Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  “My father says that trying to stop hate is like trying to stop the tides,” Rashid said. “The best thing you can do is take advantage of it. Don’t stop the tide from flowing. Build a hydroelectric dam and make electricity instead, enough to power ten thousand houses. That’s how you stop hate.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what Rashid’s dad had meant. How could you take advantage of hate without causing more hate?

  Aydin stood up. “I’m going to get nachos.”

  I stood up, wincing at the spike of pain through my hip. “I’ll come with you,” I said, waving off his protests. He slowed his long strides to match mine, fingers hovering under my elbow.

  In the lineup Aydin fidgeted, moving his hands in and out of his pockets, fiddling with his wallet. “I’m sorry. I should have stood in front of you—”

  “You did,” I reminded him.

  “When I saw you crumpled on the ground, I . . .” Aydin closed his eyes. “I wanted to kill that man.” Fear and protectiveness wrestled with guilt on his face.

  “And then you would have gone to jail and solved all my family’s problems,” I said.

  “How can you joke about this?” he asked. Fingers raked his hair and he glared at me.

  I smiled back. “What else is there to do but laugh? Did you see how fast Rashid moved? And the way that man’s face smooshed into the concrete when he fell?” I laughed, but my voice was shaky. I remembered also the blind hatred in the face of the man who had swung for Aydin, his glee when he watched me stumble backward and fall, how happy he had been to see me hurt.

  “I hope he broke his nose,” Aydin said, but he sounded less homicidal. “Is your cousin a little . . .” He trailed off.

  “Crazy?”

  “I was going to say eccentric.”

  “I can’t figure him out. One minute he’s quoting baseball movies and doing a really terrible Apu impersonation; the next he’s fighting bigots and helping me save the restaurant from you and your dad.” I realized what I had let slip and clamped a hand over my mouth.

  Aydin sighed. “We can’t be friends because you think I’m trying to destroy your family business, and we can’t fight because I think your cousin might be Machiavelli reincarnated. Where does that leave us?”

  I shrugged. “Why do we have to be anything? I barely know you.”

  Except that wasn’t entirely true. I knew that he missed his mother and feared his father. I knew he wanted to build something of his own and had chosen to build it far from where he had grown up, which made me wonder what he was running from. I knew that he cared for me, even though he barely knew me. And that he felt familiar and comfortable, even before I knew any of those other things.

  “Why did you come today?” I asked after Aydin paid for his nachos.

  He stopped walking, and this time he looked embarrassed. “Because Rashid said you wanted me here.”

  I was going to slap my cousin so hard . . .

  He was still standing there, holding the tray of nachos. “Did you?” he asked. He cleared his throat. “Did you want me here today?”

  Yes. Why couldn’t I say it? It was the truth. But it would also be an admission, one I wasn’t yet ready to make.

  We headed back to our seats.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The cure for recovering from an Islamophobic attack, it turned out, was junk food and baseball. I felt almost normal when we walked out of the Rogers Center at six p.m., though I kept an eye out for three enraged white men in dark T-shirts. Rashid remained completely oblivious, chatting about the home run at the bottom of the third and the spectacular catch that won the Blue Jays the game at the top of the ninth, as if we had nothing to fear. I envied his calm, and I couldn’t wait to get back to Golden Crescent, where things were familiar and safe.

  “I called a cab,” Aydin informed us as I turned toward the subway. A yellow car idled in front of the stadium. He opened the door and motioned for me to get in, then clambered in beside me. Rashid sat beside the driver, a friendly man from Romania. They talked baseball while Aydin adjusted a fresh ice pack behind my back. He gently tugged on my sleeve and our eyes met in the dark interior.

  “Okay?” he asked as the cab merged onto Toronto’s perennially congested streets. I noticed a small scar on his jaw amid the dark stubble. I nodded, and he leaned back and closed his eyes.

  Rashid sighed with happiness. “What a perfect day,” he said. He turned around to face us. “Hana Apa, have you spoken to Aydin about our mutual problem?”

  Now what was my cousin up to? “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I answered, a warning in my voice that Rashid proceeded to ignore.

