Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  This was the first meeting I had attended, but I recognized many of the local business owners. I greeted the familiar faces and introduced Rashid to Brother Musa before we claimed a seat beside Yusuf in the front row. Rashid had decided to forgo the Mughal finery for a plain shirt and jeans. My teenage cousin was turning out to be entirely different from what I had imagined.

  “Where are the owners of the new restaurant?” I whispered to Yusuf.

  He frowned. “They’re not here yet. Dad hates it when people are late.”

  Brother Musa called everyone to attention. He had a slight Syrian accent, dulled by thirty years of living in North America. “We have a few items on the agenda. First up: our annual summer street festival. We need a volunteer to take charge, as Fazeela will not be able to manage this year. Any takers?”

  Opening up my notebook, I began to take the notes Mom had requested.

  Rashid fidgeted next to me as the meeting droned on, with details for the street festival followed by a discussion of the new parking regulations and neighborhood security. Once I had recorded the agenda items, I turned to a new page and wrote New halal restaurant?

  Rashid leaned over. “You said this would be fun. If I wanted to sit in a room full of old people talking business, I would have attended my parents’ accounting parties.”

  I wondered what an accounting party looked like. “Don’t worry. They’re getting to the best part,” I whispered.

  Rashid tilted his head. “What’s the best part?”

  “The drama.”

  Fazeela had told me that every meeting of the Golden Crescent Business Owners Association ended with someone losing their temper and getting into a yelling match with someone else. One time a fistfight had broken out over the garbage-collection schedule. Fazeela described the BOA as Survivor, except with more brown people. I think that was why Mom usually sent my sister; Mom was allergic to drama. Fazeela, on the other hand, could have worked for the White House. Intrigue was her oxygen.

  I heard the basement door open, and heavy footsteps clomped down the stairs. Aydin was about to make his big entrance, thirty minutes late.

  “Now for the final item on our agenda,” Brother Musa said, irritated. “Despite their late arrival, let us welcome Junaid Shah and his son, Aydin Shah, owners of the new Golden Crescent restaurant, Wholistic Burgers and Grill.”

  Polite applause as the dozen BOA members turned toward the back of the room, where Aydin stood with his father. A few uneasy glances were also thrown my way, and my face burned.

  Some part of me had hoped I was wrong, I realized, that Aydin hadn’t been spying, that he and his father weren’t actually opening a rival halal restaurant in Golden Crescent, in direct competition with Three Sisters. His father had treated me like dirt the first time they visited our restaurant, and that second time I had handed our competition a free plate of biryani. I closed my eyes, reliving the humiliation of Aydin’s comments about our faded decor and imminent closure.

  Aydin and Junaid Uncle made their way silently through the crowd and took seats in the row behind us. Aydin leaned forward and muttered a quiet salaam in my ear. So polite when people were present to witness his actions. I wasn’t as prepared to be civil.

  I turned around to glare at him. “You’ve got some nerve,” I hissed.

  Aydin blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry?”

  “Showing up with your dad the other day. Commenting on our food, the lighting, the floors,” I said in a heated whisper. “The only thing you can count on is change,” I mimicked, and Aydin flushed. Good. I hoped he was embarrassed.

  In my anger, I hadn’t realized I’d raised my voice. The BOA members craned forward, trying to catch every word.

  “You were spying on us,” I continued flatly. Let them hear. Everyone should know how our newest members operated.

  Rashid looked from my angry face to Aydin’s startled one. He stood up, glaring at father and son. “Yes, how dare you spy on my cousin!” he announced loudly. He ruined the impact by leaning down to whisper loudly, “This is the drama, right?”

  Junaid Uncle spoke up, his face contorted with anger. “Spying on you? Why would we waste our time spying on your dirty, insignificant little business?” he said loudly.

  The shocked silence that greeted his rudeness jolted me out of my temper. We were causing a scene; my mother would not be pleased.

