studies at school.”

  I rolled my eyes. My beautiful friend was a bleeding heart. “Rashid will be here for a while. Maybe the two of you can hang out and you can expose him to some of those Canadian values we take for granted,” I said.

  Yusuf brightened at that, the green of his eyes glowing in the afternoon light. “Bring him to the BOA meeting, so he can see democracy in action.”

  I had heard tales from my sister and mother about the antics of the Business Owners Association. I only made a noncommittal noise and reminded him that India was already a democracy.

  “You know what I mean. Hey, did you hear back from Lily?”

  “She’s pretty busy with her residency,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. I didn’t want to be dragged into the middle of whatever was currently going on between them.

  “Could you and I hang out without Lily? I really need to talk to someone, and I could use your advice. Coffee sometime this week?” he asked.

  I looked across the street to Yusuf’s family store, where I could just make out the outline of his father, Brother Musa. Then my gaze drifted diagonally to the future location of Wholistic Burgers and Grill, and my eyes narrowed. I could use Yusuf’s advice too, maybe get some more information about the not-so-mysterious owners of the new restaurant, and why my best friend had not thought fit to give me a heads-up. We made plans to meet the next day.

  Inside the restaurant, Rashid was chatting with my mother. When I entered a few moments later, he had begun to sweep the dining room. “Your friend Yusuf is funny,” he said.

  “I hope you weren’t offended. He wants you to come to the Business Owners Association meeting, so he can introduce you around.”

  Rashid gave me a wicked smile. “I would be honored to attend. I have the perfect costume to wear: a sherwani suit with curly-toed shoes, a turban, and a string of pearls. Your friend will tell everyone I am a Mughal prince.”

  The Mughals were a Muslim dynasty that ruled Southeast Asia for more than three hundred years. Their empire had dissolved in 1857. I wasn’t too sure about my alleged aunt, but Rashid was definitely growing on me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mom knew about the restaurant. Apparently Brother Musa had informed her, and she wasn’t bothered. Not by the sudden appearance of Kawkab Khala, not by our new competition, not by anything.

  “You’ve never mentioned Kawkab Khala before,” I said.

  Mom shrugged. “Yes, I have, except I never called her Kawkab. She started using her given name after her husband died. We know her by another name.” Mom looked uncomfortable. “It’s a pet name, and I don’t think she likes it. We used to call her Billi Apa.”

  Billi Apa! Billi Apa was legendary. She used to go horseback riding around the neighborhood in India at a time when demure young women weren’t supposed to engage in unladylike physical exertions. She played poker at the men’s club. She would smoke hand-rolled cigarettes she bought off the servants. She was an older cousin they would visit during the summer, and the stories my mom had recounted about their adventures over the years were epic. Such as the time Billi Apa dressed up as the local imam and gave a sermon about the importance of buying your wife expensive weekly gifts. She knew how to shoot a gun and only ever wore pants. She was so wild her parents had sent her to an English boarding school, where she learned to swear in French, English, and German.


  Her parents were wealthy landowners and she was their only child. Billi Apa had been my childhood hero, and I had dreamed of one day meeting her. Except I would have had to travel to New Delhi because, my mother assured me, she never left her massive property. Until now.

  “Did you know she was coming?” I asked Mom.

  “She is always welcome.” A polite way of saying no.

  “What about the new restaurant opening up? What are we going to do?”

  This time Mom stopped chopping coriander and chilies and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Wisps of graying hair escaped her black hijab. “We don’t have to do anything. There is enough business here for everyone. They will attract attention at first, but things will settle. You will see, Hana jaan. It will all work out.”

  Her eyes looked around at the kitchen as if she were trying to reassure herself. We were all counting on her—Baba, Fazeela, Fahim, me, and the cantaloupe. I thought back to Lily’s assurances that Mom was the smartest, most hardworking person she knew. We would survive. Inshallah.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said to Mom, and then asked if Rashid and I could go to the BOA meeting.

  She nodded. “Fazeela usually goes, but you can take her place. It will be good for Rashid to come along and see how we do things here. Make sure you take notes on the festival. I want to know what they are planning this year.”

  Every year the Golden Crescent BOA put together a summer street festival for the neighborhood. It was pretty low-key stuff. The businesses all chipped in for bouncy castles for the kids and set up tables outside to sell food and merchandise. Mr. Lewis gave away free coffee and doughnuts, Luxmi Aunty served a variety of homemade snacks, and Three Sisters offered food for sale. It was a fun, intimate community event. I promised to take copious notes and report back.

  * * *

  • • •

  As expected, my alleged aunt / newly revealed childhood hero commandeered my bedroom as easily as she had claimed shotgun on the ride home. The couch was even more uncomfortable than I had anticipated.

  I woke up for the predawn fajr prayer at four thirty a.m. without having to set an alarm, thanks to the lumpy cushions. Baba was already sitting at the dining table, the light low. On the nights he had trouble sleeping, he stayed up to read the newspaper, work on his puzzles, or listen to the radio. I gave him a side hug when I passed by to make wudu, the ritual purification before prayer, and he looked up in surprise, removing his headphones.

  “What are you doing up at this hour, Hana?” he asked.

  “There is an intruder in my room,” I whispered.

  His eyes widened, then relaxed at my mischievous smile. “Your mother and I were very close to Kawkab Apa when we lived in Delhi as newlyweds. She helped us quite a bit when we first settled in Toronto. She is a wealthy woman. Your mother borrowed money from her to open the restaurant.”

  I hadn’t known that. Maybe she’s here to help out again, I thought hopefully.