  “Why do you think I invited Aydin on our trip downtown? It is clear we must join forces to fight against a common enemy.”

  Aydin and I looked at each other. “We don’t have a common enemy,” he said.

  “Yes, we do. Junaid Shah.”

  Aydin froze. “My father is not my enemy.”

  Rashid shrugged. “Any fool can see your dad is trying to sabotage you. He spoke out during the business association meeting even though you asked him to stop. He’s made enemies of your neighbors by threatening them. For some reason he does not want you or the restaurant to succeed. Your only choice is to join forces with us. The enemy of your enemy is your friend.”

  Aydin and I exchanged glances. Machiavelli, he mouthed.

  “Actually I prefer Chanakya, the fourth-century teacher who pioneered political science in India. His teachings helped me with my baseball strategy,” Rashid said serenely.

  I crossed my arms. “I don’t trust him,” I said, jerking my head toward Aydin. “He’s an opportunist.”

  “I’m sitting right here,” Aydin said.

  Rashid ignored him. “Which is why he will make the best ally. As soon as the summer festival is done and all our fortunes have improved, we will return to our former battle stations.”

  I mulled over his words. Rashid wasn’t just my eighteen-year-old cousin from India anymore, I realized. He stood up in the face of hate and talked about building dams. His parents were “accountants” who knew how to fight for their turf. Rashid was not what he appeared.

  But then, neither was Aydin. The cold, arrogant man I had first met didn’t tally with the vulnerable, protective person I had spent the day with. Maybe it was time to let down my defensive walls, or at least lower them a fraction. I shrugged casually. “Fine, we can work together until after the street festival. I told Yusuf I would help with the protest anyway,” I said.

  Aydin blinked. “What protest?”

  Rashid clapped his hands. “I knew you would see reason. This will all work out, Hana Apa. You’ll see.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Aydin gently shook me awake; I had fallen asleep on his shoulder during the cab ride. He helped me out of the car and then followed us up the pathway to my house.

  Delicious smells wafted through the front door. “What are you doing?” I whispered when he moved to follow us inside.

  “Walking you home.” His ears were tinged pink again. “I’d like to say salaams to your parents. And, um, to apologize. For what happened today.”

  I steered him to the side. “We’re not telling them,” I said firmly, arms crossed.

  Aydin looked confused. “Won’t they notice that you’re hurt?”

  “I tripped and fell in the subway but I’m fine.” I glared at him. “They have enough to worry about, and I never want to think about what happened downtown again. Understand?”

  He nodded. When he still moved to follow me inside the house, I raised an eyebrow.

  “It would be rude if I didn’t at least say hello. I promise I’ll behave.”

  We were greeted by the aromas of spicy chapli kebab—seasoned minced beef patties studded with whole coriander seeds—and fresh tand
oori chicken, served with homemade naan and lots of fresh mint yogurt chutney. I wondered if the opportunity to eat my mother’s cooking was the real reason Aydin was eager to visit.

  I was happy to see Fazeela dressed and seated on the couch, her feet in Fahim’s lap. She looked tired. Her black hijab was draped casually around her head, and her baby bump protruded under an oversize Toronto FC jersey.

  “Did you have a fun day?” she asked, smiling at me. Her eyes narrowed when she caught sight of Aydin lurking behind.

  “Assalamu alaikum,” he said. “Hana invited me.”

  I shot him a dark look. “He insisted on coming inside,” I clarified.

  I plopped down on the couch and handed her a tiny Toronto Blue Jays onesie. “For the cantaloupe.”

  “Cantaloupe is going to play soccer, not baseball,” Fazeela said, but her eyes softened as she held up the tiny garment.

  “With you and Fahim’s genes, Cantaloupe will play everything. Where is Kawkab Khala?” I asked, knowing my aunt would get a kick out of Aydin.

  Kawkab had gone out with her friend Afsana for the night, Fazeela informed me as Aydin took a cautious step into the living room. I tried not to feel sensitive about our unfashionable furniture, the framed prints of Quranic verse on the walls, and the plain Corelle dishes on the small kitchen table. Aydin’s presence made me instantly reevaluate everything through his eyes.

