Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  I filled the tea urn with water, tossed in a few cloves, crushed cardamom, whole cinnamon, and tea bags, and set the machine to boil. Mom didn’t even look over to make sure I was doing it right.

  Next I filled a large bucket with hot, soapy water and retrieved some acetone we kept stored in a cupboard, then dragged the bucket through the kitchen toward the main door. Mom still hadn’t moved.

  The paint on the window was thick and goopy, caked in some spots as if the vandals had added layers to the original design, but thin in others. Overall, the swastika was sloppily done, almost as if the white supremacists hadn’t cared about their handiwork. Nobody had standards anymore. Where was the pride in a job well done?

  I started to scrub, reaching as high as I could. We must have been attacked by seven-foot-tall Nazis, or maybe they had a ladder. I could only reach the top of one arm of the swastika. The water was scalding and the acetone burned my eyes as I worked. After ten minutes I had managed only to smear the arm into a dark red swirl.

  “Hana, leave it. The BOA or city council will have funds for this,” Mom called. “I sent Fahim home for the day to be with Fazeela. She was so upset, and that’s not good for the baby. Leave it, jaan.”

  But I couldn’t leave it. This ugly red tattoo was the reason my chai-addicted, workaholic mom was staring at the walls of her restaurant with lifeless eyes. Not even unexpected guests or the threat of losing her livelihood had done that to her. It needed to be dealt with—right now.

  I plunged the rag back into the soapy water. Red pigment dribbled down my hands as I scrubbed. The paint crept under my fingernails, caking my fingers in red slime. I paused for a moment to wipe my forehead and looked around. Lunch was an hour away, and across the street Yusuf’s store was closed. The profanity on the sidewalk in front of the shop was easy to read. They would have to use a power washer to blast it off.

  I returned to the task. Half the swastika was smeared now, so blurry that it resembled a misshapen letter Y. My shoulders ached, but I dipped the rag back in the bucket and reached up once more, as high as my arms would go, then higher.

  When I looked inside the restaurant again, Mom had disappeared. I wondered if the people who had drawn their crooked symbol on our window knew that the swastika was actually an ancient symbol of good luck, and that it originated in India. I wondered if the person who had so effortlessly demanded that my family return to the home they left decades ago knew that the symbol Hitler had appropriated for the Third Reich was a religious shorthand for positivity. My parents had bought our house from a Hindu family, and they had found tiny “swastiks” in the backs of cupboards and under the kitchen counter, put there to bless the house and its inhabitants.

  My neck hurt. I massaged my shoulders and shook out my arms before plunging into the bucket once more. The water was now a dull, chalky red.

  “Here, use this.” Mom handed me a squeegee. She was holding a razor blade in one hand, stepladder in the other. She carefully climbed up to scrape the top of the window while I wiped the smeared red paint dripping down below. We worked in silence until most of the damage was cleared.

  Inside the restaurant, the red light flashed on the tea urn. I poured us both a cup of strong chai while Mom washed her hands and then her face. She looked more awake now, less pale, and we drank our tea in silence. Mom finished her cup quickly, even though it was boiling hot. Years spent cooking had given her a crazy-high heat tolerance; she was nearly impervious to burns.

  “I have to make vegetable fry for the lunch special today.” She paused by the kitchen door. “Thank you, beta. Leave some flyers for the street festival with me. I’ll put them in the take-out bags and hand them out to customers.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  According to Constable Lukie, the police officer who called me that evening at home, their working theory was that, while the downtown attack may have inspired the Golden Crescent rampage, it was unlikely the two events were directly related. “A hate crime has many qualifiers, and right now we can’t be certain this was a targeted attack,” she explained, to my dumbfounded silence.

  “What about the swastika?” I asked. “The reference to Muslim pigs, the demand that we return home, the profanity on Brother Musa’s sidewalk that made reference to his Arab heritage?”