  Aydin’s face was pale. “Dad, calm down. You said you would let me handle this.”

  Junaid Uncle turned to his son, and from my close vantage point I could see Aydin flinch. “As usual, you are not handling anything,” his father said. He cast an imperious eye around the room. “I don’t know why you insisted on coming here. I refuse to be bullied by the local yokels.”

  From the front of the room, Musa asked his son loudly, “What is this yokel? Is that man calling us eggs?”

  Junaid Uncle ignored everyone else, his eyes fixed on my face. “This entire neighborhood is nothing but an ethnic slum,” he announced.

  That did it. Drama, consider yourself embraced. I stood up slowly, fists clenched at my sides. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re brown!”

  Aydin turned to his father and, in one last effort to broker peace, said in perfect Urdu, “This is not the time or the place. We came here to meet the community, not to make enemies.”

  Rashid leaned toward Aydin, and for a moment I thought my cousin was going to punch him. Instead he clasped Aydin’s arm. “Bhai, your Urdu is very good. Did you grow up in Pakistan?”

  “No, but I took weekend language classes,” Aydin said, smiling at him.

  Junaid interrupted before they could exchange phone numbers or start following each other on Twitter. “There is no point making friends with the people we will soon put out of business.” He glared at the rest of the BOA members. “Your neighborhood will become gentrified. The signs are already there. Rents will rise beyond your profit margins, and every last one of you will be bankrupt within five years.”

  Aydin closed his eyes. “Dad,” he said.

  “You disgust me,” I said to Junaid Uncle, but my eyes were filled with angry tears. I quickly walked out of the room, hands shaking as I climbed the stairs. I would not cry in front of them.

  Outside it was twilight. I took deep, gulping breaths. My eyes were drawn to Golden Crescent, to the commercial strip where my mother had so proudly started her own business, to the neighborhood where we had set down roots and built a life. I noticed how shabby it looked under the streetlamps, the grime and the disrepair. And I hated Aydin and his father even more.

  * * *

  • • •

  I wasn’t alone for long.

  “That wasn’t how I wanted our first BOA meeting to go. My father can be . . . difficult,” Aydin said stiffly.

  Difficult. He thought what Junaid Shah had said inside had been “difficult,” that I was upset because his unpleasant father had hurled a few insults at some strangers. He really had no clue.

  I took a deep breath. “That hundred-dollar bill you paid, the first time you came to our restaurant. Was that pity for your competition?”

  “You’re not really my competition.”

  “Ass.” We stared each other down. When he looked away first, I wanted to pump my fist in the air, as if I had won something.

  But when he spoke, I realized he hadn’t backed down an inch. His voice was wintry. “Your mother’s restaurant is in trouble, and the best biryani in the world won’t help her. Whatever happens between our stores is just business, nothing more. If you want to keep up with me, I will enjoy the competition. If you can’t, and your restaurant closes as a result, that will be your family’s choice.”

  He meant my family’s fault. “Your father said we’ll all be gone in five years. Are you planning to help that process along?”

  Aydin shrugged. “There’s incredibl
e growth potential for a well-run halal restaurant. Even my father recognizes that.”

  A well-run halal restaurant. He clearly did not include Three Sisters in that description. My fist tightened at my side. He hadn’t answered my question, I noticed. “Do you and your father plan to shut down every business in Golden Crescent, or just mine?” I asked.

  Aydin again sidestepped my question. “Have you heard of Shah Industries?”

  The name rang a distant bell. So he was a spoiled kid from a rich family. I already knew that.

  “Dad wants me to follow in his footsteps. Mergers and acquisitions, property development in target markets—basically grown-up Monopoly.”

  Grown-up Monopoly. Target markets. He sounded like Marisa, intent on exploiting a new demographic. “Is this all a game to you? You’re playing with my family’s livelihood. We don’t have another business or family money to fall back on if you force our doors closed. You’re a suit with deep pockets. We’re a local fixture in an ethnic slum.” The anger must have been clear on my face, because his gaze dropped. “Why are you really here?” I demanded, stepping closer.