  As if he knew what I was thinking, he said, “I like your home. It feels warm and welcoming.” He put his hand out for Fahim to shake, and they did that bro thing where each flexed his biceps and talked about the Toronto Raptors. Fazeela rolled her eyes at me.

  “My parents are outside,” I said. The whole thing felt weird. “You wanted to say salaam,” I added meaningfully.

  Aydin took the hint and wandered out to the back patio, but not before stopping to peek inside the galley kitchen. I hoped it was clean, with no dishes in the sink. He left the patio door open.

  I appreciated that Fazeela and Fahim weren’t making a big deal out of Aydin’s being there. Once he was gone, Fahim sat down again and tugged my sister’s feet into his lap, gently massaging them. She leaned back, letting the tiny onesie rest against her rounded belly.

  “What’s this I hear about you and Rashid organizing the street festival?” Fazeela said, voice drowsy. “You’ve never organized anything like that before. Is it because of what Junaid Shah said at the BOA meeting? Mom says he’s all thunder, no rain.”

  “Three Sisters is your future. I want to help you fight for it,” I said.

  Fazeela straightened up and pulled her feet out of her husband’s hands. “Maybe I don’t want it to be my future.”

  Fahim froze. “What do you mean, babe?”

  Fazeela sighed, the shadows under her eyes even darker. I could see the beginnings of fine lines fanning out around her eyes and mouth. “Maybe I want to do something else. I’ve had a lot of time to think in the past few weeks, sitting alone in my bedroom,” my sister said. “Maybe this was supposed to happen. Maybe this is a sign from Allah that it’s time to consider our options—all our options.”

  Fahim looked at his wife, and they conducted one of those silent conversations couples have.

  “I’m going to help you fix this mess,” I said, interrupting their subliminal dialogue. “It’s time to climb a tree holding a gun, not to fold and surrender.”

  Fazeela smiled at me. “You’ve been talking to Kawkab Khala.”

  “We should at least let Hana and Rashid try to help,” Fahim said, pulling his wife’s feet back into his lap. “They’ve already put up flyers and canvassed the neighbors. We’ll be okay, but what about your mom? This is all she’s ever done.” His fingers were working on Fazeela’s toes as he talked, and she winced when he pressed too hard. “Sorry,” he said, letting go.

  She reached across, squeezing his hand, and I felt a sudden pang at their easy affection. I wondered what it would be like to have someone on my team like that, someone to massage my feet when they ached and talk through life decisions when I was confused. To tell me I was fearless but who stood beside me when I was afraid. Because after looking into those men’s eyes today, I was scared, no matter what I had said to Aydin about laughing through the pain.

  I left my sister and Fahim and made my way to the patio door. Aydin was standing near the barbecue, stooping over my father’s diminutive form. Baba was having a good day; his hand rested lightly on his four-pronged cane, face animated as they chatted. I didn’t know if he realized who Aydin was, but Mom seemed relaxed as she rotated chicken pieces on the grill.

  Aydin noticed me by the door and smiled tentatively. For a moment I was struck by déjà vu, his hesitant expression was so familiar. I combed through my memories trying to place it but came up short.

  “Your father and I were debating the merits of NPR, CBC, and BBC radio shows for style and technique,” Aydin said.

  “My Hana is a gifted storyteller,” Baba said. “Did you know she will soon have her own radio show?”

  Aydin raised an eyebrow at me. “I’ll be sure to listen,” he murmured, before turning back to my dad. “She’s lucky to have your support. Not all parents are happy when their children want to pursue a nontraditional career, especially in the arts.”

  Baba shook his head. “Parents are happy when their children are happy. My Hana must tell stories. That is who she is.”

  “Aydin doesn’t want to hear this, Baba,” I said, mortified. My father didn’t realize what he was saying. He had never met Junaid Uncle and couldn’t know how sharply his comments would land.

