This pronouncement was followed by several minutes of yelling and arguing. I took advantage of the confusion to climb down from the tree. By the time I had straightened up, the groom and his baraat had disappeared.
My family went inside, though a circle of aunts stayed behind for a long time to berate me. After a while they left too. It was dark by then, and I watched the tent wallahs dismantle the wedding venue. I wondered if they would get paid even though the bride had threatened to shoot the groom. I asked the person in charge, a gruff older man dressed in a simple white lungi and dress shirt. He patted me on the arm when I asked. “Don’t worry about it, beti,” he said.
It was the first kind word anyone had spoken to me in so long, I burst into tears. I stood there sobbing while they removed the tent, the hanging lights, the tables and food. Once I had stopped crying, I went inside the house, changed out of my wedding finery, and went to sleep.
I had won, but I had also lost. My parents didn’t talk to me for almost an entire year afterward. I never received another rishta proposal from anyone else.
My father died when I was thirty-five. My mother died when I was forty-two. I didn’t meet Mohammad, the love of my life, until I was forty-five. We had fifteen wonderful years together before Allah called him to Jannah. I know he’s waiting for me there, but I also know I have many good years left on Earth, and I want to make the most of them.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
“Thank you for sharing your story, Kawkab Khala,” Radio Hana said. “And thank you all for listening to my brand-new show, Secret Family History. What’s your secret?”
The question, the trademark handle I had brainstormed with Thomas and Big J, landed like a thunderclap in the living room. Fazee, Baba, and Kawkab blinked as if they had been released from a spell.
I imagined Marisa’s face at that precise moment, the color of her cherry red Hermès scarf.
I glanced at my aunt, who was placidly folding her silk dupatta, and a wave of admiration swept over me once more. In an era when women around the world were still being routinely belittled and silenced, when feminist activism was only in its infancy, my aunt had felt no qualms about refusing to do as she was told. In the best of ways, she was truly a radical.
I wondered if Fazee and Baba were thinking about their own marriages. Fazee and Fahim had fallen in love first and then married, but my parents had an arranged marriage. Mom once told me that she only saw a picture of Baba before their wedding day, her shy silence being interpreted as consent. In her case, it had been. In the case of Kawkab Khala, whose parents had been far richer than my family, her loud and repeated protests had fallen on deaf ears. “Cats climb,” she had told me.
In the living room now, the chai in front of Baba had grown cold, and my sister had not reached for her phone once while my show was playing. Even my aunt had been caught up in the story she had lived through, and a flare of pride ignited in my chest. I had done this. I had kept my family entranced. Follow the story of your heart. I had done so, and the results were before me, in the contemplative bubble that only good storytelling inspires.
Baba rose from his seat and kissed my cheek, enveloping me in a hug. He smelled like starched linen and cinnamon, and I drank it in. “Mubarak ho,” he said. “Allah has blessed you with a gift. You will be a star one day.” Fazeela congratulated me as well, and then they both made their way to their bedrooms, leaving me alone with my aunt.
“Why was this story a secret for so long?” I asked Kawkab. I hadn’t asked her on air, but I was curious.
“Shame, I suppose. My parents were embarrassed by my behavior. They died with that shame. I’m sure I became a cautionary tale of the dangers of raising a willful girl.” My aunt smiled crookedly. “Of course, my extended family were afraid that their daughters would find inspiration in my story and learn to climb trees of their own. I believe some of them did. Look at your mother, at yourself, even your sister. You all possess that same spirit of adventure and risk taking, in your own way. Perhaps your mother and sister lost that feeling recently, and the only way for them to get it back is to begin anew. Just as you are about to do, Hana jaan.”
I acknowledged the truth of my aunt’s words. Her story had remained an open secret in some ways. Most people back home in India knew the details, so it wasn’t much of a secret at all; in fact, it had turned into a family myth. In turn, she had turned that mythology to her advantage. My aunt had chosen her fate, though it came with consequences. We hadn’t elaborated on it during the show, but her relationship with her parents had been severely damaged. Yet she had accepted her lot and worked within the parameters of her decision. Her eventual marriage, later in life, had been a choice freely made. My aunt valued her independence above all else.
I was grateful to have learned my aunt’s secret family history, even if it wasn’t so secret. Our secrets expose what we most deeply fear, or most fervently want. I could understand that now. Yusuf and Lily were ready to be together, despite the obstacles. Fahim and Fazeela had on some level felt trapped by the restaurant, and our financial difficulties had offered the freedom to make a new, independent move. Aydin and Afsana had been heading back toward each other ever since they had been torn apart. And maybe Aydin had been looking for his true home all along, one that he had found in Golden Crescent.
Aydin said he had chosen my community, my neighborhood, on purpose as the site of his long-dreamed-of restaurant. I began to contemplate the possibility that he hadn’t come to unleash chaos and destruction. Maybe some part of him had known that he was approaching a nexus point, and he had been looking for the strength to throw off his father’s expectations and take a different path.
If my aunt could climb a tree holding a rifle, if she could deliberately set fire to her life based only on a clear, unwavering vision of her future; if my mother had the courage to start again; if Aydin had the nerve to take a chance on love and community—then I could do it too. It was time for me to throw off my own anonymous alter ego and embrace the Hana I had become over the past year.