  “It’s too early to tell what the real motivations are in this case,” Constable Lukie explained patiently. I knew she was doing her job, staying objective, but my throat tightened just the same. “The video that was posted online likely inspired this act of mischief and vandalism. Luckily there is some camera footage, which we will be reviewing in the next few days, and we will speak to any witnesses who come forward. My deepest regrets to you and your family, Ms. Khan,” she continued, voice sincere.

  Constable Lukie promised to be in touch as soon as she had news. She signed off with one final admonition: “According to our review of the online comments, there were a number of references to an upcoming festival.”

  I explained about the Golden Crescent summer festival. With a sigh, she said, “In light of recent events, you might want to consider canceling.”

  I thought about the thousand flyers we had distributed and pasted on storefronts that day. “It’s a local festival,” I said. “The neighborhood kids look forward to it every year. Parents and grandparents show up. It’s a community tradition. We can’t—” My voice broke, and Constable Lukie waited until I had regained control. “We’re not canceling,” I said firmly.

  “You can arrange for some police presence, but you must promise to let me know if you receive any more targeted threats. Our priority right now is finding the people responsible for the vandalism on Golden Crescent, and making sure no one gets hurt,” she said.

  When I hung up, Baba was standing in the living room. “Fazeela told me about the video and the attack on the street. People have been calling all day. Hana, what is going on?” he asked.

  “Nothing to worry about,” I said, the lie coming automatically to my lips. I had become so used to protecting him from reality, it had become a habit.

  Baba sighed. “Stop, beta. I know the restaurant is in trouble. I know that things have not been going well. Your mother is worried, and Fahim has not smiled in days. Keeping things from me will not help.”

  “I want you to get better. I don’t want you to worry about anything except that,” I said quietly. My father’s receding hair had gone completely gray in the past few years, I noted.

  He sat down beside me on the couch and covered my hand with his own. “It is a luxury to worry about my family. I nearly died in that accident, and I am thankful for whatever time I have been granted. You must stop trying to shut me out. I am part of this family as well.”

  He was right. I couldn’t hide things from him anymore, and I didn’t want to. Interspersed with my tears and then his tears, I told my father everything. Kawkab Khala joined us during my retelling of the downtown attack and the day’s events, settling into the armchair and listening to my narration without interruption.

  When I finished, they were both silent.

  “You are very brave, Hana,” my aunt finally said. I waited for her usual jab, but she was serious.

  “My Hana has always been this way,” my father said. His eyes were red-rimmed. It felt good to tell Baba the truth. His shoulders had once again become strong enough to handle this worry.

  “We will show those cowards we are not intimidated by their clumsy fear tactics,” Kawkab Khala said, and there was something in her voice that made me want to stand up and cheer. Knowing what I did about her personal history, my aunt’s vote of confidence lit a fire within me.

  The doorbell rang and I went to answer it, expecting my cousin or maybe Fahim. Instead, Sad Aunty—Afsana, I corrected myself—stood in the doorway, holding a covered plate. “For you,” she said simply, handing it over. A delicious aroma escaped from the foil-wrapped platter.r />
  “Is that Afsana?” Kawkab called from the kitchen, where she was making tea. “Tell her she is late.”

  Baba had disappeared upstairs to rest after the excitement of the day. Kawkab Khala carried three steaming mugs of chai to the kitchen table, and just like the previous time Afsana Aunty had visited, the three of us sat down to sip and chat. Afsana had brought fresh potato pakoras—fritters seasoned with garam masala, salt, red chili powder, fresh coriander, and green chilies, battered in chickpea flour and deep-fried. The greasy spiciness of the pakoras, paired with hot chai, was comforting.

  “I am sorry about what happened on the street today,” Afsana Aunty said. “I was so scared when I heard the news. Is everyone . . . fine?” Her voice was hesitant, and I noticed my aunt sit up straighter at her words.

  “The vandals attacked late at night, when everyone was home,” I reassured her.