  “I like food,” he said simply, and his words finally felt honest. “I like the idea of building a business, a lasting brand. Something that will bring halal food into the mainstream. Your mom’s biryani really did remind me of my mother’s. She died when I was five.”

  I remembered how vulnerable he had looked, that first time we met at Three Sisters, the gentle surprise on his face as he ate Mom’s biryani and talked about his mother. I would not feel sorry for him. Lots of people had dead mothers and dick fathers. That didn’t mean he got a pass for being arrogant and underhanded.

  Aydin’s voice was soft in the descending darkness. “Shah Industries buys and sells companies, but we don’t hold on to them for very long. We don’t build anything real. I wanted something real.”

  He stood so close I could smell his aftershave, a subtle cologne tinged with sandalwood—and money. I inhaled deeply. So this was what deception smelled like.

  Footsteps, and then beautiful Yusuf eased his long body next to mine. He glared at Aydin. “You and your father are no longer welcome in the Golden Crescent Business Owners Association. I’m going to petition city council to revoke your food license. We don’t need big business trying to pave over the character and traditions of our neighborhood.” He put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder.

  Aydin looked at Yusuf’s arm and then at me. “I’m not the villain here, Hana,” he said, ignoring Yusuf. “I’ve worked too hard and sacrificed too much to stop now.”

  I shook off Yusuf’s arm. “You know nothing about sacrifice,” I said.

  “You presume too much,” Aydin shot back, a trace of anger in his voice. “If you’re determined to play the victim, there’s not much I can do. My restaurant isn’t going anywhere, and you will have to live with that.”

  I glanced down the street, at the storefronts that had guarded the entrance to Golden Crescent for a generation, and then to Wholistic Burgers and Grill, still under its construction tarps. Something that felt a lot like fear made my chest tighten. “You mean live with it until you and your father put my family out of business?”

  Junaid Uncle walked past our little group and came to a stop a few meters away, his back to us. At the sight of his father, Aydin’s expression shut down even further. “If it wasn’t Wholistic Grill, it would be another halal restaurant. Consider this motivation to work on your competitive skills.” His face was immobile. “Assuming that you have any,” he added.

  Rashid, who had followed Yusuf, was standing a few feet away. He waved at Aydin. “If you’re free tomorrow, let’s play baseball in the park,” he called over in Urdu. Then he caught my eye and his expression turned sheepish. “I’ll kick your ass!” he yelled in English.

  At this unexpected about-face, Mr. Silver Shades smiled slightly. He joined his father, and together they walked down the darkened street toward their new restaurant.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I knew my family would hear about the Business Owners Association meeting before I got home. The second-favorite pastime of the BOA, aside from forming Survivor-style alliances, was to gossip. The story of Ghufran’s bad-tempered, scene-causing younger daughter would be carried to my family lightning fast, and I didn’t even have a bedroom to hide in.

  I slipped into our backyard, stumbling through ankle-high weeds. Mowing the lawn had been my job, but when I became busy with my internship during the past year, I had resigned from yard-care duties. The rest of my family was always working, so the position had yet to be filled.

  I dragged one of the rusty lawn chairs from the side of the house and placed it near the back fence. Now it felt almost like my Thinking Wall at Radio Toronto.

  Our backyard edged onto a small ravine, and I let the quiet envelop me as I leaned against the fence, tilting my head up toward the inky darkness. The velvet air brushed against my loosened hijab, and the dull buzz of nocturnal insects kept me company. Maybe I should just sleep out here until everyone leaves.

  I heard the click of a cigarette lighter and saw Kawkab Khala’s face illuminated beside the patio door. I tried to shrink against the fence, but she had seen me. She settled down a foot away and blew smoke into the night.