Assuming Aydin ever came back from Vancouver. But even if he didn’t, I would be okay. I came from a long line of unstoppable women.
I texted StanleyP, eager to share with someone who would understand, someone who had been with me from the start.
AnaBGR
Rethinking this whole anonymous thing.
StanleyP
You’re ghosted once and suddenly you’re questioning everything.
AnaBGR
Not sure I need the mask anymore, and even if Mr. Unexpected Source did ghost me, I’ll be all right.
StanleyP
Don’t tell me you just realized you’ve been in Oz all along.
AnaBGR
I’m ready to face my audience as myself, and use any hate or love that comes my way as fuel and inspiration. As my cousin once said, Build a dam.
A long moment. Then—
StanleyP
Your cousin said that?
AnaBGR
Yes, during this thing that happened to me a while ago . . . Never mind. I just think of his words sometimes, when life gets especially difficult. He’s just a kid, but one of the smartest people I know. Build a dam means to use the negativity in your life to power good. You know?
StanleyP
I think I know it all now.
I texted Big J. Did you get into a lot of trouble?
My phone rang. “Pretty sure Marisa was about to break down the door to the studio, until the calls and texts started pouring in,” Big J said. “People wanted to tell us their secrets; they wanted to know what happened to your aunt; they demanded pictures to go with the story. And they wanted to know when the next episode would air. We got plenty of hate too, but people have to listen to get pissed, right? Marisa was so angry she had to leave the room. Davis called me right after, wondering if we should replace the ol
d show with this new one, especially since Thomas has quit.”
“I wish I could have seen that,” I said.
“I turned Davis down, of course. Even when he offered you a permanent job and a pot of money,” he continued.
“Wait, what?”
Big J laughed. “Just kidding. He said he’d give you back your unpaid internship, but you would be on probation for three months and would report directly to Marisa. I politely declined on your behalf. I hope that’s okay.”
I thanked him again for taking a chance on me, and we discussed plans for the next episode. With any luck, this would lead to more opportunities.
In the meantime, the street festival was the next day, and I had to make sure we were ready for whatever happened.
Still no response from Aydin.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The day of the summer street festival dawned like any other. Mom and Dad were already in the kitchen, drinking their morning chai. They made space for me at the table, and Rashid joined us a few minutes later.
My apprehension must have been apparent, because Mom placed an arm around me. “I will be there. Fahim will be there. Rashid will be there. Your father and Yusuf and Brother Musa will be there. We won’t let anything happen to you, beta.” With a final squeeze, she stood up. “Besides, you never know. Sometimes people can surprise you.”
Usually in the worst possible way, I added silently.
* * *
• • •
I spent the rest of the morning setting up tables for vendors, mostly local businesses and some others who had rented booths to sell clothing, jewelry, or snacks. Rashid had secured a permit to close Golden Crescent to traffic for the afternoon. We blocked off one end of the street with makeshift wooden barricades festooned with signs and streamers advertising golden crescent annual summer street festival! families welcome!
Constable Lukie arrived and began to direct traffic. The Golden Crescent business owners who had agreed to participate set up folding tables and canopies outside their stores, nearly a dozen stalls in total. Rashid caught my uncertain glance around the street and reassured me. “Don’t forget there will be food and entertainment, and Mr. Lewis has donated a bouncy castle. It will be fine, Hana Apa.”
I remembered that Aydin had promised to invite his desi dance group friends to perform. I didn’t know if that would still be happening.
We started stringing up the huge banner Rashid had had printed at the south end of Golden Crescent, but he nearly dropped his side when he caught sight of Zulfa. She was dressed in a colorful shalwar kameez, dark hair loose around her shoulders. He ran after her as soon as the banner was in place, and I saw him taking out his phone for a selfie.
The business owners began to bring out their merchandise, though the table we had reserved for Wholistic Grill remained empty. Mom emerged from Three Sisters carrying an enormous pot filled with meat biryani. She was followed by Fahim and Rashid with massive containers of haleem, a thick stew made with lentils, grain, and beef, and a fragrant lamb korma. They disappeared back into the restaurant and returned with a large tray overflowing with freshly made tandoori naan, plus a large barbecue grill. They had made enough food to feed hundreds.
Mom expertly lit the charcoal grill and shut the lid so it could heat up. She looked up and threw me a quick smile, that same reflexive expression I had seen so many times before, and I was filled with a sudden gratitude for my hardworking mother. I hoped that I would one day be as good at what I had chosen to pursue as she was right then.
The other stalls were slowly starting to get busy. The air was filled with conversation and a hum of excitement. Brother Musa had moved his vegetable stall out onto the street and was setting up a juicer. Luxmi Aunty had prepared two gigantic cauldrons. In one she was making fresh jalebi, a bright orange dessert made from dough piped into thin pretzel shapes and deep-fried, then soaked in sweet syrup. The other pot was filled with peanuts boiling in salted water.