  “Your mother said there will be a Business Owners Association meeting, to discuss increased security,” Kawkab Khala said casually. “I would enjoy attending that meeting.” She was telling me, not asking for permission, and I looked at her in surprise. My aunt had shown little interest in the operation of Three Sisters, and I instantly knew she was up to something. My suspicions were confirmed by her quick glance at Afsana Aunty, who gripped her mug tightly, waiting for my response.

  “It’s just a bunch of old aunties and uncles arguing,” I said weakly. I had no wish to make another scene at the BOA, but if my aunt wanted to go, there was also no way I was letting her attend alone. Who knew what mischief she would get up to without my supervision.

  “Yes, I can almost guarantee that,” she said, her words a sharpened promise.

  We drank the rest of our chai in silence. Afsana Aunty left soon after, clutching her washed plate, which we had heaped with sugar cookies. In our family it was unthinkable to return a dish empty.

  “You and Afsana Aunty are so close,” I commented to my aunt, picking up the empty mugs and putting them in the sink.

  “She is my best friend, though I am older. Afsana was always full of life, but occasionally she falls into periods of darkness.” My aunt began to wash the dishes, not looking at me. “I understand because I suffered from the same darkness, only I was better at hiding it. People knew who my father was, who my family were. She was not so lucky. Her parents were poor, and everyone knew she was at the school only because of a generous waqf, an endowment.”

  “You protected her,” I said, understanding more of their relationship now. Kawkab Khala’s protectiveness was very much in evidence when her friend was present.

  “We looked out for each other. But yes, she has always treated me as an older sister. Unfortunately she was married too young and left school too soon. But when I saw her, I tried to help.”

  I processed this. “Did she get help for her . . . dark episodes, after she married?”

  “Her first husband never understood her. Allah blessed her with a better man the second time,” Kawkab Khala said.

  “And two daughters,” I added.

  My aunt stacked dishes on the drying rack. “They are her stepchildren, but she loves them as if they were her own. When I decided to visit Toronto, I told her to come along, that we would have a grand adventure together. Her husband is generous and her stepchildren nearly grown, so we made arrangements.” She reached for the hand lotion we kept on the counter and began massaging the thick cream into paper-thin skin. “What a cold country your family chose. If I were your mother, I would have moved to California.”

  I smiled faintly. “Mom likes a challenge.”

  “A characteristic shared by all the women in our family, I’m afraid. Good night, Hana jaan.” She left me in the kitchen.

  My phone pinged while I was getting ready for bed. To my surprise, the text was from Aydin. He must have gotten my number from Rashid.

  If it’s not too much trouble, could you come by Wholistic Grill tomorrow night?

  I texted back, asking what was going on.

  I’d like to talk. I can bribe you with a peek inside the Evil Empire, and a taste of our menu.

  When he put it like that . . . See you at 6 pm, I typed. This better be good.

  [Transcript]

  I’m usually all about #blessed. As a Muslim, I was taught to be grateful for my many gifts; I know how lucky I am. I love my family, I’m young and healthy and educated, and I was born in Canada. But lately I’ve felt weighed down by sadness. A series of unfortunate events has paraded through my life, and I miss the days when I had the luxury to not worry about things I can’t control.

  I came face-to-face with hatred recently. I don’t want to get into the details, because this is supposed to be an anonymous podcast, and the incident is easily google-able. For the first time in my life, I was targeted, and the experience has left me rattled. It has been an unsettling experience too, because for so long I felt invisible. That strange dual existence—of being seen for one thing and dismissed for it at the same time—is just part of regular, everyday life for this particular brown Muslim girl, and likely for a lot of people out there. I’ve lived in this skin for so long it’s the only way I know how to be.