  “She hasn’t left Delhi in years,” he continued. “Whatever has brought her all the way to Canada must be very important.” Baba looked at me and smiled. “I am glad you got a chance to meet. You are so alike. We are lucky she has agreed to stay for a while.”

  I groaned inwardly. A while could mean weeks, maybe months.

  “You are being a good host, and I am happy to have the company,” my father said. “The house hasn’t felt this lively in a long time.” With my aunt, Rashid, and Fazeela, he was right; we were full to bursting. Maybe the company would be a welcome distraction during my father’s isolated days.

  After I made wudu, I prayed fajr in the living room. The couch was more comfortable when I returned to the bed—someone had added extra cushions. Baba’s head was bent over the local news section.

  “Thanks, Baba,” I said drowsily. I wanted to tell him some good news. “Thomas pitched a show to Marisa that she liked. He wants me to help him with it.”

  The smile on Baba’s face wiped away my doubts. “Alhamdulillah!” he said. “What will your show be about?”

  “We’re still figuring that part out,” I hedged. “But it will be about faith, culture, and identity, and the role it plays in the city.”

  My father nodded, thoughtful. “If you do this and your superiors like it, perhaps you will get a full-time job. Security is important, Hana. Don’t discount a job with a steady paycheck, some health insurance; you can begin to plan your future. And more opportunities will come, especially if you are pleasant and cooperative. I already know your talent will shine.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said, settling more deeply into the cushions.

  “How many customers at the restaurant yesterday?” he asked.

  “So many people,” I said, eyes firmly shut. “The place was packed.”

  “Good,” he said quietly, and turned back to his newspaper. I turned to face the back of the sofa, but it was a long time before I fell asleep again.

  [Transcript]

  Brace yourselves, listener friends, because I’m about to go on a Brown Girl Rambles rant. Which is quite difficult to do without getting into specific details, but I’ll try my best.

  I said in my first episode that this podcast would be about nothing but my truth. Today I want to talk about truth’s evil twin—deception. Lies. Untruths.

  Who do we hurt when we lie to ourselves, and to our families? Lying serves an inherently selfish function. We lie because we don’t want to deal with the truth, because it’s uncomfortable, or maybe it’s more expedient to make something up. But what happens when you lie to spare someone’s feelings? Worse, even, when they know that you are lying but go along with it. Are they sparing your feelings even as you spare theirs?

  There are some lies that make life more comfortable. Lies like “Yes, I’m fine,” when really we mean “I don’t want to talk to you about this.” Or “Yes, this is the best decision for me,” when we mean “I don’t know what to do, but this would be easier,” or maybe “This is the best decision I can make with the information I have right now,” when actually it’s despair and inertia leading you on.

  When I lie to family and friends to reassure them, who benefits? No one, really. When I tell myself I will pursue a project I never wanted because I might be able to do some good, or because it might lead to something better, is that the truth?

  A few things have happened in my life recently that have made me afraid. I’m afraid they collectively signal that the other shoe is about to drop. You know what I mean? When that thing you’ve been bracing for all your life in a low-key way slowly starts to unravel everything? That might mean I’ve paid in advance for a cynicism as yet untested by real trials, and now I’m about to see what happens when things really start to go wrong.

  Because things are starting to go wrong.

  I’ve lived a calm, mostly sheltered life. I’m not saying I’m living large, you understand. Just a . . . sometimes difficult, but overall good life. As a result, I tend to trust people. When they let me down or disappoint me in some way, I feel foolish, though on some level I’m always expecting that disaster to unfold. On the other hand, perhaps foolishness is the price you pay for lessons learned.

  As a Muslim, I have faith that things will work out the way they were meant to. But I also know I will be tested in this life, and I worry about those tests. I spend too much time wondering what will happen if I fail too. I guess we’re all just stumbling around in the dark, hoping the stories—and occasional lies—we tell ourselves will bring us closer to our light.

  StanleyP

  Just listened to your latest podcast. I guess you decided to do that project in the end.

  AnaBGR

  I’ll see where it leads. Thanks for the advice.

  StanleyP

  Not sure it was the right advice. You sound sad.

  AnaBGR
>
  Just got some unexpected news about my family business.

  StanleyP

  What sort of news?

  AnaBGR

  The sort I should have seen coming. We haven’t cornered the market the way I thought.

  StanleyP

  Competition isn’t a bad thing. It’s a way to rethink old ways and try something new. That’s the fun, right?

  AnaBGR

  I think we have very different ideas of fun.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The BOA meeting was held in the basement of Yusuf’s grocery store, a low-ceilinged, forbidding space that smelled vaguely of bleach and overripe produce. Brother Musa, Yusuf’s father, had tried to make it more welcoming by placing a platter of fruit on a folding table next to the cramped staircase. The room was set up with two dozen folding chairs and another folding table at the very front for Brother Musa and Mr. Lewis, the owner of the Tim Hortons coffee shop—the association’s president and vice president, respectively.

  I knew Yusuf didn’t always get along with his father. A dour man in his early sixties with an impressive gray mustache and sharp blue eyes, Brother Musa had high expectations for everyone in his life, especially his elder son. When we were younger, he would push Yusuf to study harder, to play more sports. He never quite approved of his son hanging out with me and Lily, and his disapproval only deepened when he realized that Yusuf was in love with Lily. Things had always been strained between the two, though Yusuf was loyal to his family and worked at the store without complaint. He also happily involved himself in the goings-on of the BOA and any other neighborhood issues that came up.