A few stalls had beautiful shalwar kameez and hijabs for sale. Another booth showcased a henna artist, who was laying out patterns and mehndi cones filled with dark green henna paste. A few curious neighbors were waiting for the festival to officially start.
I spotted Gary setting up at the booth reserved for Wholistic Grill. “You made it!” I said, going over to him.
“Special instructions from the boss man. He told me to close the store and put up a sign directing traffic here.” He issued a few quick orders to his helpers. “It’s going to be great,” he said.
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” I said. For the first time all day, I actually believed it.
Which was when the first protester showed up.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
“Down with shariah law!”
My attention jerked from Gary to a heavyset man standing in the middle of our cordoned-off street. His black T-shirt displayed the now familiar raised white fist, and he held a placard emblazoned with the words my canada doesn’t include: muslims/gays/immigrants/you!
Arms folded across his chest, Gary contemplated the man. “Impressive penmanship,” he said dryly. “I like the way he’s covered all his bases with that last word.”
My eyes locked on the man’s face. His eyes were cold and flinty, even as his face glistened with sweat. He glared at festivalgoers and stall vendors alike, who, after a few curious glances, ignored him. In response, he shook his sign and bellowed, “We don’t want you here! Go back to Arabia, towel heads!”
Mom glanced over at me from the Three Sisters table, one eyebrow raised. She shook her head, then returned her attention to the grill.
I hurried over to Black T-Shirt. “Can I help you?” I asked politely.
“Yes, you can help me. You can leave my country! We don’t want you here!” he roared in my face. A few people looked over again, their unease rising.
I took a deep breath and channeled my mom—Angela Merkel in a black hijab. “You don’t make the rules. This is my street and my festival, and you are not welcome here.”
“You mean your halal food festival! The Islamist takeover of Canada will be put down by force if necessary!” The man’s eyes were bulging now, and spittle flew from his mouth. “You can’t make me leave! I have a right to protest! Freedom of speech hasn’t been outlawed in this country!” He stepped closer.
Fahim eased up beside me, Rashid flanking him, and their silent presence gave me courage. “True, but you can’t protest on this side of the street,” I said, my voice measured. “We have a permit.”
Black T-Shirt predictably refused to leave, so I left him shaking his sign and yelling and went to find Constable Lukie. She was near Wholistic Grill with her partner, a tall white man with massive biceps and full-sleeve tattoos. By the time we returned to Black T-Shirt, he had been joined by a few other people, three men and one woman, all dressed the same and holding similarly worded placards. After a heated debate with Constable Lukie and her partner, the small group of protesters moved to the other side of the street, though they didn’t let up with their taunts. They continued to yell and heckle stall holders and festival attendees alike, and the mood instantly dimmed.
I kept an eye on the protester numbers, which slowly swelled from five to ten and then fifteen to twenty-five people. There was some diversity in their ranks: mostly men, but a few women too; mostly white, but also a few brown and olive faces, all yelling, chanting, and stomping their feet. Constable Lukie called for backup, and soon there were four officers, two of whom kept a close watch on the group across the street. The other two watched our side just as carefully.
Who had the police been assigned to protect? I wondered. Especially since the protesters now outnumbered the festival participants. I looked around and my heart sank. No children, no teenagers. Most of the people who remained seemed to be related to the business owners. The protesters had accomplished their pu
rpose: People coaxed outside by the promise of food, shopping, and family fun had been scared off by Black T-Shirt and friends.
“Go home, terrorist, or we’ll make you leave!” a brown-skinned woman yelled as she made eye contact with me. She glared, mouthing profanities. I wondered what had driven her to that. Did she truly hate me, or had she been hurt so badly by something or someone that she had to lash out at others?
I looked around and locked eyes with Rashid. Zulfa stood beside him, and she gave me an encouraging smile. My cousin made a motion with his hands. Be easy, Hana Apa. The day is not over yet.
But the wave of despair that had washed over me at the sight of the swelling crowd of black T-shirts and the dwindling crowd of Golden Crescent families peaked and broke. I hurried to find comfort. Inside the empty Three Sisters Biryani Poutine, I fell into a booth in the corner and dropped my head. It would never be enough. No matter how much we planned and wished and tried, it would never be enough to stop the tide of hatred.
My phone pinged, a message from StanleyP.
StanleyP
I promised you a picture.
A photo accompanied the message, and I stared at it. A solemn-looking Aydin stood in front of Wholistic Grill. He had a half smile on his face.
StanleyP
Last secret, though to be fair, I finally sorted this one out yesterday. I had my suspicions all along, but it seemed too crazy. I think you suspected too. Don’t feel bad that I figured it out first. I had a slight head start in the clue department: in your first podcast you said you were a twentysomething Muslim woman who lived in Toronto.
My face was flushed and I felt faint. I kept returning to the picture he had sent. StanleyP was Aydin Shah? My friend and confidant, my first listener and biggest supporter, the man who had advised me on battle tactics, who had teased me mercilessly and encouraged my dreams, had been my competition all along? I recalled the way he had talked about his “girl.” Was that me? If so, why had he left without a word and ignored all my messages? I continued to read, head spinning.
Hana Khan Carries On Page 28