  Yet for the first time ever, I feel both seen and misunderstood. There is no solution to this feeling, I know, except to learn to grow comfortable with the me on the inside, the one not everyone gets to see or know. So I’m throwing this out to you now, listener friends: If you see someone struggling, don’t be afraid to reach out, to show them some compassion and maybe even empathy. Tell them you can see who they truly are, underneath their pain. You might find yourself similarly enveloped by clouds at some point. No one knows when the dark days will descend, only that they come for us all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  It was past six p.m. when I made my way to Wholistic Grill. Aydin’s storefront was set back from the street and partially shaded by trees. I pictured couples strolling there on summer evenings, children playing on the patio while friends caught up with their day. He had chosen a good spot for his restaurant. The door was unlocked and I let myself inside, overcome by curiosity. I wanted to see what had been done with the place.

  The restaurant was all bright white and soft gray. The center aisle held a long, communal bench–style table made of reclaimed wood, with chic chrome barstools and hanging lamps overhead. All around the periphery stood booths in gray and red and black leather, visible under clear plastic protective wrapping. They were interspersed with smaller tables with seating for two or four, plus a few large circular tables for bigger groups. The kitchen wasn’t hidden in the back like in Three Sisters, but set up at the front of the restaurant, behind glass.

  The walls were accented with silver and white wallpaper, and at the far end of the restaurant was a massive flat-screen television surrounded by a bank of comfortable sofas and bar tables. The lighting was tasteful, with hanging crystals winking beneath gauzy black shades. The result didn’t look like it belonged on Golden Crescent, I thought, then reconsidered. Our neighborhood deserved beautiful spaces too.

  Aydin was waiting at the counter in front of the kitchen, watching me snoop shamelessly. “What do you think?” he asked after a few minutes.

  I could only shake my head. I couldn’t explain what I was feeling. It wasn’t jealousy or resentment exactly. I looked around again, noticing little details like the salt and pepper shakers shaped like stars, crescents, and hearts, and the floor, a white-and-gray travertine. Everything demonstrated an eye for detail.

  My gaze traveled back to his face. He looked vulnerable as he waited for my answer.

  “It’s astonishing, Aydin. Everything is exactly as it should be,” I answered honestly.

  His shoulders relaxed and he gave me a cocky smile. “Wait until you see the patio.”

  The back patio was small but secluded, a patch of sleek gray slate near the parking lot, enclosed by
mature pine trees. The furniture was cast-iron and heavy, a black umbrella at each table.

  I whistled my appreciation. “You know your customers take their bratty kids everywhere, right? They’re going to tear this place apart,” I teased.

  He smiled briefly. “That’s why I included a cushion in the price—for repairs. Wait here, I’ll be back.”

  He returned and placed a steaming plate in front of me, cutlery folded into a linen napkin.

  Aydin had made me biryani poutine. I looked from his suddenly shy face to the dish, speechless. The pleasure I felt at this gesture was almost overwhelming, so I did the best thing a person can do for a cook. I dug into the oozing gravy-soaked rice and chicken, scooped up fries and cheese curds, and tried not to think too hard about what it all meant.

  “It’s delicious,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “This dish is more complicated than it looks,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me it’s on the menu.”

  “Only the secret menu, strictly for VIPs.” He picked up an extra fork and took a small bite. He grimaced. “I really don’t know why you like it. It’s like eating puréed baby food, with the flavors all mixed up.”

  “Not everyone gets my elegant palate.”

  Aydin smiled and looked around the patio. He seemed nervous, jumpy, and I wondered again why he had invited me. It wasn’t to plan the street festival, or he would have told me to bring Rashid. He would get to why in his own time, I reasoned.

  I decided to ask him something I had wondered about for a while. “Why did you decide to get into the restaurant business? Running your own business is never easy, but restaurants are notorious for long hours, unruly customers, and razor-thin margins. With your dad’s contacts and money, you could have done anything.”

  I watched Aydin trace circles on the table. I couldn’t stop staring at his finger, long and blunt-tipped. “Why do people do anything? Why are you so interested in putting together this street festival?” he asked.