  I caught a shadow of something in Aydin’s brown eyes, something that wasn’t quite jealousy, wasn’t quite sadness. A puzzle piece slotted into place and I realized who he reminded me of—Sad Aunty, the first time I had seen her, sitting in Three Sisters waiting for Kawkab Khala and looking as if she had all the world’s sorrow resting on her narrow frame.

  Aydin swiftly rearranged his expression to a smiling neutral, and the resemblance vanished, so quickly I wondered if I had seen it in the first place.

  We ate, and Aydin was perfectly behaved, as promised. I even overheard him asking my mother for business advice. After dinner I walked him to the backyard gate. He lingered, glancing back at my father.

  “Car accident, two years ago,” I said. “He loves talking to people, but it’s hard for him to get around these days.”

  Aydin’s eyes were on me now, assessing. “You don’t look like your father, but you have the same energy. Your mom is a lot more . . . calm.” He grinned at my frown, then sobered. “It must have been hard on your family, after the accident.”

  “Lots of things have been difficult lately.”

  “Like me?” he asked. There was a hesitation in his voice that made me want to take his hand again.

  “Yes,” I said, and his face fell. “And no. I’m not sure what I would have done today without you.”

  Aydin liked that, but he tried to appear modest. “Rashid had matters well in hand.”

  “Don’t mess with my cousin.”

  We grinned at each other. With a final wave, Aydin unlatched the gate and walked out into the night.

  [Transcript]

  When I want to reassure myself, I think about space. As in outer space. Did you know the universe is ninety-three billion light-years across? That number is difficult to visualize. One light-year—how far light can travel in a year—is something like 9.4 trillion kilometers. Let me put that into a bit more perspective: Voyager 1, the space probe NASA launched way back in 1977, will reach our next-door neighboring star in about forty thousand years!

  Yet at the same time, our own little solar system, the collection of planets and asteroids and moons we call home, is well hidden. Beyond gas giant Neptune is an enormous field of asteroids called the Kuiper belt that keeps our little neighborhood nice and snug. Out be
yond that—much, much farther out—is the Oort cloud. Nobody has seen it yet, because it would take Voyager 1, traveling at a speed of seventeen kilometers per second, about three hundred years to reach it, and maybe thirty thousand years to travel through it!

  And even the Oort cloud is a tiny part of our much larger galaxy, which in turn is part of a much larger local group of galaxies, and in turn part of a local supercluster, which in turn is part of another cluster. . . . In the end there are one hundred billion galaxies in the known universe, and who knows what beyond.

  I like to think of our tiny speck-of-dust Earth wrapped inside its snug little Kuiper belt, cocooned somewhere inside the massive Oort cloud, completely undetectable inside a universe so massive there is no comparison. And here we are, living and dying, completely unaware of all that lies beyond. Terrifying, but also comforting, especially when things happen that are hard to understand.

  The first chapter of the Quran is called “Surah Al-Fatiha,” or “The Opening,” and Muslims recite it with every prayer. One of the verses translates to “Praise be to God, lord of all the worlds.”

  Worlds, plural. There’s a metaphor in there. Some solid advice too.

  The world is vast, but not as vast as you think. The worlds are plentiful, but you happen to be stuck on this one, with little chance of escape.

  After some recent events, I’m even more determined to make my time on this globe count, to fight harder for what I want and against anything that may hold me back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  During my shift at Radio Toronto the next day, I continued to research henna artists for my story. I associated henna with happy occasions; it was applied for weddings or the night before Eid and other celebrations. But it was difficult to focus on joy; my thoughts kept spiraling around fear, anger, and sadness.

  I had told Aydin I never wanted to think about the downtown attack ever again, but I could think of little else, my thoughts centered on the day we had spent together. Aydin had shown me another side of himself, a kindness and vulnerability I had caught only glimpses of before. And I didn’t know how to respond. What could I say when I was still trying to destroy his business by spreading rumors online? What could I say when the tiny radio keychain he had given me lay in my pocket like a talisman? Things were murky and complicated, which was fine when I thought it was just me. It felt much worse now that I knew he was equally confused by what was happening between us.