  “Ghufran and Ijaz are worried about you,” she remarked. “Rashid said you were going for a walk.” No judgment in her voice, only interest. “I used to take night walks too, in Delhi. I waited until my family fell asleep and then I would sneak out. Nobody bothered me, because they all knew who I was—the crazy daughter of the local nawab,” she said, using the Urdu word for a wealthy landowner. “Nighttime is the best time to think.”

  “What did you think about?” I asked, intrigued despite my wish to be left alone.

  “Love, marriage, my future.” She smiled. “I’m sorry to disappoint you with my ordinary thoughts. But then, the young are often very predictable.”

  “Were you in love with someone?”

  She took another deep puff on her cigarette. “Only with my solitude. Love came later. It surprised me, and everyone else too. I married in my forties, but we never had children.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. I had heard about Billi Apa’s wild youth, but not about her adulthood. I was happy to hear she had found love and happiness later in life, even if I wasn’t entirely sure what to think of the person before me. She had always been a character from a story until now.

  “You shouldn’t have attacked that young man and his father today at the meeting. That’s not the way a girl should behave.”

  Right. There she was, my caustic Kawkab Khala.

  “In North America, women are encouraged to speak their minds,” I answered.

  The glow of the cigarette illuminated Kawkab’s amused expression. “I only meant that an intelligent young woman—I assume you are intelligent—would not lay all her cards on the table. Gather information, consider your options, and then act accordingly.”

  “What would you have done?” I asked. Despite my annoyance, I wanted to know.

  She dropped the cigarette butt into the grass, ground it with her foot. “I am still gathering information on the situation.”

  What situation? Our restaurant, the new restaurant, or something else altogether? Perhaps my aunt was the real spy.

  As if reading my thoughts, Kawkab Khala said, “Have you asked anyone about me?”

  “I grew up hearing stories of your adventures.”

  Kawkab’s brown eyes glittered in the dark night, her long fingers pale blue shadows. “Do you know why they called me Billi?” she asked.

  “I assumed it was your middle name, short for Bilqis,” I said. It was a common Muslim name.

  “Billi is Urdu for ‘cat.’ And what do cats do best?”

  I waited for her answer, now thoroughly confused by this conversation.<
br />
  “Cats climb when they are in danger,” she said, walking back toward the house. “I will tell Ghufran you are outside.”

  What was all that about? I sighed, pulled out my phone, and messaged StanleyP.

  AnaBGR

  I need some more advice, oh wise one. You managed to get your dream project green-lit while I haven’t managed to do anything right lately.

  I pressed Send and waited for an answer. After a few moments, I wrote again.

  AnaBGR

  I’d like to hire you as a consultant on how to stop fearing and learn to love competition. You would be doing me a huge favor. I can offer as compensation one hilarious meme on one of the following topics: classic ’90s movies, vintage stationery, or Hollywood icons. Reply now—this offer won’t last!

  Nothing from StanleyP. Vaguely disappointed, I sent him a meme of Tom Hanks wearing a sweater vest, then headed inside.

  Thankfully, the rest of my family had retired for the night, so I could delay further awkward conversations about the BOA until tomorrow. I got ready for bed and was settling on the sofa when my phone pinged.

  StanleyP

  This is going to sound strange but . . . what business is your family in? I know we said no personal details, and you can keep it vague, but I’ve been having a few weird days. That’s my price.

  AnaBGR

  This feels like extortion.

  StanleyP

  Furniture? Automobiles? Manufacturing? Tech? World domination? I have to know.

  AnaBGR

  World domination, via the exciting world of tech.

  StanleyP

  Thank God.

  AnaBGR

  What’s going on?

  StanleyP

  Nothing. I’m only losing my mind. Don’t mind me. As for your question: I have suggestions, I have battle plans, I have a militia of eager bots standing by. I will send them all your way soon. Things have become complicated with my own dream project, so working on that first.